Chapter Seven
It hurt as much as Mr. Serteau’s cane ever had. Mrs. Foley’s wooden spoon had its own special sting that always made Helen very sorry for whatever small infraction her owner’s housekeeper had decided to punish her for, but this paddle combined that sting with a sort of heaviness that made Helen feel sure she would have marks to look at in the mirror tomorrow, for Mr. Serteau to caress and murmur over when he came to her bed.
And Mr. Klee had paddled so hard, too, holding her firmly in place so that Helen could hardly squirm at all. It had seemed to go on and on, so long that all memory of its cause, the orgasm that she hadn’t been able to stop and for which she still couldn’t blame Mr. Lindgren, finally vanished into the agony of her punished bottom. She had tried to keep the climax from coming, but in the end the feeling of Mr. Lindgren’s skillful tongue, the knowledge of the humiliation, and above all the memory of how enormous his cock had felt in her mouth, flung her over the cliff of pleasure—and now she felt she paid a price that indicated just how uncontrollable, how out of line was that much ecstasy between her legs.
Helen knew men—at least men such as these, and such as Mr. Serteau—liked to spank girls, and she suspected that they would do it even without any cause at all. Hadn’t Mr. Klee announced he would spank her before she had even committed the infraction of yielding to the orgasm under Mr. Lindgren’s oral caresses? She knew that the idea that she must learn such a harsh lesson over Mr. Klee’s knee in correction of her illicit pleasure had no true disciplinary element… but she still felt somehow, as she imagined Mr. Lindgren looking on at the terrible spanking, that she had earned it, and she felt sorry that she hadn’t paid attention to what these wealthy man had said about how she must control herself if she wanted to earn their favor and the reward of pleasure they had promised.
That feeling, as she rose now, weeping, holding her bottom because she couldn’t help it, rubbing to try to smooth away a little of the smart, began to change now. It mutated in the subtle way it always seemed to do whether the one punishing her was Mrs. Foley or Mr. Serteau or this group of powerful men who frightened Helen so. She wanted to show the ones who had taught her the lesson that she had learned it thoroughly: she burned not only in back but also now in front.
She burned for Mr. Lindgren, though she had, she supposed, the most reason to fear him and even to resent him, for making her come and causing her to go over Mr. Klee’s knee.
“Take your hands away, Helen,” said Mr. Ferrers sternly. “We want to see that little bottom. Hands on your head.”
“Yes,” added Mr. Veau. “Go put your nose in the corner, Helen, and put your hands on your head as Mr. Ferrers asked.”
Helen fixed her eyes on the carpet, feeling her brow furrow very deeply. She shuffled to the corner to which Mr. Veau had pointed. Mrs. Foley gave her corner time after Helen’s spankings over the housekeeper’s stool, so she knew the humiliation intimately, but the idea that Mr. Lindgren’s eyes were among those that now inspected Mr. Klee’s disciplinary handiwork made the burning in her pussy and the beating of her heart so strong that her knees seemed unsteady beneath her.
“Nice work, Jean,” said Mr. Lindgren, and a thrill went through Helen’s whole body. “Serteau will have some pretty bruises to admire tomorrow.” She couldn’t suppress a pitiful sob at that.
“Shh, sweetheart,” said Mr. Ferrers. “Our cocks will make it all better now.”
Mr. Klee chuckled. “Even Mr. Lindgren’s. A girl like you needs a cock that big to be truly satisfied, doesn’t she?”
Helen wondered with a terrible urgency what Mr. Lindgren himself thought about that idea. She felt the wetness between her thighs flow at the terrible notion, as the pain from her bottom began to lessen and to make its way forward in what felt like a glowing strand of warmth.
Part of her cried out in protest, denied even the idea that a man like Mr. Klee could know what a girl like her needed. But hadn’t the very first mention one of them had made about Mr. Lindgren’s cock sent an electric current crackling along her skin, focusing its current between her legs?
She heard furniture being moved behind her now; it sounded as if someone were pushing the big table to the side, with its chairs.
“Right there, please,” said Mr. Veau. Some other piece of furniture was placed with a slight thud. “Perfect, thank you.”
“Helen,” said Mr. Ferrers, “turn around, please, and come over here to this special table.”
With her hands still atop her head, Helen turned to see that the special table was actually something in between a table and a bench, its length and width being more like a coffee table, its padded leather-covered surface and its two-foot height more like a bench.
“Get on it on your hands and knees,” said Mr. Klee. “Right now.”
Her hands unclasped from one another, then hovered to either side of her head like a gesture of surrender in a police story. The men had taken off their clothes, even though the waiter remained, of course, in his white coat and the rest of his clothing. Clearly these men had enough leisure time to take care of themselves: their bodies were all quite fit. Mr. Lindgren, though, took her breath away: the suggestion of a six-pack at his abdomen made her feel a little faint, and when she looked down to see the nine inches of hard cock he took no effort to conceal, Helen’s heart skipped a beat.
