by Emily Tilton
“Please,” she sobbed, as it went on and on, his fingers apparently reluctant to let her stop coming. “Please, sir…”
“Please what, sweetheart?” Mr. Lindgren asked softly, almost inaudibly over Helen’s helpless noises of pleasure.
“Please fuck… please fuck my bottom,” she gasped, knowing it to be the only possible response—the answer that might restore order.
He pulled his hands away, and though it was exactly what she had hoped for Helen couldn’t suppress a frustrated whimper, even as the knowledge that she was a naughty girl who couldn’t bear to part with illicit pleasure aroused her even more. She felt him get onto the bed, felt his calves enclose her thighs, felt the huge head of his cock against the tiny hole.
For a moment, as he pressed, she forgot her training in alarm at the sheer size of him, and she tightened, clenching her bottom-cheeks and making her anus go small. When she did that with Mrs. Foley, she was spanked, and made to wear the belt for an hour. Mr. Lindgren, though, said in a gentle voice that nevertheless sounded thick with his own urgent desire, “Don’t worry. We’ll take our time.”
Mr. Serteau never took his time. When he came to Helen’s bed for bottom sex, she was made to get him hard in her mouth, and then to get things ready for the preparation and taking of her anus. The cock would enter, her hips grasped firmly and her back made to arch so as to make her anus as pleasurable as it could be for him, and he would fuck until he came, balls deep, her little bottom-cheeks held tightly against his sinewy thighs.
At first the idea that it would be different with Mr. Lindgren made it hard to concentrate on opening to him, and though she tried, the muscles Mrs. Foley had taught her to visualize wouldn’t behave. But when Mr. Lindgren didn’t push any more firmly, and when she felt how light his grip was on her hips, she breathed in and out, and remembered how to push.
“Oh,” Mr. Lindgren said, as the well-lubed head of his cock passed inside her and the pleasure of being enclosed so snugly seemed to come upon him. “That feels so good, sweetheart. Push back and take more, now.”
At first Helen couldn’t understand what he meant. Mr. Serteau always held her in place so that he could enter her bottom according to his own notion of how he wanted to have her anus, and Mrs. Foley did the same by putting her over the spanking stool for her lessons with the strap-on.
But the idea that Mr. Lindgren wanted her to move herself, on his cock, seemed to catch fire in her mind. With a little sob, she began to obey, though even that first tentative movement took her breath away at the way the girth of his penis stretched her tiny ring and made it burn.
“Nice and slow,” he said, stroking her right hip, then her bottom-cheek. She pushed a little more, and got the reward of a grunt of pleasure from the man whose huge cock had invaded her smallest hole. “Oh, that’s so nice, Helen, sweetheart. Oh, it’s a sweet bottom.”
Another sob, this one louder, and another push onto his shaft. She felt terribly full, wickedly full. Mr. Lindgren’s cock was even bigger than the punishment plug Mrs. Foley used if Helen was slow to come when the housekeeper called her, or forgetfully closed the door of the bathroom.
She cried out, and pushed again. Her bottom felt like he had opened her wider than her owner ever had, like she would never be the same back there, down there, after this fucking. An idea that had floated up in her thoughts before, when Mr. Serteau and Mrs. Foley had used her anus, took hold of Helen’s mind with more urgency than it had ever had before: she needed this.
They had told her in the indenture center that her needs would be met by becoming a wealthy man’s concubine, yes. And Mr. Serteau had emphasized to her over and over that he only treated her as his treasured, degraded sexual plaything because he knew Helen was the kind of girl who needed that debasement in order to feel fulfilled—in order to experience the kind of erotic satisfaction for which her body had been fashioned by nature.
