Chapter Thirteen
It felt terribly strange to be in Mr. Lindgren’s lap, and it felt even stranger to have him apologize to her. Helen tried to imagine Mr. Serteau, or even Mrs. Foley, apologizing for fucking her peremptorily and hard, and found herself completely unable to conjure up the words her owner or his housekeeper might use. I’m sorry seemed to Helen a phrase that might actually not exist in their vocabularies.
She wondered what it meant for what this strange, compelling young man—younger by comparison to Mr. Serteau, though of course still several years older than Helen—would do. Would he stop, now? Would that be the end of I’m going to be very hard on you? She felt again the obscure sense of disappointment she had known at the restaurant, when Mr. Lindgren had declined to participate in the gangbang.
He kissed her hair. “I’m sorry,” he murmured again. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, sir,” Helen said into the golden fur of his chest.
“I wasn’t too big for you?”
That made Helen giggle, rather to her surprise. “No, sir. I’ll be a little sore, I think, but…”
“But what?” Mr. Lindgren asked, stroking her cheek.
“I liked it,” Helen confessed softly.
“You liked the way I fucked you?” His voice sounded surprised.
“Mm-hmm,” Helen murmured, too ashamed to give full voice to her assent.
Her reassurance had an immediate effect on Mr. Lindgren. His arms tightened around Helen, and he kissed the top of her head. His hands, which had been holding her waist and her shoulder with a light, affectionate grip, moved now, his right hand taking her bottom in its grasp and his left beginning to fondle her breasts. The feeling of arrogant possession seemed much more familiar to Helen than his apology, and she couldn’t suppress a grateful sigh as she understood that Mr. Lindgren would now proceed to the next part of his use of her, and that the idea that he would be hard on Mr. Serteau’s indentured concubine had reoccupied the forefront of his mind.
Helen’s sigh, in turn, seemed to awaken Mr. Lindgren to further notions of mastery over the girl on loan to him.
“You’d better kneel, then, and clean my cock with your mouth,” he said in a much more authoritative voice. “You got it messy in your cunt, didn’t you?” He accompanied the words by releasing Helen from his arms and spreading his muscular thighs so he could lower her to the floor.
Helen maneuvered herself onto her knees, eyes respectfully down and directed at Mr. Lindgren’s monstrous penis, not yet hard but still menacing and huge as it seemed to come to life in its nest of curls below his taut belly. She found herself breathing very hard at the lewd sight, yet again.
She could hardly believe it had been inside her, though she could smell, and see, her own arousal lingering on its head and its shaft, and she knew that when she took him in her mouth she would taste the now-familiar flavor of her pussy. Mrs. Foley fucked her with the strap-on and then made her clean the dildo with her tongue at least once a week, if not more, and Mr. Serteau liked to finish in Helen’s mouth with similar regularity, after using her between her legs.
When she had sucked his cock in the restaurant, Mr. Lindgren had kept his hands above the table, and Helen had been able to show him some of the skills she had learned from her owner and his housekeeper. Now, though, as if in keeping with the new way he had decided to treat her, after hearing she had liked the hard fucking over the ottoman, he twined his fingers in her long blonde hair and gave her no choice as to how to approach her service to him.
“Open that pretty mouth,” he said, rubbing her cheek against the length of his cock so that Helen felt the warmth of his body and even the pulse in the big vein that animated his manhood.
Everything happened so fast that despite her training in Mr. Serteau’s house Helen only parted her lips a little, intending to say yes, sir, before she bent to the task of pleasuring him. But Mr. Lindgren had his cock in his left hand and the back of Helen’s head in his right, and he moved her half-open mouth onto his hard penis now, and pushed her face down roughly, with a grunt of satisfaction.
The huge shaft rushed into Helen’s mouth, as she tried to open the back of her throat to receive him the way Mrs. Foley had taught her, and Mr. Serteau enjoyed so much. Mr. Lindgren made a noise in his throat that Helen thought must indicate pleasure, and held her head still, moving his hips on the sofa cushion to thrust in and out, using her mouth as he might use her pussy.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Oh, good girl. They’ve taught you well.”
Helen’s breath puffed in her nostrils as she worked to let him have his way, her jaw already aching from how wide she had to open her mouth just to let him inside and keep her teeth covered. She felt a rush of pride at his praise.
He murmured as he fucked her face in a steady rhythm now. “Does your cunt taste good, sweetheart? It tasted delicious in the restaurant. I’ll have some more, later, I think, after I fuck your ass and then clean you up in the tub.”
Helen’s training for Mr. Serteau had progressed far enough that she could give herself over to Mr. Lindgren’s control fully, listening to the wet sounds that came from her throat as the cock came and went as if they came from someone else’s body, and she could even pay a little attention to his dirty talk. The part of her that paid attention wondered at the remarkable change from his apology a few moments before, and the idea of that change sent a shiver through her whole body as Mr. Lindgren continued the relentless rhythm inside her mouth.
“I’m going to come soon, slut,” he said in a growl. “I’ll do it on your pretty face.” The cock traveled farther inside her mouth than it had yet, until his wiry pubic hair tickled Helen’s nose and his lap seemed her whole world. His hands gripped the back of her head more tightly, and he held himself in that way for a long moment as she concentrated, the way Mrs. Foley had taught her, on visualizing her throat muscles and being open there, so that the penis could have its way.
A satisfied rumble seemed to shake Mr. Lindgren’s whole body as he pulled back out, and lifted Helen’s head from his enormous manhood at last. He kept his right hand in her hair, but he moved the left one to his cock and began to pump it rapidly, little grunts from his chest keeping time with the rhythm of the self-pleasure.
“Watch,” Mr. Lindgren growled. “Eyes open.”
He held her head only an inch from his long, thick cock, so that she couldn’t have looked anywhere else, and truly she would never have thought of closing her eyes because his hard penis held such fascination for her. His hand was very big, but even so the red shaft seemed almost too thick for his fingers to get around. Each stroke up to the head with its tiny eye, glistening with pre-come, seemed to travel a great distance, from the hairy base of his cock to the fluted head.
The rhythm slowed, jerked, and Mr. Lindgren grunted, his fingers tightening their grip in Helen’s hair, and then she saw the seed spurt out, and now unstoppable instinct made her close her eyes as she felt the warm stuff spatter on her forehead, her nose, her lips. She opened her eyes only a moment later, though, when his grip relaxed at last, to see him still pumping his cock, though more slowly, as the size of it began to decrease in his hand.
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.