He stepped forward, and she couldn’t help quailing back a little despite the way the desire in her tummy, and down below her tummy, had started to rage so high that she didn’t know why she hadn’t already run to the table and done as they had commanded. Mr. Lindgren reached out his hand, and spoke softly despite the threat in his words—as if the threat weren’t actually the relevant part of the message.
“You don’t want us to have to report you to Mr. Serteau, do you, Helen? You’d be punished, wouldn’t you, for not doing as we say?”
“Yes,” Helen whispered. “He’s very strict with me.”
She didn’t know, really, why she had had the urge to confide in handsome, young, hugely endowed Mr. Lindgren about her owner’s strictness, but she suddenly wanted him to know exactly how harshly Mr. Serteau punished disobedience. It felt almost as if Mr. Lindgren might do to her what he intended now to do with a sort of mindfulness of what a good girl Helen had learned to be for a man who liked to fuck pretty young women, because when she disobeyed or disrespected the man who owned her, the cane rose and fell upon her bottom until she learned her lesson—as if when the huge penis entered her it would find out her secrets and Mr. Lindgren would see that a strict owner represented exactly what a girl like Helen needed, to make her body pleasurable for a powerful man to use.
As if he, the owner of that enormous cock, needed to understand that Helen required a firm hand to keep her obedient to the demands of a dominant man’s bed.
“Then you should come over to the table,” Mr. Lindgren said. “It’s time for us to fuck you.”
She bit her lip, and watched her little hand move to allow him to enclose it in his big one—though, a part of her noted, the old idea about the size of hands and penises going together couldn’t be completely true, because then his hands would have been the size of platters, rather than of dinner plates. She felt her feet moving slowly under her, the mere sight of the four cocks awaiting her causing the feeling of floating to return that she had known under the table. The burning of her backside had subsided, but the discomfort there as she moved forward reminded her that she had been punished, but perhaps they might still reward her if she did her best on the table.
Mr. Klee, Mr. Veau, and Mr. Ferrers closed in around Helen as she approached the table, whose top had just enough room for her, so that when she had placed herself atop it both her mouth and her backside would be freely available at the proper height for their enjoyment. When she finally climbed up onto it, and got on hands and knees as Mr. Klee had commanded, they stood surrounding her, with Mr. Veau’s cock right before her face. She looked up, into his eyes, and he stroked her cheek.
“Good girl. Eyes down. Don’t look us in the eye unless we tell you to. Give her a spank for that, Jacob.”
Mr. Ferrers, to her left, brought his hand down on Helen’s bottom, right in the middle, making her cry out.
She looked down at the cock, her face reddening. Mr. Veau pumped it in his left hand, still stroking her cheek. “Open your mouth, slut. I’m going to have a face-fuck.”
Helen closed her eyes and obeyed, dropping her jaw and sticking out her tongue as Mrs. Foley had taught her, to receive the cock from which she had already drawn the seed once. Mr. Veau sheathed himself inside her mouth with a little grunt of pleasure.
“Spank her again, please,” Mr. Veau said. “Let’s keep her submissive.”
Mr. Ferrers hand fell again, hard, and Helen yelped around the cock now as Mr. Veau held her head so he could thrust in and out as he liked.
“I’m going to fuck that cunt now,” Mr. Klee said, and Helen felt his hands on her hips as the head of a penis pushed against her inner lips.
“Get the tits out of that bra,” said Mr. Ferrers.
“Leave the bra on, though,” said Mr. Veau, a little out of breath. “Are you going to come in the cunt, Jean?”
“Oh, it’s nice and tight,” said Mr. Klee. “Yes, I will, in just a moment. I have a meeting at three.”
Helen moaned under his thrusts, and the thrusts in front. She wanted to keep her eyes closed—indeed, she wished they had blindfolded her so that she wouldn’t have to worry about where to look and could concentrate on the shameful, wonderful feelings of the fucking. She found herself opening them because Mr. Lindgren hadn’t joined in the dirty talk and she felt a terrible need suddenly to know where he stood, where he must be stroking his cock as he watched and listened to Helen’s first gangbang.
“I’ll come in the ass,” said Mr. Ferrers. “I’m at that three o’clock myself.”
“I want the anus, too,” panted Mr. Veau. “Jacob, you go after Jean. I need to get home early this evening. Eric, do you mind?”
“No,” Mr. Lindgren said, from somewhere off to the right, “not at all. You gentlemen go ahead, and I’ll have some time for myself when you’re finished.”
Helen could barely understand what the words meant, because the sensation had taken hold of her too firmly, but something in the way Mr. Lindgren spoke sounded somehow both reassuring and rather frightening. What would time for myself mean?
“You’ll have her back to Serteau tomorrow?” Mr. Ferrers asked.
Tomorrow?
“Of course.”
Mr. Veau said, “Do you want the mouth while I have her bottom? Or do you want to get under her and have the cunt? That ought to make her scream.”
“I’d rather wait until I have her to myself,” Mr. Lindgren said.
Mr. Klee chuckled. “Poor Helen.” He thrust firmly in and out, making her whimper around Mr. Veau’s penis. “You’re going to have a rough night.”