But only now, when millimeter by millimeter she obeyed the command of the man to whom her owner had loaned her, to impale herself further, more uncomfortably, more irreversibly on his huge manhood, did she begin fully to understand. She didn’t only need to submit, in some conventional sense of discipline and sex whenever a dominant man decided she should be punished or fucked. She needed to feel she had given everything to a man who knew what the gift meant. She needed to be changed by his huge cock in her bottom, transformed by his fucking so that when he took her back tomorrow, and Mrs. Foley made her strip for inspection, the housekeeper would take one look at Helen’s bottom and see that Mr. Serteau’s concubine had returned a different girl than she had been when she left the apartment.
The terrible thought came to her in a rush so fast and overwhelming that she felt powerless to resist its apparently compelling logic. Part of her knew it could only be a fantasy, knew that Helen’s life—especially after her indentured servitude had come to an end—would be full of so much more than sex that such thrilling, morbid ideas would fade and be put away in the recesses of her mind, to be taken out only on special, terribly exciting occasions.
But she could see, also, the reason for the sudden strength of this idea of needing to have her bottom broken here, tonight, by Mr. Lindgen’s huge cock, The way he had treated her, with such a strange mixture of tenderness and frank mastery and even aggression—the way he had even asked from where Helen had come—had placed him in a position Mr. Serteau didn’t occupy, even as the man who had purchased her and would provide for her once she had finished her contract.
She wanted him to be the one to change her, back there, since she needed to be changed.
This final, inevitable conclusion of her chain of thought made her cry out; made her rejected, unfilled pussy clench, and ache; made her arch her back, to give more of her bottom to the massive, rigid shaft that pulsed with this man’s dominant life force in her anus. She whimpered, sobbed, and pushed, biting the sheet and feeling her brow crease so deeply that it seemed that that part of her too might never be the same.
And then, as if overcome by the pleasure he got from opening the little bottom he had impaled, by the sensation of Helen’s poor, distended anus stretched around his masculinity, Mr. Lindgren’s hands gripped her hips harder and guided her further onto his cock. Helen gave a final, wailing cry, and then her bottom cheeks felt the press of Mr. Lindgren’s lap, and her heart leapt with a pride more ambiguous than any emotion she had ever known.
“There,” Mr. Lindgren grunted, and Helen could hear that the tenderness had indeed given way in him, once again, to the will for mastery. “There you go. Balls deep, you little whore.”
She wondered if another girl would have felt betrayed. She didn’t: the pride grew in her, despite the discomfort of having the huge, hard penis deep in the wrong place. Helen knew from his harsh words that the pleasure of opening Helen’s backside this way had a terrible hold on him just as it did on her. That knowledge seemed in and of itself to transform the extreme sensations in her bottom into an ambiguous but terribly powerful mixture of pain and pleasure that sent her floating outside herself, as he began to fuck her bottom with his giant cock.
She could tell that at first some part of him warred with the urge just to hold her in place and thrust exactly as he liked in and out of the little ring that Helen tried so hard to keep relaxed and open for his pleasure. As she felt him come and go in the narrow space, crying out into the mattress with each thrust, though, she knew his dominance would get the better of him, and soon it did: a growl arose in his throat, and though Helen couldn’t help squirming in his grip, trying to move her bottom to make the pounding more bearable, he held her firm and made her take his fucking as he wanted to give it.
When at last, with a suddenly jerky rhythm and a loud, throaty cry he pumped his seed into her, Helen knew pride again, but also another strange moment of disappointment: she would be sore, certainly, and she wouldn’t want to get out of this bed for quite a few minutes, but she could tell Mr. Lindgren hadn’t actually hurt her with h
is cock.
Chapter Sixteen
Serteau did come back to the city the following afternoon, ignoring his wife’s wrath. When he arrived at 12:30, Helen had only been back in Mrs. Foley’s keeping for half an hour.
“Mr. Lindgren brought her back on the stroke of noon,” the housekeeper told him tartly as she took his coat in the foyer of the sumptuous apartment. “I sent her straight to her room with instructions to think about what she had done.”
What she had done. A very nice touch from Mrs. Foley’s artistic side, Serteau thought.
“How did the girl react?” he asked, curious.
