Shared by the Billionaires

by Emily Tilton

  “You don’t know, whore? You lost count of them?”

  “Oh, please!” Helen cried, panting, her face betraying great discomfort in the region at which Mrs. Foley worked, to go along with the helpless pleasure. “There… there were five of them… but…”

  “But what? Did they bring more men in because they had a girl who couldn’t get enough cock?”

  “No! Ma’am… please…”

  “Get on the bed, on your hands and knees,” Mrs. Foley commanded, pulling her gloved hands away. “I need a good look at you.”

  At you. At the part of you that matters to your owner.

  Helen assumed the posture with an air that seemed to Serteau almost one of gratitude, for being allowed to turn her face to the bedclothes and for the steadiness of the position. She cried out, though, at the roughness with which Mrs. Foley began to handle her bottom, pulling the cheeks hard apart and pressing a lubed finger deep into the little ring without warning.

  “How many in here? Can you even remember that?” the housekeeper said in a sneering voice.

  “Three, ma’am,” Helen sobbed. “I think.”

  “You’re much looser now,” Mrs. Foley said disapprovingly. “Tighten on my finger. No. Better than that, whore. Now that you’re wide open, you’re going to have to learn new ways to please a cock.”

  Helen wailed as she tried to obey. Mrs. Foley had positioned her on the bed in such a way that Serteau could use the zoom on the camera to get a very charming view of his concubine’s efforts to work her backside so as to please the imaginary penis represented by the housekeeper’s finger. Serteau’s cock swelled at the thought of being in there himself, testing Helen’s new skill.

  His phone rang, and he glanced at it, intending to dismiss the call. Then he saw the name of the caller: Eric Lindgren.

  “Hello?”

  “Serteau?”

  “Yes. Lindgren?”

  “That’s right. How much to buy Helen from you?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Helen wished Mrs. Foley would hurry up and tell her to get over the spanking stool. She didn’t really understand why the housekeeper apparently blamed her for what had happened in the private dining room and in the honeymoon suite, but it did seem to her to make a terrible kind of sense, especially where Eric was concerned.

  He hadn’t let her go to sleep until well past midnight, and then he had woken her at dawn, his need to fuck rising high and urgent in the enormous penis he presented to her lips, to be readied for her bottom once more. He had indeed been very hard on her, and the places Mrs. Foley inspected with her gloved hands felt strange and sore from the pounding of Eric’s cock.

  After the first bottom-fuck he had put her in the enormous bathtub with its soothing, bubbling jets. He had tenderly washed her, murmuring that she must call him by his first name, that he wanted to know all about her. After twenty minutes of tenderness, though, Eric had gotten into the tub himself, and turned Helen over, so that he could fuck her from behind as the bubbly water sloshed around them, telling her—though in a gentle voice—to raise her bottom, arch her back, give more of her cunt to him.

  He had come inside her, and then stood her up out of the tub, to dry her off with a big fluffy towel, patting gently at her pussy and bottom, which had already made Helen wince a little, though she would be a good deal sorer by the time Eric brought her home. She had lost count of the number of times she had come, and he had come, even before they slept, his strong arms around her, falling asleep while he—apparently sated at last—asked her about her family.

  After the anal in the morning had come breakfast, with more questions about her life before her father’s imprisonment, and after. Helen had looked into Eric’s eyes and answered honestly, because she couldn’t figure out why she should lie—or even why he wanted to know. The idea that he might be falling in love with her—and in fact she with him, as well—had occurred to her, of course, but the sheer aggression in his sexual use of her, and the way her body responded to it so urgently and shamefully, seemed to make that too absurd to contemplate.

  When the room-service trolley with the remains of the sumptuous breakfast on it had been rolled out into the hall, Eric had ordered her back into bed, knees high and spread, so that he could look down upon her laid out for him. On his knees, but looming over her like a king, his huge penis filling his hand, he had approached, and entered her soaking pussy, looking her in the eye while her face reddened at the frank hunger in his gaze. Then he had fucked her the way Helen had always imagined a king or a bridegroom should fuck, surveying his conquered territory as he ravished it.

