by Emily Tilton
She had never seen this process, though she had felt it. Mr. Serteau, after he had come in her mouth, would make her suckle at his cock gently while he grew soft, and then would withdraw and turn away.
As if he could see the curiosity in Helen’s eyes, Mr. Lindgren said, “Do you have facials with your owner, Helen?”
She shook her head, still watching the seed flow, in a trickle now, from the end of his penis. She felt a little of it drip down her cheek. The twin feeling of submission and defilement made her burn between her thighs as she looked at the penis she must serve here in the honeymoon suite until Mr. Lindgren had satisfied himself with his hard use of her.
“Eyes up,” he said, and she turned her widening gaze to his handsome face, above her. His blue eyes looked grave, but the urge to apologize for his dominant pleasure seemed to have departed from them. “You look very pretty with semen on your face. You would have a facial every day if I were your owner.”
If I were your owner. Something in the tone with which he uttered the words struck Helen as more serious than the simple fantasy that she might have a different owner than the one who had bought her contract of indenture. Mr. Lindgren’s words seemed to imply somehow that he might find a way to acquire her—that he would go to a great deal of trouble to do it, if a way could be found. No, there was no apology in his eyes now, but the hunger that persisted there despite his softening cock seemed to have a dimension to it that went beyond what a man who borrowed a treasure should decently feel about another man’s prized possession.
“Go to the bed,” he said, taking his hand from her hair. “I’m going to fuck your ass as soon as I get hard again. Show me how you arrange yourself when Serteau tells you to get ready for anal.”
Helen felt herself blush crimson, but she wasn’t sure why. She had received the command to get ready to give her bottom so many times that it shouldn’t embarrass her, should it? But the idea that Mr. Lindgren took it for granted that Helen, in her daily life in her owner’s home, had to obey commands like that one—that she knew exactly what it meant, and where she must go, and how she must prepare, when a man decided to enter her backside and ride her there until he shot his seed deep inside her narrowest passage, upon the infertile soil of her bottom—seemed unexpectedly shameful.
“I’ll have your bottom, now, Helen,” Mr. Serteau would say, and Helen would do as Mrs. Foley had taught her. She would get the lube from the drawer of her nightstand and put it on top, in the pool of light from the lamp that stood there. She would put the big black butt plug next to it, in case Mr. Serteau wanted to use it in her anus before he fucked her there.
She would take all the covers from the bed and kneel upon the fitted sheet, spreading her knees a little to just a little more than shoulder width.
Then, the bending and the arching: the presenting of her bottom. The reaching back to spread and show, her cheek against the fabric. The air moving against places that nature’s wisdom had sought to hide.
As she looked up into the blue eyes of the man who had borrowed her—bottom, pussy, mouth, and all—Helen knew that her blush came from the way she could see in his eyes, past the hunger, a real attraction to her, of the same kind she felt for him. Despite the way it had come about, or maybe even because of it, this encounter had more to it than the transaction between a billionaire and his friends that her owner had obviously intended.
Her eyes still fixed on his, Helen rose, and turned until she was looking back at him over her shoulder. She saw what she had hoped she might see, in Mr. Lindgren’s face, though she had thought the hope foolish. She saw real pleasure at her obedience. She saw affection.
Chapter Fourteen
Why had he apologized? Eric’s mind seemed currently not to have access to that part of his psyche—whatever part it may have been.
The girl clearly needed this. Clearly liked it, even. She had said so, when he had undergone that strange moment of weakness.
All he could think, although he still couldn’t grasp the idea intuitively and emotionally, was that it had to do with knowing Helen belonged to the same class he did, and the society girls to whom he had given a safeword did—because he hadn’t given Helen a safeword.
He hadn’t needed to, and he didn’t need to, because Helen belonged to Serteau, and Serteau had loaned her to the Friday club. Lovely Helen might have been born and educated as a member of the elite—which surely must be why Eric felt so drawn to her. But she had become an indentured servant without even a last name to call her own. She belonged to a wealthy man, and she must do as he told her—he, and his assigns, in whose number Eric now had the good fortune to stand.
