Chapter Ten
Eric realized at that moment that he had never actually had a girl to himself like this. A lingering doubt had persisted in his mind, as he entered city society, about the real benefits of owning a concubine: after all, he had fucked several society girls just as he pleased, though they had not found it as enjoyable as he had. What would the fun be of having an indentured girl, who had to do exactly as she was told? The sheer reliability of the pleasure would, Eric had suspected, inevitably lead to boredom.
Now, with Helen on loan to him, bent over the ottoman and ready for him to pleasure her or punish her according to his whim, Eric understood. The girl represented a true possession: a treasure that a wealthy man could display and use, and even debase, to demonstrate his enjoyment of all that he had acquired.
The impulse that had made him say I’m going to be very hard on you swelled inside him quite literally, stiffening his cock in his trousers almost painfully. You could be hard on a possession, especially a marvelous one like this girl, whose body would soon recover from the soreness occasioned even by a cock like his, and even from a stern paddling like the one Klee had administered. Being hard on her that way showed that you knew as well as the next billionaire—as well as Serteau—how to take your pleasure.
He would use Helen several times in each of her beautiful holes, and he would punish her several times, too, simply for the cock-stiffening thrill of making her cry out as she felt his discipline. Eric would indeed leave her very sore; she would walk back into Serteau’s apartment in delicate little steps, wincing with each one.
But a different set of thoughts stirred inside him, too, as he heard Helen moan beneath the hand into which he had taken her pretty little bottom. He had wrung the moan from her chest by skillfully concentrating the pressure of his circling fingers close to her clit. Now he eased off there, and rubbed her whole bottom more gently, fondling the creamy little cheeks and the slim thighs that still bore the faint traces of her owner’s cane, though the crimson color of the paddling had gone away.
“Tell me about where you come from, Helen,” he said. “Did you grow up in the city?”
Eric knew that men like Serteau—and Serteau represented as perfect an example of the type as he could imagine—would never ask even his own concubine that sort of question. He felt sure that Helen’s owner had no idea at all where she had come from; as long as the indenture center had cleared her for possession by a man able to pay, Serteau would take a certain pride in knowing nothing about her beyond the tightness of her cunt and her developing skill at taking a man’s hard penis deep in her throat.
“What?” Helen whispered. She turned her head back over her shoulder to look at him in confusion, and then immediately turned it back to the floor. Serteau clearly punished her for looking him in the eye. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, her voice fearful now. “It’s just that I didn’t understand. Please don’t whip me.”
“Are you whipped for that, in Mr. Serteau’s residence?” Eric asked, not to learn anything he hadn’t already discerned but to see where the conversation would take them. With his left hand, he smoothed all of her long flaxen hair to fall on the right side of her neck, as she trembled a bit at his touch. He kept rubbing her little cheeks, but kept also resisting the temptation to move back to pleasuring her more intently.
“Yes, sir,” Helen said. “But if I acknowledge the mistake sometimes I’m not.” She made a little whimpery sound in her throat, then, seemingly half pleasure and half frustration. “Please, sir. What did you mean about where I’m from?”
Eric smiled. “I meant it just the way it sounded. I’d like to know about you.” He couldn’t blame the girl for finding it strange, and he still didn’t feel sure himself why he had decided to pursue the matter. Something in the idea of owning her for this one night had motivated a desire to possess her in a way the man to whom she had indentured herself would never do, perhaps.
“I’m… I’m not from the city. I grew up in the suburbs.” Helen’s voice suddenly sounded dreamy, as if she had given into this whim of Eric’s now—as if some part of his strange impulse had found a receptive part of her own mind.
The news of her suburban origin surprised him. His first urge was to say, What happened? It represented the obvious question, because suburban girls didn’t end up at the indenture center without a major reversal of fortune. Eric had expected her to say either, yes, she had grown up in the vast poorer districts of the city where service workers lived, or that she had migrated with the help of the corporate labor-flow transports from the agricultural regions from which cybernetic farming had driven so many families. To grow up in the suburbs meant that by birth Helen belonged to Eric’s own social class—though of course class didn’t exist in corporate society any more than it had existed in the liberal capitalist society that had preceded it, which was only, Eric knew, to say that you weren’t allowed to state the obvious.
He didn’t want to be so abrupt, though, because whatever had happened could only be a painful memory for Helen. He also realized that he had nearly killed the erotic mood. The urge to make the girl feel good that had started in a dominant’s desire to demonstrate his power over a pretty woman’s body changed now, taking on additional significance, becoming also a need to comfort her—to give her pleasure that might make her forget that she belonged to the sort of man who would loan her to his friends for a day and a night.
An idea occurred to him, to bridge the gap at least for a little while. “Growing up there,” he asked softly, “did you know that you needed to be a concubine some day?”
“N-no?” Helen stammered. Her head twitched, as if she had to fight the impulse to turn and look at him again. “I didn’t even know that concubines existed.”
“When did you find out?” Eric began to concentrate his fingers’ work again on the wonderful place where thigh met bottom-cheek, and the tender crease led inward to the velvet sheath where he meant, so soon, to put his cock—but not yet. First things first: the beautiful submissive girl he had seen gangbanged must be made to come, again, under his dominant touch. She must be rewarded, and taught to crave the mastery of the man to whom her owner had loaned her.
