Chapter Eight
On the whole, Serteau had to account himself satisfied with Helen’s performance in the private dining room. He had watched the entire thing, abandoning any pretense of working, enjoying most of all Jacob Klee’s very sound paddling of the girl’s lovely backside.
Eric Lindgren’s declaration that he would take Helen to a hotel room gave Serteau some pause, however. Serteau didn’t feel any real jealousy—after all, the loan of the body of a girl like Helen was done so that a colleague like Lindgren could do what he pleased with it. The rules of the Friday club specifically said that the members could return the girl or girls, or call for them to be taken away, any time up to noon on Saturday. Indeed, Serteau had felt sure Helen would attract enough favorable attention from the club that she would spend the night with two or three of them, serving on her knees and in a big bed between and among strangers’ cocks until she winced as she walked into her owner’s apartment the next morning.
But the combined circumstances of everyone but Lindgren needing to depart after coming in Helen’s cunt or anus, and the way Lindgren had made his declaration, declining even to fuck Helen there in the dining room, gave Serteau a very unfamiliar feeling he had to describe—since he did his best to express such self-analysis honestly—as uneasiness. He didn’t feel sure he had ever encountered that sort of self-control in a dominant, to stand by a glorious gangbang like the one perpetrated on Helen by Veau, Ferrers, and Klee, and not to take his share of the pleasure to be had inside the girl’s bare cunt and well-lubed ass.
As he watched Lindgren bring Helen her dress—not of course, surrendering the trophy of her panties, the young man’s claiming of which seemed also to indicate that something unusual had taken place—Serteau remembered Helen’s entrance into his household, after the lovely public face-fuck in his office, when the officer had left her with him for the first time.
After the naked girl swallowed her owner’s semen for the first time, Serteau told her to stay there, sitting back on her heels, in the middle of the glass-walled corner office.
“Say ‘yes, Master,’ little slut,” he had said as she looked up at him with slightly dazed eyes, a little sheen of his intimate moisture remaining on her lips.
“Yes, Master,” Helen said softly.
“You’ll stay there with your eyes down, Helen, until it’s time to go to your new home. If you need the bathroom, let me know, and my secretary will take you there and report back on whether you were a good girl for her.”
Helen bit her lip. “Yes, Master.”
She remained there an hour, while Serteau finished his afternoon phone calls. From time to time he would look at her and smile as he watched the mingled shame and arousal flit across her face. He already felt the building in his heart of a sort of possessiveness he had rarely felt about his concubines: Helen clearly had a special way about her—a combination of ineradicable innocence and helpless knowledge of her shameful erotic needs. Serteau took longer than he meant to with finishing the work, because he so enjoyed watching his employees and colleagues stop next to the office and gaze in to see the billionaire’s new plaything, kneeling obediently on the carpet and soon to go home where most of them knew Mrs. Foley was waiting to begin the girl’s training.
Serteau had grown up in a world where such displays would never have been permitted even to a very wealthy man like himself. But with the advent of the complete domination of political life by such men, through their corporate instruments, he might have had the girl gangbanged right there, offering her to the men—and more than one woman—who stopped to look in with frank admiration, without an authoritative eye being batted. The current prevailing wisdom declared that such displays of prosperity and prestige, provided that the girls made to participate in them had duly signed away their freedom through indenture, benefitted society by giving ambitious young people motivation to rise above their current socioeconomic conditions.
He didn’t, however, because his need to see himself being recognized as the wealthy possessor of the beautiful girl kneeling naked and submissive while he worked was only getting in the way of what he really craved just then: to get her home and to watch her training get underway.
His secretary Grace did take Helen to the bathroom once, and before they turned a corner and left the range of Serteau’s vision from his office he watched in satisfaction as heads turned in cubicles to see the naked concubine go by, head hung low and face crimson. When Grace brought Helen back, she said, “She went like a good girl, even though she didn’t want me to watch her.”
Grace was cut from the same cloth as Mrs. Foley, though fifteen years younger—Serteau had picked her, of course, for that reason.
“Is that true, Helen?” Serteau asked sharply.
“Master, I didn’t know… I…”
“Kneel, slut, and then bend forward until your cheek touches the carpet, with your knees spread. Show Grace that you understand that I have authorized her to see you as she likes.”
Helen gave a little sob, but obeyed, slowly, though not sluggishly. Serteau crossed the room so that he could stand with his secretary to admire the pretty sight of Helen’s trim bottom, her dainty pink pussy, and her tiny winking anus. Serteau reached into his breast pocket to extract the little paddle he always carried there, and handed it to Grace.
“Go ahead and give her six swats, please,” he said.
A little crowd had gathered now outside the office, and they watched the very efficient Grace, stooping a little in her highly secretarial black skirt, give the spanking as Helen yelped into the carpet. Grace alternated between right and left, and despite the brevity of the punishment managed to leave Helen’s bottom bright red.
“Thank you, Grace,” Serteau said. “Helen, you will remain like that until we depart.”
