Chapter Sixteen
Serteau did come back to the city the following afternoon, ignoring his wife’s wrath. When he arrived at 12:30, Helen had only been back in Mrs. Foley’s keeping for half an hour.
“Mr. Lindgren brought her back on the stroke of noon,” the housekeeper told him tartly as she took his coat in the foyer of the sumptuous apartment. “I sent her straight to her room with instructions to think about what she had done.”
What she had done. A very nice touch from Mrs. Foley’s artistic side, Serteau thought.
“How did the girl react?” he asked, curious.
“Oh, she gave me one of her slutty looks, as if to say, Who, me? Get myself fucked all night and all morning by a man I don’t belong to?” Mrs. Foley gave a little sneer. Sometimes Serteau felt a little anxiety that the woman believed in the haughty superiority she pretended over his concubines—her designation of them as sluts while she inhabited a realm of ethereal virtue. Over-the-top performance or not, though, Mrs. Foley knew how to add an irreplaceable, piquant element to Serteau’s mastery of his girls.
“Have you inspected her yet?”
“I was just about to, Mr. Serteau. I did make it clear that she could expect a long session over the spanking stool, though. She gave me some nonsense about Mr. Lindgren being to blame for all the fucking she’s clearly had, but I could see the look in her eye just as well as I could see that she was walking funny from taking his cock so many times. She loved playing the whore, and now she’s going to pay for her cunt’s illicit pleasures.”
Mrs. Foley delivered this wonderful little speech in a manner that seemed to mingle the professor with the matron. The four-letter words she employed rolled from her tongue as if daring the listener to find her judgment anything but temperate, just, and even clean—in that although Mrs. Foley had to stoop to using language one might hear in the street, nevertheless she did so only in order to characterize a whore’s conduct in no uncertain terms and without any covering of refined utterance.
Serteau nodded. “I’ll watch the inspection from my office,” he said. “After you spank her I’ll come in for a fuck.”
Yes, that would do nicely: a good hard fuck, in Helen’s cunt and in her mouth, would restore the balance that Eric Lindgren had upset. He would have hell to pay in the suburbs, but his need for Helen—for her restoration to his list of assets, his collection of treasures—would not brook containment. He would fuck his sweet girl after her spanking, then go back out for the reception at the country club. Perhaps he would cane Helen tomorrow night, too, after returning to the city, just to remind her to whom her ass belonged.
“Very well, sir,” said Mrs. Foley. “I know she’ll be grateful that you deign to put your cock in her after what she did. Or she should be, at any rate.”
Serteau almost said something by way of an objection at that point. The idea that Helen was at fault for her night with Lindgren appealed to an atavistic side of his nature, but so did the notion that he, her owner, had loaned her to his friends for fucking just as they pleased. He also felt a twinge of sympathy for Helen herself, who must hear herself accused by Mrs. Foley of an intent of which she hadn’t been guilty.
But when one had a housekeeper like Mrs. Foley, with a flair for increasing both dominant and submissive pleasure, one let her follow her instincts, and expressed one’s gratitude.
“Thank you, Mrs. Foley,” he said, and walked down the hall to his study, where he called up the video-monitoring software on his desktop display just as the housekeeper entered Helen’s room.
Helen lay curled up on her bed, clutching a pillow, her eyes, previously closed now opening to see the older woman come in without knocking. She still wore the dress in which Serteau had brought her to the private dining room the day before. The question of where her panties were now located came into his mind, and he dismissed it. Lindgren had them, and he could keep them. Serteau had the girl.
He had expected that she would look disheveled and in some gratifying way lost—demonstrating in her appearance and manner that to return to her owner’s residence represented the greatest comfort she could know, after her ordeal. He had expected that she would also have fear on her face, as she contemplated going over the spanking stool to have the bottom that Lindgren had fucked, perhaps several times, given its just and painful reward to atone for the pleasures of the honeymoon suite.
Instead, Helen looked calm, and her eyes seemed far away and unreadable. Serteau wondered for a moment if Mrs. Foley’s talk of her night with Lindgren being the girl’s fault—of her sluttish nature making her enjoy her service to another man too much—might have some merit. The animal part of Serteau’s nature seemed to declare that the girl should look sorry for the way the other men had used her in the restaurant, and for the way her beauty had caused a young man with an enormous cock to take her to a honeymoon suite for a night of passion.