“Oh, she gave me one of her slutty looks, as if to say, Who, me? Get myself fucked all night and all morning by a man I don’t belong to?” Mrs. Foley gave a little sneer. Sometimes Serteau felt a little anxiety that the woman believed in the haughty superiority she pretended over his concubines—her designation of them as sluts while she inhabited a realm of ethereal virtue. Over-the-top performance or not, though, Mrs. Foley knew how to add an irreplaceable, piquant element to Serteau’s mastery of his girls.
“Have you inspected her yet?”
“I was just about to, Mr. Serteau. I did make it clear that she could expect a long session over the spanking stool, though. She gave me some nonsense about Mr. Lindgren being to blame for all the fucking she’s clearly had, but I could see the look in her eye just as well as I could see that she was walking funny from taking his cock so many times. She loved playing the whore, and now she’s going to pay for her cunt’s illicit pleasures.”
Mrs. Foley delivered this wonderful little speech in a manner that seemed to mingle the professor with the matron. The four-letter words she employed rolled from her tongue as if daring the listener to find her judgment anything but temperate, just, and even clean—in that although Mrs. Foley had to stoop to using language one might hear in the street, nevertheless she did so only in order to characterize a whore’s conduct in no uncertain terms and without any covering of refined utterance.
Serteau nodded. “I’ll watch the inspection from my office,” he said. “After you spank her I’ll come in for a fuck.”
Yes, that would do nicely: a good hard fuck, in Helen’s cunt and in her mouth, would restore the balance that Eric Lindgren had upset. He would have hell to pay in the suburbs, but his need for Helen—for her restoration to his list of assets, his collection of treasures—would not brook containment. He would fuck his sweet girl after her spanking, then go back out for the reception at the country club. Perhaps he would cane Helen tomorrow night, too, after returning to the city, just to remind her to whom her ass belonged.
“Very well, sir,” said Mrs. Foley. “I know she’ll be grateful that you deign to put your cock in her after what she did. Or she should be, at any rate.”
Serteau almost said something by way of an objection at that point. The idea that Helen was at fault for her night with Lindgren appealed to an atavistic side of his nature, but so did the notion that he, her owner, had loaned her to his friends for fucking just as they pleased. He also felt a twinge of sympathy for Helen herself, who must hear herself accused by Mrs. Foley of an intent of which she hadn’t been guilty.
But when one had a housekeeper like Mrs. Foley, with a flair for increasing both dominant and submissive pleasure, one let her follow her instincts, and expressed one’s gratitude.
“Thank you, Mrs. Foley,” he said, and walked down the hall to his study, where he called up the video-monitoring software on his desktop display just as the housekeeper entered Helen’s room.
Helen lay curled up on her bed, clutching a pillow, her eyes, previously closed now opening to see the older woman come in without knocking. She still wore the dress in which Serteau had brought her to the private dining room the day before. The question of where her panties were now located came into his mind, and he dismissed it. Lindgren had them, and he could keep them. Serteau had the girl.
He had expected that she would look disheveled and in some gratifying way lost—demonstrating in her appearance and manner that to return to her owner’s residence represented the greatest comfort she could know, after her ordeal. He had expected that she would also have fear on her face, as she contemplated going over the spanking stool to have the bottom that Lindgren had fucked, perhaps several times, given its just and painful reward to atone for the pleasures of the honeymoon suite.
Instead, Helen looked calm, and her eyes seemed far away and unreadable. Serteau wondered for a moment if Mrs. Foley’s talk of her night with Lindgren being the girl’s fault—of her sluttish nature making her enjoy her service to another man too much—might have some merit. The animal part of Serteau’s nature seemed to declare that the girl should look sorry for the way the other men had used her in the restaurant, and for the way her beauty had caused a young man with an enormous cock to take her to a honeymoon suite for a night of passion.
“Get up and take off your clothes, slut,” Mrs. Foley said, turning on the light. “I’m going to inspect you now.”
Helen bit her lip, her brow furrowing, as she lay there, looking up at the woman responsible for ensuring she remained pleasing to her owner. She gave a little nod, chin moving against the white fabric of the pillowcase, and moved slowly to obey.