The indenture center had identified this girl as in need of a man’s mastery, and determined her to be competent to sign her freedom away in exchange for the eventual financial benefits Serteau had already placed in escrow. It didn’t matter from what class she came: you didn’t give a concubine a safeword, and you didn’t apologize for fucking her hard with your enormous cock.
Instead, you did what Eric now found himself in the right mindset to do: you had her clean your penis with a nice face-fuck, and gave her a facial to make it clear she would accept whatever you chose to give. You told her to go to the bed and to get ready for anal.
And she, walking to the bed, turned her face back over her shoulder, your seed still shining there as a sign of her obedience and her subservience. Her face wore the sweet pout that said she knew you would be hard on her, and that she needed it, but perhaps you would ride her bottom a little more gently because she had been a good girl for you.
You didn’t feel that you wanted to take her to Paris and show her the Seine by night. If you did feel that, you forgot about it, as she pulled the coverlet and top sheet back, as she climbed onto the bed. You said something to remind yourself about your promise to be hard on her.
“Take off your bra, Helen,” Eric said, which represented a good start. His will to master her, to enjoy her to the fullest before he had to return her to her owner, arose again in force as he watched her obey, her face now turned forward to the headboard of the sumptuous white bridal bed, where so many young women’s virginities must have met their ends.
Helen’s black stockings, and the black bra that she dropped onto the white fitted sheet, contrasted so vividly with the virginal innocence of the bed that Eric’s cock, returning now, already, to hardness, gave a leap. Serteau’s concubine, no maiden, positioned herself for what always seemed to Eric the least innocent of acts. He had told her to arrange herself the way she would for her owner, but now he realized he should simply have instructed her to position herself according to his own inclinations. For as she reached back to spread her cheeks, and offer him the tiny pink flower of her bottom, rising charmingly over the sweet pout of her cunt, where the coral inner lips peeped out enticingly, the whole set off by the lovely lace of her stocking tops, Eric’s blood burned with the knowledge that another man’s will lay behind the little ritual.
His cock swaying, he made his way around the bed, so that he could see Helen’s face, where her cheek lay turned to the bed and her beautiful blue eyes regarded him with puzzlement. He knew a moment of triumph, because her confusion could only mean that Serteau always went directly to his pleasurable task of using her anus.
Eric regarded her for a long time, letting his eyes drink in the extraordinarily exciting sight of a girl ready to receive his cock in her most private place. He watched her eyes move from his face to his cock, as he pumped it gently, watched her bite her lip at the sight.
Her brow grew troubled, after a while, and he could tell she had a question of some kind, though he felt sure Serteau didn’t allow her to speak when in this position, wanting only to hear his girl cry out as he rode her.
“What is it, sweetheart?” Eric asked.
“Sir?” Though he felt sure she did feel the impulse to ask him something, Helen seemed so taken aback at being addressed while offering her backside for fucking that she couldn’t
remember her question.
“What are you worried about?” Rather an absurd thing to say, he realized, in this situation, when he had made clear his intention to enter her with his huge manhood in a place not intended for it by nature, but he felt sure Helen had a specific concern, and Eric wanted to show the quality of his dominance by addressing it—as Serteau, he felt sure, would not have done.
She bit her lip again, for a moment, and then she said, looking up into his eyes, “When I get ready at… at my owner’s, I put the lube and the… the plug out, on the nightstand.”
Eric nodded. Of course. He had made sure of course that like any good modern honeymoon suite this one came with a bottle of high-quality lubricant—at an extra charge, to be sure, and undoubtedly at a huge mark-up, but of priceless value just at present. The hotel’s foresight didn’t extend to anal toys, as far as he could tell, but his fingers would serve.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll get you nice and ready.” Suddenly the urge to make her so ready that she begged for his cock in her anus, in a way Serteau would never have bothered to do, came upon him. To be hard on her, to Eric, didn’t mean the relentless pounding of his rigid cock—or, rather, it didn’t only mean that.