He rubbed firmly, in a two-fingered circle, loving the way her smooth skin yielded and pressed back against his lewd caress. Helen responded with a sweet little whimper of erotic need that made Eric’s heart skip a beat and his cock give a tiny leap in his pants.
“When I turned eighteen,” Helen murmured. The story came out almost in a rush, and Eric had the sense that she had told it to herself many times without having anyone else with whom to share it. “We had moved to the city, after my father got arrested, and so I took the tests at the indenture center, when my corporate high school referred me there. They took a few girls aside and brought them to a special room for an inspection.”
Eric had heard of these inspections, and even seen a video of one, at another man’s house. Wealthy executives could easily get hold of them, and some collected their favorites—as well, of course, as owners of concubines receiving a copy of their prospective girls’ inspection and defloration videos. The videos helped them decide on the purchase and represented a perk of being part of the ownership program, for which men like Serteau had to pay a steep membership fee just to have the right to buy girls like Helen.
“What was the inspection like?” Eric asked nevertheless, wanting to hear about it from her perspective. His fingers moved inward, and found Helen very wet, just as he had hoped. Gently he began to spread her arousal forward, to make her delicate inner petals and her rosy clit slick with the musky private liquor a girl makes to ease a man’s passage inside her.
Helen gave a whimper. “We had to take off our clothes,” she said, “and they strapped us down to examination tables, even though they made us sign something saying we had willingly entered the concubine program as… probationers, I think they called it.”
“That’s right,” Eric said. “They strapped you down in case you tried to get away before they demonstrated to you why you needed to be there—and also as part of that demonstration. Did any of the girls resist?”
“No,” Helen whispered. “I… I kind of th-thought about it, b-but…”
Eric’s naughty fingers ran up and down the length of her sweet pussy, now, pressing firmly at her clit with each forward movement. Helen’s hips moved helplessly in time with his caress, and she gripped the ottoman more and more firmly as the tiny moans came from her chest. Her head hung low, and Eric thought he could tell that that submissive posture echoed in the present the memory he had called up in her from the past.
“But you could already tell,” he said softly. “You could already tell you needed it.”
Her head seemed to sink another half inch, the golden locks stirring on her right shoulder and seeming to catch a gleam from the sunset rays filtering now into the gilded honeymoon suite. “Yes, sir,” she whispered.
“Like you need this.” His fingers worked upon her clit, then around it, and Helen cried out.
“Yes, sir.”
“Come for me, sweetheart,” he said. “Come for me right now. Show me how good a girl you’re going to be for my cock.”
She gave a long, long moan, and she came, almost as soon as he had finished speaking. The orgasm, despite its quickness of arrival, went on and on, her beautiful bottom clenching and her hips bucking, her head thrown back now. Eric gave her no quarter, knowing that Serteau’s Mrs. Foley would certainly have brought out Helen’s multi-orgasmic capacity. He kept rubbing, gently pushing his thumb inside her to find her g-spot as well, and making her wail with the suddenly renewed, and now relentless, pleasure.
If she could have spoken, then, he would have asked about her defloration, which the indenture center separated from the main part of a girl’s service, and which new girls in the program had whether or not their hymens were intact. The policy simplified matters by presuming that every new concubine needed the experience of a first night with a dominant man to introduce her to the full scope of her submissive needs. Deflowering a new concubine didn’t cost anywhere near as much as buying her indenture contract, and so selling girls’ prima nocte privilege also served as a way to cultivate the market for concubine ownership.
As Helen came, and came again, over the ottoman, though, he couldn’t help picturing her in the little rooms at the center where girls stayed while they waited to be told who had chosen them for a life of luxurious, if shameful, service. Dressed only in white bra and panties, her mind still in a turmoil from the inspection, she sat on the little bed, until the door opened and a man in a bathrobe stepped inside.
It would not have been Xavier Serteau, but Eric pictured him nonetheless, for it certainly would have been a man like him, with an arrogant face and a crisp manner that showed he was accustomed to getting what he wanted.
Had he comforted her, before he told her to bend over the bed, and had taken her panties down? Men who deflowered the new concubines, who were fitted with IUDs at the end of their inspection, were permitted to come twice inside the girls. One of them must be in her vagina, to rupture the hymen if it were intact; the other might, after a wash which the man was permitted to require of the girl, be in her mouth. The anus was off-limits, since owners had a strong preference for training a girl there thoroughly before making use of that path of pleasure, so as not to frighten her with regard to bottom-sex.
Had the man who deflowered Helen taken his second climax in her pussy, or had he made her wash him, and then suck him? For some reason, as he brought Helen to her third orgasm, Eric found that the question made a difference. He wanted, he found, to know everything about her submission. Something in his mind told him that the urge had a dangerous quality to it—that something had begun to happen in his heart that he needed to examine—but feeling the beautiful young woman in the black bra and stockings come under his fingers, he had no intention of counting the cost, just at the moment.