by Emily Tilton
“You’ll find her soaking wet, I think,” the housekeeper murmured. Helen gave a little keening whine at that, as if to prove to Eric the truth of her need not for tenderness but for hard use by the manhood of the dominant who owned her.
He gritted his teeth and fought his hands to keep them from clenching into fists, as he watched Serteau step to the stool, where Helen’s backside lay positioned at a perfect height, her bottom tilted at a perfect angle, for him to get into her pussy or her anus just as he preferred.
“On your tiptoes, Helen,” Serteau said almost gently, urging her knees apart six inches, then six more. The sight became nearly unbearable for Eric. His cock responded as if with a mind of its own as he watched the tension in her body build—the bend of her knees, the arch of her back as her owner had opened her into the submissive inverted V of a feminine rear end ready for man’s enjoyment. His need for her and, yes, his tenderness for her—the beginnings of love, he could no longer deny it—seemed to be trying to rip his insides out.
Serteau’s cock must have pressed against Helen’s pussy, then, though Eric could now see only the billionaire’s taut buttocks as they tensed with the slight effort of getting into his indentured servant to ease his arousal. She gave a soft cry in which he could hear, he thought, her need, along with a sort of familiarity, as if she could recognize the penis that had entered her cunt, and acknowledge its right to be there, mastering her.
Mrs. Foley murmured, behind Eric, “Good girl. Take that cock, you little whore.” He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to strangle the woman or thank her for the terrible arousal she seemed to have at her command.
Helen cried out again, much more ambiguously, as her owner began to fuck her in earnest, gripping the stool and using it to plunge deeper inside his concubine with every thrust, his hips slapping against her well-punished bottom.
Mrs. Foley spoke again. “That cunt is very sore now, I think, Mr. Lindgren. You did that, didn’t you? May I see?”
To Eric’s astonishment, he found that the housekeeper had moved around him like a cat, and knelt in front of him, her hands at his belt buckle. The will to stop her wasn’t in him: he watched in a kind of erotic anger as she deftly took down his pants and briefs so that his huge, hard cock sprang free.
Helen’s cries as she was fucked over her spanking stool, Serteau’s grunts as he came and went inside her cunt, Mrs. Foley’s surprised gasp at the revelation of his size… they all served to rob him of his rationality. He spoke in a growl.
“Ever seen a cock that big, Mrs. Foley?”
“No, sir,” she said quietly, and Eric noted the sudden deference in her tone—he almost laughed.
Serteau turned to see what was happening, slowing his rhythm a little as he rode the whimpering Helen. He crooked a satisfied smile at the sight of his housekeeper on her knees.
“Well done, Mrs. Foley,” he said. “Eric, why don’t you come and use my girl’s mouth? I’m not going to come in here for a few minutes.” Serteau seemed almost apologetic. “Old guy issue, but it means I last longer for her.”
He gave a hard thrust and Helen cried out under him.
Eric had no idea what to think, or to say. Something in Serteau’s words seemed to change his idea of what the billionaire meant to express, or to accomplish, in this hot, shameful scene, but Eric couldn’t puzzle out what it was, or what the final effect might be.
Mrs. Foley rose, and reached out to take his hand.
“Come, Mr. Lindgren. I’d like to train Mr. Serteau’s whore with this extraordinary cock, while he finishes up in her cunt.”
Eric let her lead him around to Helen’s front, letting his sheer arousal take command. His lust for Helen’s beautiful mouth seemed to blot out all other thoughts. But why was Serteau allowing him this pleasure, when he had supposed the point of the exercise was to show Eric that the billionaire owned her and Eric did not?
It must be for the same reason Serteau had loaned her to the Friday club, he reflected: the man wanted Eric to understand that an owner’s ultimate power lay in sharing his possession.
But again, something in Serteau’s tone as he had said I’m not going to come in here for a few minutes struck Eric. Perhaps it was the slight emphasis on I and here. For a moment Eric had thought the billionaire might be offering Helen’s pussy to Eric after Serteau had climaxed there.