  Helen had cried out in discomfort, but also in helpless pleasure, and her knowledge of her needs had seemed to grow with every painful thrust of the long, hard shaft of his manhood. She felt the yearning above all to submit to the erotic will of this kind of man, like her owner but even more powerful in his special way and, strangely, interested in her if only as a particular treasure to debase and to enjoy.

  More cuddling had followed, in that bed, and, thankfully, more sleep, until at last the time had come for her to dress, and to descend with him in the elevator, feeling unable to meet his eye even if he had commanded it, which he did not. Eric had kissed her in the elevator, and in the limousine, but not the way he had kissed her the previous day: chaste kisses—tender kisses, even. He had spoken very little, and Helen had found it hard to understand what he meant, because he seemed to speak about the next time they would see one another.

  At last, with the limo pulled up at the door of Mr. Serteau’s apartment building, Eric had held her hand and said, “Look at me, please, Helen.”

  She had summoned the courage, and obeyed. She had seen such ambiguity in his blue eyes that her heart quailed: lust, affection, and gratitude all seemed mingled there alongside a troubled quality, as if he, a man accustomed to knowing in exactly which direction to go no matter how deep the wood, had suddenly found himself without a path to tread.

  “Do you…” he had begun, and then he had stopped.

  But Helen had known, from his eyes, even after those two syllables, what Eric had seemed almost desperate to know. He had wanted to know how she felt about him, after a night in which he had alternately held her and fucked her savagely, without any compunction, so that every step she took made her draw breath sharply. He had wanted to know if she could forgive him what he had done—how, presented with Mr. Serteau’s lovely submissive girl, having watched her gangbanged, having had her at his own sexual disposal for an evening, a night, a morning, he had not resisted the impulse of his cock but had instead announced his intention to be very hard on her and then carried out that intention.

  She had tried to smile, but she did not know, now, as Mrs. Foley continued with the awful inspection that nevertheless renewed Helen’s submissive arousal, whether she had succeeded. She had wanted to tell Eric that she forgave him—that she thought that if circumstances were different, she might like to be his concubine, even if it meant receiving his wild, almost painful attentions every day.

  But his eyes had remained troubled, and he had simply said, “Thank you,” instead, and let the doorman help her out of the limo.

  Mrs. Foley spread her pussy open now, and Helen whimpered in shame and discomfort. “It looks like they had fun in here, slut,” the housekeeper said. “It’s as swollen a cunt as I’ve ever seen, and your anus looks like you had a giant-sized cock in there all night. Mr. Serteau is here.”

  Helen couldn’t suppress a cry of alarm at this unexpected news. “But he’s not supposed—”

  “Silence, slut,” Mrs. Foley thundered. “You’ll have extra over the stool for that. Do you think you get to decide when your owner comes and goes from his own apartment, any more than you get to decide when he comes and goes from this bed, to fuck you?”

  She emphasized her words with a rough probing of gloved fingers inside Helen’s vagina, which drew a wailing moan from her chest. “No, ma’am,” she gasped, knowing tha
t failure to answer would only summon further punishment.

  “Get over the stool, now,” Mrs. Foley said. “It’s time you learned your lesson for your whorish pleasure with all those cocks. Mr. Serteau will come in to fuck you after your punishment, I believe, so make up your mind to take your punishment like a good little slut, and he may reward you once he’s had his own fun in your cunt.”

  The probing hands departed. Helen rose on shaky legs and went the few steps to the middle of her room, where Mrs. Foley had of course pulled the little stool over from its place in the corner. Helen didn’t know why this simple piece of furniture should seem to her to symbolize the paradox of her submissive needs so well, but her heart quailed now as it always did when confronted by the stool’s pink-painted surface.

  The smooth wooden top rose to a height just below her waist, so that when she bent over it and grasped the bottom rung, the way Mrs. Foley had instructed her to do the very first time, her feet on the other side were raised at the heel. This posture made it possible, though not easy, to push up her bottom as she knew she must, even as it steadied and stilled her hips, so that she could not avoid the attentions of the housekeeper’s wooden spoon any more than she could avoid the strap-on dildo when Mrs. Foley trained her with it, after a spanking.