“Get up and take off your clothes, slut,” Mrs. Foley said, turning on the light. “I’m going to inspect you now.”
Helen bit her lip, her brow furrowing, as she lay there, looking up at the woman responsible for ensuring she remained pleasing to her owner. She gave a little nod, chin moving against the white fabric of the pillowcase, and moved slowly to obey.
Serteau couldn’t see Mrs. Foley’s face on the monitor, whose camera angle rested on Helen, but he heard in the housekeeper’s voice a note of anger when she spoke again, as if Mrs. Foley, too, found Helen’s demeanor remarkable.
“Faster, whore. You were quick enough to get out of your clothes for those other men’s cocks, weren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Helen said meekly. Her tone had nothing of defiance in it, but it made Serteau frown nonetheless: it seemed somehow not to matter to the girl that Mrs. Foley had accused her so unjustly of betraying her duty to her owner. She stood, unzipped her dress, and let it fall, revealing the thigh-high stockings and the lacy bra, and, of course, the lack of panties.
“And what happened to your underwear, slut?” Mrs. Foley asked. “I suppose you gave it to one of your lovers.”
That drew a little whimper from Helen, whose eyes, which had seemed to fix on the crown molding of her lovely little bedroom, fell to Mrs. Foley’s feet.
“Yes, ma’am. Eric has my panties.”
Eric?
“Eric, whore? Are you on a first name basis with the man who used your body to make his cock feel good?”
Serteau could see even over the imperfect video feed that Helen hadn’t meant to call Lindgren by his first name, and that having done so distressed her. For a moment he thought she would beg Mrs. Foley’s and, by extension, his own forgiveness, but then, her gaze still cast downward, she said, “He told me to call him that last night. Ma’am.”
No hint of contradiction entered her voice, but she spoke so slowly and distinctly—and the contrast of her provoking semi-nakedness with her dignified words was so great—that the effect of her words almost amounted to rebellion.
Mrs. Foley spoke again, and Serteau felt sure the housekeeper had narrowed her eyes almost to slits before uttering the first words, in a tone that suggested she had found in Helen a challenge worthy of her considerable skill.
“We’ll see if you still want to call him by his first name after I’m through disciplining you, whore. Get the rest of your underwear off and get ready for inspection.”
Helen received regular inspections from Mrs. Foley, especially with regard to determining whether it were time to wax her between her legs and her bottom-cheeks. The basic notion of evaluating a girl’s suitability for her duties as a sexual servant had always appealed to Serteau, but his housekeeper brought it to the level almost of a fine art.
He felt a little troubled in mind at Helen’s use of Lindgren’s first name, but he remained resolved to have her soundly spanked by Mrs. Foley, and then to fuck her hard, as the best way to begin to restore her to her place. The idea that he should cane her tomorrow, though, had gained a good deal of strength. Twelve pretty red stripes to scream about as they landed, and then to look at in the mirror, should make her forget the size of Lindgren’s cock.
Helen’s inspections began with her hands atop her head, and her feet a little more than shoulder width apart, so that Mrs. Foley, having donned blue latex gloves for the purpose, could circle the girl’s beautiful form and touch whatever part of her body she liked.
Her eyes still fixed on the carpet, Helen bit her lip as she felt the familiar but always humiliating touch of the gloved hands on her breasts, palpating the little mounds and then toying with the nipples.
“Did Mr. Lindgren do this, slut?” the housekeeper asked in a dispassionate tone. “Did he enjoy your sweet little titties?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Helen answered with a little sob. The composure and detachment she had shown when Mrs. Foley had first entered seemed to have gone away.
“Did it feel good?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The housekeeper’s left hand remained at Helen’s chest, but her right traveled downward and took rough hold of the girl’s pussy, so that she cried out.
“And here? How many cocks were in this wet little cunt yesterday? How many penises had a fuck here, where I can feel your shame even through my glove?”
The implication in her tone, that Helen had begged to be allowed to receive those cocks, aroused Serteau despite—or perhaps even because of—its injustice. Yes, she must be spanked hard today, and I must cane her tomorrow.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” Helen sobbed.
Mrs. Foley kept up the probing of her fingers. Helen swayed a little, and her hips bounced as she gave in to the rough stimulation.
“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?”