Chapter Eighteen
Eric thought he could see Serteau’s logic. To show Helen to him this way, over the stool, would make it absolutely clear that Eric—who Serteau obviously considered to be romantically infatuated with his concubine—couldn’t give her what she truly deserved and needed. Only a man like Serteau, he seemed to think, could dispassionately administer the cruel, illogical-in-every-way-except-the-way-of-lust treatment a girl like the one now crying out with each blow from Mrs. Foley’s long wooden spoon, with its blade the size of her hand, needed.
Eric wondered, with a little gratitude mingled into the wonder, at the fact that Serteau had given him enough credit to understand that the younger man’s role in the scene unfolding in Helen’s little bedroom couldn’t and shouldn’t just be to rescue her. Of course, Eric thought a little bitterly, Serteau might simply be relying on the indenture laws to ensure that if Eric did decide to take the foolish step of rescuing the concubine, the police would bring her right back and arrest the younger man in the bargain.
On the whole, though, he thought that the billionaire investment banker did respect his junior colleague’s dominant instincts enough to trust Eric to see in Helen’s terrible spanking for the night in the honeymoon suite what Serteau wanted to show him. The girl over the stool needed this: she stood on the balls of her feet, gripped the bottom rung of the stool hard, and furnished her backside for the housekeeper’s stern chastisement.
And all because of Eric: he had, in effect, put her over the stool to have her pretty little bottom turned red—and even, now, purple in some of the spots to which Mrs. Foley attended with her cruel kitchen implement.
Serteau spoke, after Mrs. Foley had struck, and Helen had cried out, three times.
“Do you see, my boy, what you have done with that monstrous cock of yours?”
The housekeeper had slowed her pace greatly at the entry of the men, so that Serteau’s words emerged into silence, but Helen gave a whimper at them almost as if another swat had landed on her well-punished rear end.
Eric remained silent, his brain whirling. He still hadn’t fully recovered from the moment in the limousine when so many crazy ideas of running away with Helen had occurred to him, but he had been able only to thank her—let alone the moment on the phone when instead of proposing some exorbitant price that Eric would simply have paid and then decided what to do with the girl afterward, Serteau had invited him over.
He needed time to think, and it didn’t seem as if he would get it. The sight of Helen being spanked by Mrs. Foley had certainly affected him, if not in the way he thought Serteau had expected. He needed to know more, however, about what Helen’s owner thought Eric should be thinking and feeling, before he could see how to emerge from the scene victorious.
Serteau obliged him, clearly unable to keep himself from expatiating—in an almost avuncular tone—on the subject of his greater knowledge and experience of dominating pretty young submissive women.
“Helen would have been punished at any rate, simply because she needs to feel that her shameful erotic pleasures have a price. That’s just the sort of girl she is.”
Well, there’s nothing particularly revelatory there, Eric thought sourly. He, too, saw the value of spanking a girl for her arousal, as natural, good, and marvelous as female arousal truly was.
Mrs. Foley brought the spoon down hard on Helen’s right bottom-cheek with a crack that made Eric’s cock leap. Helen cried out, her neck arching and her golden hair threshing around her face, and he stiffened even further. Clearly Mrs. Foley stood in agreement with both men about the benighted but erotically rewarding idea of punishing girls for sexual pleasure.
“But she called you Eric, this morning,” Serteau said, then, with timing that Eric himself couldn’t help admiring. “Which I’m sure she wouldn’t have done if your cock hadn’t caused her mind and her cunt to stray from their duty—as well as your thoughtlessness in telling her, apparently, that she might call you that.”
Another stroke from the spoon, and another cry from Helen. If Eric thought his brain were in a whirl before, that he had needed more time, now he felt that he might not be able to puzzle out what he should do even if Serteau had given him hours before he spoke again, with even more terrible words.
“So I’ve brought you here to watch me fuck her, and to hear her cry out under my cock, small though it is in comparison to yours. I’m not going to sell her to you, but I also don’t want you under some illusion that you can hang around like a puppy dog and Helen will be yours someday. I want you to hear in my slut’s cries that even Eric Lindgren’s horse cock can’t make my concubine any less mine.”
Serteau began to unfasten his belt. Helen gave a little whimper at the sound, and Eric thought the ambiguous sound must mean that her owner often whipped her with his belt—though he realized, with a bitter taste in his mouth, that it could be that Helen whimpered at the knowledge that Serteau’s cock would soon be inside her, whether the whimper meant fear or erotic craving.
The billionaire’s khaki trousers dropped to the floor, his boxer shorts inside them. He ripped off his blue polo shirt with a single fluid motion to reveal a strikingly fit body. His cock, held in his right hand jutted out a respectable seven inches at least, Eric noted. Mrs. Foley stepped back.
“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.”