  Something about the domesticity of the stool made it frightening, arousing, and even in a strange way reassuring: this was Helen’s place in her owner’s household—over the stool to learn how to please him, and to give his cock the pleasure he had bought, when he had acquired Helen. Now, after the night with Eric, the stool seemed somehow to comfort her even as she feared the first impact of the spoon. It had been a night to remember, she supposed, and she hoped he would remember it too, but the time had come for Helen to come home, and pay for her pleasures—even if those pleasures had been forced upon her.

  “Get that bottom higher, slut,” Mrs. Foley said. “Offer it to me the way you did to your lover last night.”

  Your lover. Helen felt her lips curl into a secret smile. Yes, she supposed, Eric could probably be called that, based both on his tenderness and on his aggression. Maybe someday she would have a lover like that for more than one night.

  She did her best to obey Mrs. Foley, using her grip on the wooden dowel and her stance on the balls of her feet to arch her back as best she could. She had indeed offered herself this way to Eric, hadn’t she?

  The spoon came down hard, and Helen cried out, the way she always did, from the beginning of every spanking. Her noisy conduct under punishment seemed to release her into the sensuality of the experience, so that even when Mrs. Foley or Mr. Serteau decided truly to punish her, she experienced it as a response to the wild passions of her body—even as a check upon them, a boundary telling her that, yes, she might go this far in her wicked desires, but no farther.

  Mrs. Foley spanked her hard and quickly, covering both bottom-cheeks and Helen’s upper thighs with stinging swats that soon had her hips bucking against the stool’s surface, backside clenching and unclenching. The stool did its job, though, of course: Helen could buck, but she could not avoid her fiery lesson. She sobbed, tears soaking into the blue pile carpet of her little room. Yes, I’m paying for my pleasure. I need to pay for my pleasure.

  “Please, Mrs. Foley,” she pleaded, as she always did. “Please… it hurts so much.”

  The housekeeper answered in the severe tone she always used. “It’s meant to hurt. Sluts who give themselves to the cock the way you do need to learn what respectable people think of you, and take the consequences.”

  Even in the throes of her need for those consequences, Helen knew that the logic made no sense outside the world of her service to Mr. Serteau’s lusts. Inside that world, though, it made her moan as the terrible spanking continued.

  Suddenly a strange sound—or, rather, a familiar sound that could not have been more out of place in the middle of a spanking—came to Helen’s ears, and at the same moment Mrs. Foley stopped bringing the spoon down on Helen’s rear end. For a long moment she couldn’t place it, and it was only when Mr. Serteau spoke from behind her that Helen realized that the sound had simply been the opening of her door.

  “Don’t let us interrupt you, Mrs. Foley,” said her owner. “Mr. Lindgren and I are just going to watch the end of Helen’s punishment, and then we are going to decide what to do with her.”

  Helen twisted her head helplessly, wildly at that, trying to see whether it could possibly be true.

  “Head down, slut,” Mrs. Foley said. “Is this the one with the big cock? Well, he doesn’t have it out now, so I don’t think there’s anything you need to see.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Eric thought he could see Serteau’s logic. To show Helen to him this way, over the stool, would make it absolutely clear that Eric—who Serteau obviously considered to be romantically infatuated with his concubine—couldn’t give her what she truly deserved and needed. Only a man like Serteau, he seemed to think, could dispassionately administer the cruel, illogical-in-every-way-except-the-way-of-lust treatment a girl like the one now crying out with each blow from Mrs. Foley’s long wooden spoon, with its blade the size of her hand, needed.

  Eric wondered, with a little gratitude mingled into the wonder, at the fact that Serteau had given him enough credit to understand that the younger man’s role in the scene unfolding in Helen’s little bedroom couldn’t and shouldn’t just be to rescue her. Of course, Eric thought a little bitterly, Serteau might simply be relying on the indenture laws to ensure that if Eric did decide to take the foolish step of rescuing the concubine, the police would bring her right back and arrest the younger man in the bargain.