Now he had only a few calls left to make, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to gaze down at his new concubine’s pretty red bottom, at her well shaved cunt, at her cringing little anus, as he spoke to the captains of industry with whom he had to deal. He might, he reflected as he told Helen to get up and get dressed, have made a few subpar deals during that time, since in the rigorous self-examination he could carry out even while hard as a rock in his trousers, he noticed—paradoxically, perhaps, but nevertheless accurately—that the distraction of his naked concubine had made him a much more lenient negotiator.
He didn’t mind adding any losses he might have accrued from those poorly driven bargains to the balance sheet that told of what he had paid for Helen. She would still be cheap at the price.
He saw the same estimation of her new charge’s value in Mrs. Foley’s eyes when they arrived at Serteau’s city apartment in the limousine he had continuously on call. The housekeeper greeted them in the underground garage, opening the door first for her employer and then for Helen, since concubines—so thought Mrs. Foley—must never be treated as ladies. As Helen stepped out of the limo, the older woman looked her up and down as if she were a housewife inspecting a vegetable at the grocery store.
“That’s a nice one, Mr. Serteau,” she said. “Helen, is it?”
Helen started to answer. “Y—”
Mrs. Foley turned severe in an instant—one of the qualities Serteau valued most in her. She proceeded to deliver the sort of tirade for which his previous concubines all said they would always remember the woman who had terrorized them and fulfilled some of their deepest desires at the very same time.
“Silence, slut. If I ask you a question, I will indicate very clearly that you are to speak. I can understand your confusion, I suppose, because it seems Helen is indeed your name, but you will I hope learn very soon that when I address you, I will call you girl or slut. Fucking pieces like you do not deserve to be called anything else, though it is useful for them to have names, by which respectable people like your master and myself can refer to you when speaking to others. I would prefer that you not have the sort of name respectable people do, while you are indentured here for the pleasure of Mr. Serteau’s male member, and that I could call you Whorina, or Cunnia, but every arrangement in Mr. Serteau’s city residence is made for his convenience, and it will be most convenient for him to refer to you as Helen.”
Helen’s face had gone very red. She looked at Mrs. Foley with wide, wild eyes, clearly unable to sort out all the different things the housekeeper’s frightening speech had stirred up in her heart, mind, and cunt.
“Drop those eyes, slut,” Mrs. Foley said in a completely matter-of-fact tone. “You’ll be spanked for that impertinence as soon as we get upstairs.”
These words struck Helen all the more forcefully, it seemed to Serteau, for the routine they implied in the sheer ordinariness of Mrs. Foley’s tone. She gave a little whimper, and looked to Serteau, searching his face for a moment before her cheeks turned red with the clear realization that she had just compounded her offense, and she dropped her eyes to Mrs. Foley’s sensible beige shoes. Serteau had seen the fifty-two-year-old Irish beauty—who retained her blue-eyed looks despite the graying hair in which she took a certain pride—look stunning in an evening gown, but at home she preferred to dress in the homely, uniformed style of a housekeeper, though Serteau didn’t require it. Really, he didn’t think he could require anything of a woman so well suited to the role of the strict matron.
If he valued her ability to become stern at a moment’s notice most highly, it was because of the effect it had on his own relations with his concubines. Serteau was not a cruel man, though he enjoyed bestowing upon a girl like Helen the sort of severe treatment they both craved. He enjoyed dominating a pretty young woman with kindness quite as much as he did dominating her with force, whether the force came from his cock or from his cane. Mrs. Foley’s severity allowed his softer side to come out, the side that he would otherwise have felt duty-bound to keep almost entirely hidden in order to maintain discipline in his city apartment.
“That’s alright, darling,” he said to Helen.
“Darling,” Mrs. Foley snorted. “You won’t hear me call this slut darling, no matter how well she learns to serve your manhood.”
“Of course, Mrs. Foley,” Serteau replied, falling easily into their old good master/bad mistress dynamic. They had never discussed it, but from the housekeeper’s first day, with Serteau’s first concubine, it had given both of them—Serteau knew, for his part, and felt sure Mrs. Foley felt the same—extraordinary pleasure. “Helen, I’m afraid you will have to be spanked, as Mrs. Foley says, but she will use her hand, rather than her wooden spoon.”
He turned to Mrs. Foley, who wore a particularly sour expression. “Helen was paddled at the office, as well, for being reluctant to let Grace watch her on the toilet.”
The housekeeper harrumphed. “She’ll get used to that here soon enough. Grace is good with the paddle, though. A hand spanking over her punishment stool should do just fine.”
“I’m going to go get some caviar,” Serteau said. “Will you please chill a bottle of Heidsieck before you discipline Helen?”
“Of course, Mr. Serteau. Come along, slut. You’ll see your master again upstairs.”
Serteau watched Helen’s lovely, slightly swaying walk in the drab dress given to her at the indenture center all the way into the elevator, before he stepped back into the limousine. As his driver made their way to the most expensive and exclusive boutique in the city, the only place where what Serteau considered real caviar could be obtained, he wondered whether he had begun to feel something about the girl that he hadn’t felt before about a concubine.