He went to the dresser and opened the top drawer: the lube lay there discreetly, along with a package of condoms—thankfully unnecessary in the world of the Friday club, where young women like Helen received contraceptive injections and men submitted monthly test results as a minor inconvenience that came with the major benefits of their weekly meeting. Eric got the little bottle and brought it over to the bed. He sat down next to where Helen’s enticing backside rose over her prettily stockinged thigh. A little sound, not quite a whimper but more than a sigh, came from her as his weight settled onto the mattress.
Eric wondered for the briefest of moments how Serteau did this: how he got a girl’s anus ready for his cock. For an instant, the desire to do everything differently from the way Helen’s owner did nearly got the better of him—to demonstrate to her that Eric Lindgren held a superiority to Xavier Serteau in every respect, where the satisfaction of a submissive girl’s erotic needs was concerned. He almost demanded that Helen tell him precisely what her owner did, when his concubine had spread her bottom-cheeks open with her adorable, slim fingers, to offer him a dominant man’s favorite avenue of pleasure.
A much better instinct took hold of him then, however. He had no need to know anything more about what Serteau did with Helen. He, Eric, had this girl, to whom he felt this strange erotic connection that somehow went further, here in this hotel room. The obligation to return her to her owner’s apartment, into the care of the housekeeper who kept the girl ready to serve the man to whom she had indentured herself, didn’t matter—indeed, Helen’s being owned by another man didn’t matter.
He spent a long time, turned toward Helen and perching on his left hip, simply admiring the lewd sight she gave him of a cunt and a bottom displayed for his private viewing. He didn’t touch her, but he could feel as if by telepathy, and hear in the ragged puffing of breath in her nose, how presenting herself this way affected her, with Eric looking so minutely at her secret places in their rosy pinkness—the sweet pussy, glistening with submissive arousal, that he had already fucked; the tiny wrinkled anus he meant to enjoy now.
At last, very gently he brought his right hand down upon her bottom, stroking it as he might stroke the fur of a beloved pet, using his fingertips to make clear to Helen that she belonged to him, for tonight, and that he found her body and its charms a precious gift. He would not profane her lightly, his hand said, as his fingers moved softly to her clit, making her let out a submissive little cry as her hips undulated helplessly, seeking more of the pleasure.
He would not profane her lightly, but he would, certainly, profane her—debauch her, use her, enjoy her—to the best of his ability.
With his left hand he let a trickle of lube out onto her bottom, at the end of the valley between her cheeks so that it ran down and anointed her anus. Helen started, and a shiver went through her whole body at the feeling.
“Shh,” Eric said, moving his right hand higher, stroking her adorable inner lips softly once before he laid his two middle fingers against her bottom-hole with the gentlest possible pressure.
Helen gave a soft cry, rather than quieting down, at the feeling of the lube-slickened circle those fingers made around her tiny, puckered rose. Eric didn’t push in any further, but merely kept anointing her on the outside, letting a little more lube out of the bottle so that his fingers became covered with its clear wetness.
“Tell me about how they widened you here,” he said, continuing the rubbing that seemed to be making Helen’s bottom move in a way that showed she had become used to opening for anal penetration. For a moment, as Eric heard his own words, he wondered if he had receded from his resolution not to think about Helen’s life with her owner—but he saw in himself only the urge to make a connection that would help Helen think about her training, and make it easier for her to open to him, when the time for fucking arrived.
“I wore a belt, sir,” Helen said softly, “in bed at night. Mrs. Foley chose which plug I would sleep with, and she made them bigger every few days.”
Eric pushed a single finger inside, softly, and Helen received it with a little whimper of unmixed pleasure. Slowly he moved in and out, loving the warmth inside her bottom and the tightness of the little ring of muscle around his finger as he let the beautiful girl know that he would decide what would enter her there, and when, tonight.
“But you don’t wear the belt anymore?” he asked, probing more deeply and insistently now.