That shouldn’t have struck him as strange, of course, he realized as he watched Mrs. Foley stroke Helen’s cheek to bring her to an awareness of what she must now undergo. Hadn’t Serteau offered him precisely that, the previous day—and, in the end, furnished Helen’s cunt, as well as her mouth and anus, to him for a whole night’s pleasure?
He watched Serteau fuck, now again in a steady rhythm, the billionaire’s eyes on his concubine’s discipline-reddened bottom as he moved against it over and over, relentlessly seeking the manly delight of a softly enclosed cock. Mrs. Foley had raised Helen’s face, though the girl’s eyes remained closed even as she opened her mouth wide to give Eric that same enjoyment at the other end of the beautiful girl.
“Open your eyes, slut,” said Mrs. Foley. “Look at this huge penis. I know you’ve seen it before, but not while your owner was fucking your cunt.”
Helen’s sweet, somehow innocent, blue eyes opened, and she started and gave a little sob at the sight of Eric’s exposed lap in front of her, the long, thick shaft held in his hand. She gave a cry at a hard thrust from Serteau, and her eyes darted up to Eric’s unexpectedly—as if she were helpless to keep them from turning upward to meet his gaze.
In that moment, seeing the need in her eyes, he thought he understood: something fundamental about Helen, about Serteau, about Mrs. Foley, and even about himself came to him in a flash.
Their eyes remained locked as he sheathed his cock halfway in her pretty mouth, drawing a sharp breath through his nostrils at the thrill of pleasure that went through his system like a lightning bolt.
“Good girl,” he said softly. “I’m going to take you home with me.”
Chapter Nineteen
Eric’s words barely registered with Helen, but something about his tone, and the way his eyes seemed to smile at the pleasure she gave, seemed to enfold her with a strange contentment.
Home. She had thought of this apartment as home for months, now, hadn’t she? And before that the only homes she had known since her family’s troubles began had been unworthy of the word.
She didn’t know what Eric meant, but she loved that he had said it.
Even as she did her best, there over the stool, to make her body as pleasurable as it could be for the two men fucking her; even as she cried out around the enormous cock in her mouth and felt the hard thrusts of the one in her pussy; even as she knew herself an object for their shameful sexual delight, Helen understood then what it meant to be treasured.
She didn’t grasp it at the level of her intellect, but rather in the depths of her heart, and, further down, of the wanton pussy that craved the rough use to which dominant men wanted to put her. Floating above herself, launched fully into that special realm that only stern discipline and sterner sex could open to her, she saw that Eric and Mr. Serteau—not to mention Mrs. Foley and even the other men from the restaurant the previous day—had all set a value on her that went far beyond the mere pleasure of their cocks.
Helen knew—in every part of her: head, heart, and pussy—that this value didn’t have to do with her as a person. Even Eric’s tenderness, she felt sure, didn’t have to do with any real affection for who she really was, or any intimacy between her heart and his; how could it, when they had met only the day before, under the charged, sexual circumstances engineered by Mr. Serteau?
She also didn’t mind, though, at that moment as they fucked her fore and aft, with Mrs. Foley watching, because to be treasured in that special, carnal way—to be told by Eric that he would take her home and to feel her owner’s thrusts grow savage against her spanked backside in response—seemed like a thing worth ha
ving, in itself. Whatever it meant for some rosy future with love and gardens and children didn’t matter to her there, naked and submissive over the stool, used by men to make their penises feel good.
In that abasement she knew her real worth as beyond valuation. She knew it even as the idea that these lustful billionaires had set so high a price on her bodily service to their lewd, animal urges made her pussy burn and her clit ache more every time her owner drove it against the wooden top of the stool.
Mr. Serteau didn’t respond to Eric’s words about taking Helen home in so many words. He said, instead, in a voice that she could tell he meant to be dispassionate but was nonetheless thick with arousal and need for the release he sought inside her, “How’s that mouth for you? Is she being a good girl?”