  On the whole, though, he thought that the billionaire investment banker did respect his junior colleague’s dominant instincts enough to trust Eric to see in Helen’s terrible spanking for the night in the honeymoon suite what Serteau wanted to show him. The girl over the stool needed this: she stood on the balls of her feet, gripped the bottom rung of the stool hard, and furnished her backside for the housekeeper’s stern chastisement.

  And all because of Eric: he had, in effect, put her over the stool to have her pretty little bottom turned red—and even, now, purple in some of the spots to which Mrs. Foley attended with her cruel kitchen implement.

  Serteau spoke, after Mrs. Foley had struck, and Helen had cried out, three times.

  “Do you see, my boy, what you have done with that monstrous cock of yours?”

  The housekeeper had slowed her pace greatly at the entry of the men, so that Serteau’s words emerged into silence, but Helen gave a whimper at them almost as if another swat had landed on her well-punished rear end.

  Eric remained silent, his brain whirling. He still hadn’t fully recovered from the moment in the limousine when so many crazy ideas of running away with Helen had occurred to him, but he had been able only to thank her—let alone the moment on the phone when instead of proposing some exorbitant price that Eric would simply have paid and then decided what to do with the girl afterward, Serteau had invited him over.

  He needed time to think, and it didn’t seem as if he would get it. The sight of Helen being spanked by Mrs. Foley had certainly affected him, if not in the way he thought Serteau had expected. He needed to know more, however, about what Helen’s owner thought Eric should be thinking and feeling, before he could see how to emerge from the scene victorious.

  Serteau obliged him, clearly unable to keep himself from expatiating—in an almost avuncular tone—on the subject of his greater knowledge and experience of dominating pretty young submissive women.

  “Helen would have been punished at any rate, simply because she needs to feel that her shameful erotic pleasures have a price. That’s just the sort of girl she is.”

  Well, there’s nothing particularly revelatory there, Eric thought sourly. He, too, saw the value of spanking a girl for her arousal, as natural, good, and marvelous as female arousal truly was.

  Mrs. Foley brought th
e spoon down hard on Helen’s right bottom-cheek with a crack that made Eric’s cock leap. Helen cried out, her neck arching and her golden hair threshing around her face, and he stiffened even further. Clearly Mrs. Foley stood in agreement with both men about the benighted but erotically rewarding idea of punishing girls for sexual pleasure.

  “But she called you Eric, this morning,” Serteau said, then, with timing that Eric himself couldn’t help admiring. “Which I’m sure she wouldn’t have done if your cock hadn’t caused her mind and her cunt to stray from their duty—as well as your thoughtlessness in telling her, apparently, that she might call you that.”

  Another stroke from the spoon, and another cry from Helen. If Eric thought his brain were in a whirl before, that he had needed more time, now he felt that he might not be able to puzzle out what he should do even if Serteau had given him hours before he spoke again, with even more terrible words.

  “So I’ve brought you here to watch me fuck her, and to hear her cry out under my cock, small though it is in comparison to yours. I’m not going to sell her to you, but I also don’t want you under some illusion that you can hang around like a puppy dog and Helen will be yours someday. I want you to hear in my slut’s cries that even Eric Lindgren’s horse cock can’t make my concubine any less mine.”

  Serteau began to unfasten his belt. Helen gave a little whimper at the sound, and Eric thought the ambiguous sound must mean that her owner often whipped her with his belt—though he realized, with a bitter taste in his mouth, that it could be that Helen whimpered at the knowledge that Serteau’s cock would soon be inside her, whether the whimper meant fear or erotic craving.

  The billionaire’s khaki trousers dropped to the floor, his boxer shorts inside them. He ripped off his blue polo shirt with a single fluid motion to reveal a strikingly fit body. His cock, held in his right hand jutted out a respectable seven inches at least, Eric noted. Mrs. Foley stepped back.