“Oh!” Helen said, at the feeling. Then, “Sometimes, as a punishment.”
Eric felt his cock swell at this news. He couldn’t resist adding a second finger, now, and Helen received it with a sigh that seemed to trail off into a whine that indicated that the characteristic, arousing discomfort of anal play had taken hold.
“Tell me about that,” he commanded, standing up now so that he could use his left hand on her adorable bare pussy while he readied her anus.
“It’s not… It’s not… overnight…” Helen said, her reason clearly suffering a little from the excess of stimulation. “Mrs. Foley puts me in it for an hour, with the biggest plug, if I’m disrespectful. Oh, please…”
“Please what?” Eric asked, holding his fingers still in her anus while he bestowed a firm caress on Helen’s clit.
“Please… I’m going to…”
“Go ahead and come for me, Helen,” he commanded sternly.
“But… but I’m not…”
To his delight, she cried out, and writhed under his hands, bucking her hips as if to impale her bottom upon his fingers even further, and then her fingers tightened on her bottom and her whole body seemed to tense, until the climax exploded inside her, and she gave a piercing cry, her legs shaking and her stretched-back arms trembling.
Chapter Fifteen
Helen wasn’t allowed to come before anal sex. An orgasm was something she might earn for pleasing Mr. Serteau with her bottom, but he and Mrs. Foley had spoken to her very clearly on the matter.
“When Mr. Serteau fucks your bottom, slut,” Mrs. Foley had said one afternoon as she readied the black strap-on dildo to take Helen anally herself, “he wishes it to be very clear that he is not interested in your pleasure. You are a tight little hole for him to enjoy, and nothing more.”
Helen, over her spanking stool to receive the housekeeper’s rigorous training, had looked back at her stern taskmistress, clad only in the strap-on harness and the black bustier she always wore when punishing or teaching Mr. Serteau’s concubine, magnificent in her terrible authority. She had had no idea why, but knowing that her own pleasure didn’t matter to the man who used her excited her urgently, between her legs where she knew Mrs. Foley would pay her no attention now.
Then Helen had cried out as the dildo entered, Mrs. Foley crouching over her charge to imp
ale the little bottom with her artificial cock. By that time the housekeeper had already widened Helen enough that the concubine could accept several minutes of hard anal fucking from her owner without him having any trouble entering, or needing to fear he would harm her, though she was still sore afterward.
The confirmation of Mrs. Foley’s words, she had realized as the dildo moved in and out, while Helen did her best to stay open just as she had been taught, lay in Mr. Serteau’s apparent pleasure in the discomfort he left behind. When Helen did receive the reward of an orgasm, for her anal service, it was because her owner, after coming in her bottom, lingered on the bed, watching his seed trickle from her little rose, rubbing her there firmly to make her cry out.
He would tsk, almost affectionately, and say, “Does my girl need to come?”
Helen would whimper, “Yes, sir.”
Then, with his other hand, much as Mr. Lindgren was doing now, he would start to rub her clit, and Helen would come very quickly, trying not to think about the paradox of her arousal at being used without any thought for her own enjoyment.
It had vexed her, a little, then, and it vexed her now in the honeymoon suite with Mr. Lindgren. She didn’t think she should find the consolation she did in telling herself that it didn’t matter—that she belonged to Mr. Serteau and she must lend even her body’s most private place to his enjoyment. That solution had seemed inadequate in Mr. Serteau’s apartment and it seemed even less satisfactory now, when confronted by Mr. Lindgren’s very different approach.
The pressing problem was that she felt sure—whether because of Mrs. Foley’s training or because of her own innate, complicated desires—she would be severely punished for the orgasm, and the idea of that terrible lesson from Mr. Serteau’s cane made the climax even stronger. As she writhed under Mr. Lindgren’s fingers, feeling him prepare her for his own enormous cock, she saw herself bent over the bed in her room at her owner’s residence, receiving cut after cut, as she screamed her penitence, for letting this other man pleasure her before he fucked her bottom.