Eric stroked her cheek and looked down into her upturned eyes. He smiled as he thrust deeply into Helen’s mouth and she had to use all her training to receive his huge length and thickness, so that the soft, wet, chucking sound of a well-fucked face emerged with each movement in and out, and she could breathe as he withdrew.
“Very good,” Eric said. “So very good.”
“Mrs. Foley trains her with a strap-on. Would you like to see?”
Something in Mr. Serteau’s tone seemed to suggest to Helen that he didn’t mean the offer in a casual way: her owner wanted to show Eric the way Helen received her lessons from the housekeeper.
“Eyes down, girl,” Mrs. Foley admonished her, from her left side. Helen couldn’t see the older woman, but she realized Mrs. Foley must be observing her conduct over the stool.
Helen dutifully lowered her eyes to Eric’s hairy lap, watching it come and go as he enjoyed her.
“No eye contact unless she’s told,” Mr. Serteau explained, his voice sounding slightly breathless. He gave a little grunt, and his thrusts grew more rapid, so that Helen cried out around the penis in her mouth at the way her whole backside burned. She felt an orgasm of her own building, from the fullness and the pressure of the stool as she was made to ride it by her owner’s driving cock. “I’m going to come in… just… a moment. And then… you can… have this sweet little cunt.”
Another grunt came from deep in her owner’s chest as his climax started to take hold, and his rhythm stuttered, jerked under the influence of his arousal as it reached its consummation.
“The slut is going to come, too,” Mrs. Foley observed dispassionately, and those words set Helen off: she writhed over the stool, waves of pleasure cascading through her, out from her pussy into her sore bottom and thighs, down to her toes and up her back.
Eric pulled his cock out of her mouth and stood pumping it in his hand. Helen had enough presence of mind even in that huge climax to feel grateful to him for that, even if not having her mouth full of hard penis at that moment seemed like a disappointment.
“Very nice,” said Mrs. Foley, as if she had just witnessed a display of equestrian dressage.
Mr. Serteau spoke again, his voice softer now, but no less arrogant, his cock now softening inside her. “Make her get the dildo ready in her mouth, while Lindgren fucks her cunt.”
Then Helen understood that the housekeeper had not waited for Eric’s approval of Mr. Serteau’s proposal, for the black dildo, jutting from Mrs. Foley’s harness, immediately confronted her. She kept her eyes down, opened her mouth with a little sob, and absorbed the familiar training device, recognizing its tastes of rubber and of her own wanton pussy that never quite went away when she washed it as Mrs. Foley made her do after every lesson.
“There, slut. There you go,” Mrs. Foley said softly, the way she sometimes did—making Helen wonder yet again whether the woman had an affection for her that she had never openly shown.
“Can we move her to the bed?” Eric asked, from somewhere behind her. At the same time he spoke, Helen felt his big hand come down gently on her bottom, to make her moan around the rubber phallus in her mouth.
No response came from Mr. Serteau or Mrs. Foley at first. Helen, doing her best to show Eric how well she could learn her lessons, wondered what looks might be passing among the three dominants clustered around the submissive over the stool. She wondered, too, what it meant to Eric to move her to the bed, and whether it meant the same thing to Mr. Serteau. These thoughts didn’t truly reach the level even of speculation, let alone cognition, for the three of them had spun Helen so very far up into the stratosphere of her submissive imagination. Nevertheless, she wondered, and that uncertainty seemed to make the gentle rubbing of Eric’s hand on her bottom relight the fire between her thighs with such terrible ardor that she couldn’t help riding the stool with her hips in a wanton motion that she meant to beg for a touch further down and further in.
The only thought in Helen’s mind that could be expressed as a rational idea, then, was, Please move me to the bed and fuck me, Eric. Please.
The bed meant something to Helen—that notion, too, floated through her mind. The bed was different from the stool because the bed meant home. Perhaps it didn’t represent Home with a capital H, the way people would talk about the word—how it was the place where they had to take you in, how it was where the heart is, how it was sweet. Helen hadn’t had one of those in years and years.
