Chapter Six
Eric had to confess that he liked this part of the Friday club tradition more than he thought he should. It wasn’t that he had any qualms about the erotic humiliation of a girl whom the degradation aroused as greatly as he could see it aroused Helen. A girl like the one Serteau had lent to his friends today had a right—and thus, Eric thought, also a duty—to undergo every debasing ordeal the cocks of dominant men could dream up.
He had a vague uneasiness, on the other hand, about how aroused it got him to share such girls, because he could sense that the subtle operation of his endowment upon other men gave him the kind of thrill that could, in the long run, make him less able to perceive the intentions of the people around him. He could feel the tug of a kind of addiction, he thought, as he watched Helen look his way while she assumed the position specified by Veau, on her back with her black-stockinged knees held open, just beyond his dessert plate so that he could dollop her pussy with custard and lick it off.
Knowing that he had had a special effect upon her—that he had in some sense established a certain claim upon her—with the unique character of his dominance that came from the sheer size of his manhood, intoxicated his reason. Eric could sense that if he gave into the feeling too often, he might find himself working not to understand others but to make them defer to him, with the sort of submissive deference in Helen’s nervous look before she opened her thighs for this humiliating ritual and then, charmingly, closed her eyes as Veau’s tongue and lips made her brow furrow with forced pleasure.
“Excellent cunt,” Veau proclaimed. “A rather floral bouquet, a little like a Riesling, actually, and well waxed by Mrs. Foley. The clit peeks out saucily when stimulated. Perfect coral pink color. Ninety-seven points. Helen, go open yourself for Mr. Klee.”
Around the table they passed her, each man offering his score and his notes as to the taste and appearance of Helen’s pussy. Klee gave it a ninety-five, noting that the Norwegian cunts had smelled a little more briny, a quality he enjoyed, but that Helen’s tightness could not be faulted. Ferrers awarded a ninety-six.
As Helen crawled across the table toward Eric, biting her lip, cheeks very red, her slightly dazed eyes looked into his, and he saw the questions he loved to see in a beautiful pair of blue eyes: What comes next? When will I feel your hardness inside me?
Yes, a danger lay there, but with Serteau’s girl, in her lacy bra and thigh-highs lying on her back and spreading her knees for him as she had already done for the other men, his hardness argued for the full enjoyment of his natural dominance, for today at least.
And her pussy and anus, waiting just the other side of the plate where his golden crème caramel—the dessert favored by the Friday club as pairing perfectly with young cunt—seemed the most perfect work of nature’s erotic art Eric had ever had the privilege to see. The petals of her private lips, outer and inner, spread just a little, so that the impression he received was of both daintiness—even demureness—and a hint of lasciviousness. The tiny dimple of her bottom-hole seemed to invite a naughty finger as preparation for a thrusting cock. Above, the wrinkly hood of Helen’s clit, just as Veau had said, disclosed the rosy sentinel just a little bit and made Eric’s mouth water.
“What do you think, Eric?” Ferrers asked. “Very fuckable, no?” Again Eric sensed the effect of physiology upon his fellow men. Ferrers’ tone—almost certainly without the man knowing it—acknowledged that the fucking of Helen would proceed with the club’s youngest member at the apex of the erotic pyramid.
“Very,” Eric said, and took a long sniff. Helen gave a little whimper at the sound—something she hadn’t done for any of the other three billionaires. But of course her pussy had now received teasing stimulation from three experienced tongues, now, and must be aching for release. “Yes, floral,” he pronounced. “Very pretty, Helen. You’ll be pleasant to fuck.”
Another whimper came from further up the table, where Eric could just see the way her adorable little nose twitched with the arousal that made her vagina give a charming contraction.
“Look at that,” he said. “What a sweet little clench. She needs it. You need it, don’t you, Helen?”
“Yes, sir,” she whispered, raising her chin a little as if with the idea of trying to see Eric’s face and then settling her head back when she understood that she must lie back and accept what he did.
“Put some custard on the cunt and taste it, my boy,” said Klee a little impatiently.
But Eric first liked to taste a girl’s pussy without the sweetness of the dessert. He leaned down, between her slim thighs, and flicked his tongue against her clit. Helen gave a cry that made the other men chuckle. Eric bent his neck a little further, then, and gave a long, slow lick from the lower end of Helen’s pussy all the way up to her clit, loving the tang of her girlish wetness. She moaned and arched her back, as if trying to yield more of her private places up for his attention.
Eric lifted his head, moving his tongue in his mouth as he would to savor a fine wine. “Ninety-eight,” he finally said. “I’ve never tasted a sweeter cunt, even without the crème caramel.”
He watched Helen’s pussy clench again at his words, and the involuntary motion of her vagina was accompanied with a little gasp of arousal. With his spoon he gathered just a very little of the custard, then placed it right above her clit. Helen breathed rapidly through her nose, in little pants, and then she gave a sharp cry as Eric used his whole open mouth to have that bite of his dessert and then, immediately, take her clit firmly between his lips and flick his tongue against it like a tiny lash.
Helen cried out, bucking her hips under his relentless stimulation. He felt her labia contract again and again under his tongue.
