Chapter Fifteen
Helen wasn’t allowed to come before anal sex. An orgasm was something she might earn for pleasing Mr. Serteau with her bottom, but he and Mrs. Foley had spoken to her very clearly on the matter.
“When Mr. Serteau fucks your bottom, slut,” Mrs. Foley had said one afternoon as she readied the black strap-on dildo to take Helen anally herself, “he wishes it to be very clear that he is not interested in your pleasure. You are a tight little hole for him to enjoy, and nothing more.”
Helen, over her spanking stool to receive the housekeeper’s rigorous training, had looked back at her stern taskmistress, clad only in the strap-on harness and the black bustier she always wore when punishing or teaching Mr. Serteau’s concubine, magnificent in her terrible authority. She had had no idea why, but knowing that her own pleasure didn’t matter to the man who used her excited her urgently, between her legs where she knew Mrs. Foley would pay her no attention now.
Then Helen had cried out as the dildo entered, Mrs. Foley crouching over her charge to impale the little bottom with her artificial cock. By that time the housekeeper had already widened Helen enough that the concubine could accept several minutes of hard anal fucking from her owner without him having any trouble entering, or needing to fear he would harm her, though she was still sore afterward.
The confirmation of Mrs. Foley’s words, she had realized as the dildo moved in and out, while Helen did her best to stay open just as she had been taught, lay in Mr. Serteau’s apparent pleasure in the discomfort he left behind. When Helen did receive the reward of an orgasm, for her anal service, it was because her owner, after coming in her bottom, lingered on the bed, watching his seed trickle from her little rose, rubbing her there firmly to make her cry out.
He would tsk, almost affectionately, and say, “Does my girl need to come?”
Helen would whimper, “Yes, sir.”
Then, with his other hand, much as Mr. Lindgren was doing now, he would start to rub her clit, and Helen would come very quickly, trying not to think about the paradox of her arousal at being used without any thought for her own enjoyment.
It had vexed her, a little, then, and it vexed her now in the honeymoon suite with Mr. Lindgren. She didn’t think she should find the consolation she did in telling herself that it didn’t matter—that she belonged to Mr. Serteau and she must lend even her body’s most private place to his enjoyment. That solution had seemed inadequate in Mr. Serteau’s apartment and it seemed even less satisfactory now, when confronted by Mr. Lindgren’s very different approach.
The pressing problem was that she felt sure—whether because of Mrs. Foley’s training or because of her own innate, complicated desires—she would be severely punished for the orgasm, and the idea of that terrible lesson from Mr. Serteau’s cane made the climax even stronger. As she writhed under Mr. Lindgren’s fingers, feeling him prepare her for his own enormous cock, she saw herself bent over the bed in her room at her owner’s residence, receiving cut after cut, as she screamed her penitence, for letting this other man pleasure her before he fucked her bottom.
“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 his cock.