Serteau couldn’t see Mrs. Foley’s face on the monitor, whose camera angle rested on Helen, but he heard in the housekeeper’s voice a note of anger when she spoke again, as if Mrs. Foley, too, found Helen’s demeanor remarkable.
“Faster, whore. You were quick enough to get out of your clothes for those other men’s cocks, weren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Helen said meekly. Her tone had nothing of defiance in it, but it made Serteau frown nonetheless: it seemed somehow not to matter to the girl that Mrs. Foley had accused her so unjustly of betraying her duty to her owner. She stood, unzipped her dress, and let it fall, revealing the thigh-high stockings and the lacy bra, and, of course, the lack of panties.
“And what happened to your underwear, slut?” Mrs. Foley asked. “I suppose you gave it to one of your lovers.”
That drew a little whimper from Helen, whose eyes, which had seemed to fix on the crown molding of her lovely little bedroom, fell to Mrs. Foley’s feet.
“Yes, ma’am. Eric has my panties.”
Eric?
“Eric, whore? Are you on a first name basis with the man who used your body to make his cock feel good?”
Serteau could see even over the imperfect video feed that Helen hadn’t meant to call Lindgren by his first name, and that having done so distressed her. For a moment he thought she would beg Mrs. Foley’s and, by extension, his own forgiveness, but then, her gaze still cast downward, she said, “He told me to call him that last night. Ma’am.”
No hint of contradiction entered her voice, but she spoke so slowly and distinctly—and the contrast of her provoking semi-nakedness with her dignified words was so great—that the effect of her words almost amounted to rebellion.
Mrs. Foley spoke again, and Serteau felt sure the housekeeper had narrowed her eyes almost to slits before uttering the first words, in a tone that suggested she had found in Helen a challenge worthy of her considerable skill.
“We’ll see if you still want to call him by his first name after I’m through disciplining you, whore. Get the rest of your underwear off and get ready for inspection.”
Helen received regular inspections from Mrs. Foley, especially with regard to determining whether it were time to wax her between her legs and her bottom-cheeks. The basic notion of evaluating a girl’s suitability for her duties as a sexual servant had always appealed to Serteau, but his housekeeper brought it to the level almost of a fine art.
He felt a little troubled in mind at Helen’s use of Lindgren’s first name, but he remained resolved to have her soundly spanked by Mrs. Foley, and then to fuck her hard, as the best way to begin to restore her to her place. The idea that he should cane her tomorrow, though, had gained a good deal of stren
gth. Twelve pretty red stripes to scream about as they landed, and then to look at in the mirror, should make her forget the size of Lindgren’s cock.
Helen’s inspections began with her hands atop her head, and her feet a little more than shoulder width apart, so that Mrs. Foley, having donned blue latex gloves for the purpose, could circle the girl’s beautiful form and touch whatever part of her body she liked.
Her eyes still fixed on the carpet, Helen bit her lip as she felt the familiar but always humiliating touch of the gloved hands on her breasts, palpating the little mounds and then toying with the nipples.
“Did Mr. Lindgren do this, slut?” the housekeeper asked in a dispassionate tone. “Did he enjoy your sweet little titties?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Helen answered with a little sob. The composure and detachment she had shown when Mrs. Foley had first entered seemed to have gone away.
“Did it feel good?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The housekeeper’s left hand remained at Helen’s chest, but her right traveled downward and took rough hold of the girl’s pussy, so that she cried out.
“And here? How many cocks were in this wet little cunt yesterday? How many penises had a fuck here, where I can feel your shame even through my glove?”
The implication in her tone, that Helen had begged to be allowed to receive those cocks, aroused Serteau despite—or perhaps even because of—its injustice. Yes, she must be spanked hard today, and I must cane her tomorrow.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” Helen sobbed.
Mrs. Foley kept up the probing of her fingers. Helen swayed a little, and her hips bounced as she gave in to the rough stimulation.