But the bed, where she slept in Mr. Serteau’s apartment, in her little room, did mean home to her. There, despite her indentured servitude and despite what the rest of the world might think of the dark lusts perpetrated on her, Helen had felt more herself than she had ever been before. She had this little room, and she had that bed with the soft sheets, and although Mr. Serteau and Mrs. Foley loved to do to her there things that would horrify the wives in the suburbs, those things made Helen happy—so happy that she would have done them even if she didn’t have a comfortable life awaiting her on the other side of her contract of indenture.
For Eric to fuck her in that bed… he had said he would take her home with him, hadn’t he? In her floating thoughts, all of them mingling together and getting hopelessly though really rather pleasantly mixed up, she thought suddenly that he must have meant this: he would take her to the bed, with him, and have her there, while Mr. Serteau watched.
But when her owner finally did respond, his words whirled all her thoughts round again, and Helen felt she should from that moment on simply feel the complicated pleasure of her submission, and wait to work it all out in her mind later.
“Well, Eric, if you are going to buy her, you’ll have to get used to calling the shots, won’t you? So, yes. Let’s move her to the bed.”
They laid Helen on her side, with Eric in front and Mrs. Foley behind, and they took her that way, along both paths at once, while Mr. Serteau, crouching over her at the head of the bed, enjoyed her mouth. She cried out when Eric entered her pussy, as gently as he could. She couldn’t tell whether it were a cry of joy or of pain at the return of his enormous manhood to the place she realized at that moment she felt must now belong to it.
Helen cried out again when Mrs. Foley prepared her anus, using more lube than Helen thought the housekeeper ever had, so that when the dildo slid inside her bottom, there really wasn’t much pain before, but only an extraordinary sensation of fullness, which only grew when her owner (her former owner?) presented his cock to her lips.
She had never been doubly penetrated down there before, let alone triply invaded, with a penis in her mouth as well. Somehow Eric’s decision that she should be, there on her bed, seemed to reinforce the strange idea that hadn’t really made its way into her conscious mind yet, that she would go home with him in a very different way, too: that she would now belong to him.
“Look how sweet she looks with all of us inside her,” said Mrs. Foley, moving the hard rubber slowly in Helen’s anus with an easy swing of her practiced hips. Now Helen definitely thought she could hear tenderness in the housekeeper’s voice. “It will be a shame to lose her. May I come train her for you sometime, Mr. Lindgren?”
Eric, too, was only thrusting softly inside Helen’s vagina, though t
he length and girth of his penis took Helen’s breath away with every stroke, and made it difficult to concentrate on pleasing Mr. Serteau. “Of course,” he said in voice whose deep rumble seemed to betray great pleasure in Helen’s tightness thanks to having Mrs. Foley’s dildo in her anus.
“You must bring her back to the Friday club, Lindgren,” said Mr. Serteau, bending his knees to fill Helen’s mouth with his familiar manhood at a more rapid pace than the two dominants further down the bed.
“Only if she wants,” Eric said, though it seemed the thought of sharing Helen with his colleagues and even with the waiter, once she belonged to him alone, excited him, for his motion inside her grew more urgent, and made Helen cry out around her (definitely former) owner’s cock.
That hard shaft suddenly left her mouth, though. “You may look at me, Helen,” Mr. Serteau said.
Helen looked up, breathing hard, knowing how wild her face must look with the overwhelming submissive pleasure they had visited upon her. She saw Mr. Serteau smiling down at her. Because he had gotten a good price for her? Helen wondered.
“I’m happy you’re going home with a man who values you properly,” Mr. Serteau said. “Mrs. Foley and I will have a new girl soon, I’m sure. In the meantime, Helen, do you think you’d like to go back to the Friday club, as Eric’s offering?”
Helen felt her eyes go wide as both Eric and Mrs. Foley stopped moving to hear her answer, their warm cocks—one pulsing with life, the other much wickeder because it wasn’t—buried deep, so that Helen didn’t think she had ever felt so full in her life.
A new home—perhaps a real home—awaited her, because of what had happened in that private dining room. She certainly hoped events wouldn’t unfold just that way again, but she had no doubt how to answer the question.
“Oh, yes.”
The End
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