Ferrers let out a bark of laughter. “Eric! That’s not sporting!”
But Eric couldn’t hold himself back, now: he used his lewdest instincts to push the beautiful girl in the black bra and the thigh-high stockings right over the edge into her forbidden orgasm.
“Please…” Helen moaned. “Oh, please…”
The final tense motions arrived in her hips, her knees, her lovely pussy, and then she lay still as Eric lifted his head and wiped his mouth with his napkin.
“Gentleman,” he said, looking around at the other men. “I think have to raise my score to one hundred. That’s the sweetest cunt I have ever had the privilege to taste.”
Veau chuckled. ¨Well, at least you gave us a very good reason to spank her.” He turned to the waiter, who had stood by, watching lustfully, during the entire dessert course. ¨Would you please bring the paddle that’s hanging in the closet and give it to Mr. Klee over there?”
“Helen,” said Klee, once the long-bladed disciplinary implement with its stitched leather face had arrived in his hand. “Your friend the waiter will help you off the table now.”
“No,” Eric said, surprising himself with what felt like an outburst. “I’ll do that.” He looked over at the waiter, who for a moment wore a look of disappointment that almost made Eric pity the young man. Eric supposed he should feel bad for depriving the waiter of the chance to touch Helen again, especially since he intended not to allow the customary participation of the wait-staff in the gangbang at the end, but to take Helen straight to a hotel, hopefully alone. He didn’t, however, feel the sympathy he thought he should: the girl had taken hold of his mind and his heart so thoroughly that as he helped her gently from the table and led her over to Klee, he almost wanted to tell the other members of the club that he would pay them each a million dollars if they would end this meeting early and let Eric get on with the possession of Serteau’s girl for the remainder of the twenty-four hours stipulated in the club’s bylaws.
Klee had pushed his chair well back from the table, and spread his thighs in their dapper khaki suit pants into the position beloved by fathers punishing wayward daughters. He tapped the paddle on his left palm as Helen approached on hesitant feet. Eric tugged her forward very gently. Klee moved his left hand and patted his thigh. “Right here, young lady,” he said. “You were a very naughty girl to come just now, and you must pay the price.”
Eric wondered how frequently, if ever, Serteau disciplined his girl over his knee. The look of fear in Helen’s eyes made him think that perhaps despite the cane marks and what Serteau had said concerning his housekeeper’s strict disciplinary standards, an over-the-knee spanking held some sort of unaccustomed fear for Helen.
“Over Mr. Klee’s knee now, Helen,” he said in as gentle a voice as he could. “You know you need it.”
Such a wonderfully ambiguous thing to say: you know you need it. It could mean that Helen had actually been naughty to come, and must learn a lesson—when of course Eric had done everything he could to bring her to that wonderful climax. But it could also, and much more truly, mean that he wanted Helen to understand that Eric had a full comprehension of the mysteries of dominance and submission that most alpha males seemed unable to grasp.
Klee was about to spank the girl just because he liked to spank girls, and being a rich man and a member of this club, he would happily take the opportunity offered by Helen’s beautiful little bottom. Eric would spank Helen for much more complex reasons—though truth be told they had at their base the same liking for spanking girls. Atop that base, however, stood many tiers of desire—the craving to own a girl and to have her tell him she loved being owned; the yearning to find in a young woman’s heart the passions that complemented his own.
Helen made a little sound in her throat at Eric’s words that he thought might indicate that she felt it too—the thing that seemed to be happening between them—though it could also have been simple alarm at the sight of the black paddle and the waiting knee.
Klee decided the matter peremptorily, shifting the paddle to his left hand for a moment and then reaching out with his right arm to draw her the remaining half-step forward and to bend her over his thigh. Eric’s cock gave a little leap at the sight of the pretty backside upended, the little apples of her bottom creamy now but soon to be as red as befit the fruit they resembled held firmly in place when Klee closed his right thigh to keep her still for her punishment.
Helen gave a little cry of alarm, but Klee heeded it not at all, because he liked to punish just the way a strict daddy does, beginning the paddling immediately, fast and hard, to make it clear to the girl that the time for discipline has arrived. Helen yelped, cried out, begged, screamed, but Klee clearly intended to redden her helplessly squirming backside deeply and evenly with the paddle, in the shortest possible order.
“You do need it, you little slut. Yes. You. Do.” he said in a stern daddy voice. “And now you’re getting it. Take your paddling, slut. Take it. You won’t come again without permission, will you?”
Helen sobbed, her right arm long since gripped behind her back in Klee’s left and her bottom and thighs held fast over his knee.
Eric found the sight so arousing, and yet enraging, that he found it was all he could do to keep a smile on his face; his cock felt like an iron bar, and he regretted not having had Helen take him to orgasm in her mouth. His body’s need for hers seemed to burn from his cock into his chest, and he almost said something to stop the punishment, though he couldn’t tell whether he would have done so out of care for Helen or the terrible need he felt to fuck her.
Thankfully, Veau said, “Alright. I think that’s enough. Don’t you, Jean?”
With an air of reluctance Klee gave one final hard swat with the paddle.
“Alright, naughty girl,” he said. “You may stand up. It’s time for your fucking.”