Chapter Seventeen
Helen wished Mrs. Foley would hurry up and tell her to get over the spanking stool. She didn’t really understand why the housekeeper apparently blamed her for what had happened in the private dining room and in the honeymoon suite, but it did seem to her to make a terrible kind of sense, especially where Eric was concerned.
He hadn’t let her go to sleep until well past midnight, and then he had woken her at dawn, his need to fuck rising high and urgent in the enormous penis he presented to her lips, to be readied for her bottom once more. He had indeed been very hard on her, and the places Mrs. Foley inspected with her gloved hands felt strange and sore from the pounding of Eric’s cock.
After the first bottom-fuck he had put her in the enormous bathtub with its soothing, bubbling jets. He had tenderly washed her, murmuring that she must call him by his first name, that he wanted to know all about her. After twenty minutes of tenderness, though, Eric had gotten into the tub himself, and turned Helen over, so that he could fuck her from behind as the bubbly water sloshed around them, telling her—though in a gentle voice—to raise her bottom, arch her back, give more of her cunt to him.
He had come inside her, and then stood her up out of the tub, to dry her off with a big fluffy towel, patting gently at her pussy and bottom, which had already made Helen wince a little, though she would be a good deal sorer by the time Eric brought her home. She had lost count of the number of times she had come, and he had come, even before they slept, his strong arms around her, falling asleep while he—apparently sated at last—asked her about her family.
After the anal in the morning had come breakfast, with more questions about her life before her father’s imprisonment, and after. Helen had looked into Eric’s eyes and answered honestly, because she couldn’t figure out why she should lie—or even why he wanted to know. The idea that he might be falling in love with her—and in fact she with him, as well—had occurred to her, of course, but the sheer aggression in his sexual use of her, and the way her body responded to it so urgently and shamefully, seemed to make that too absurd to contemplate.
When the room-service trolley with the remains of the sumptuous breakfast on it had been rolled out into the hall, Eric had ordered her back into bed, knees high and spread, so that he could look down upon her laid out for him. On his knees, but looming over her like a king, his huge penis filling his hand, he had approached, and entered her soaking pussy, looking her in the eye while her face reddened at the frank hunger in his gaze. Then he had fucked her the way Helen had always imagined a king or a bridegroom should fuck, surveying his conquered territory as he ravished it.
Helen had cried out in discomfort, but also in helpless pleasure, and her knowledge of her needs had seemed to grow with every painful thrust of the long, hard shaft of his manhood. She felt the yearning above all to submit to the erotic will of this kind of man, like her owner but even more powerful in his special way and, strangely, interested in her if only as a particular treasure to debase and to enjoy.
More cuddling had followed, in that bed, and, thankfully, more sleep, until at last the time had come for her to dress, and to descend with him in the elevator, feeling unable to meet his eye even if he had commanded it, which he did not. Eric had kissed her in the elevator, and in the limousine, but not the way he had kissed her the previous day: chaste kisses—tender kisses, even. He had spoken very little, and Helen had found it hard to understand what he meant, because he seemed to speak about the next time they would see one another.
At last, with the limo pulled up at the door of Mr. Serteau’s apartment building, Eric had held her hand and said, “Look at me, please, Helen.”
She had summoned the courage, and obeyed. She had seen such ambiguity in his blue eyes that her heart quailed: lust, affection, and gratitude all seemed mingled there alongside a troubled quality, as if he, a man accustomed to knowing in exactly which direction to go no matter how deep the wood, had suddenly found himself without a path to tread.
“Do you…” he had begun, and then he had stopped.
But Helen had known, from his eyes, even after those two syllables, what Eric had seemed almost desperate to know. He had wanted to know how she felt about him, after a night in which he had alternately held her and fucked her savagely, without any compunction, so that every step she took made her draw breath sharply. He had wanted to know if she could forgive him what he had done—how, presented with Mr. Serteau’s lovely submissive girl, having watched her gangbanged, having had her at his own sexual disposal for an evening, a night, a morning, he had not resisted the impulse of his cock but had instead announced his intention to be very hard on her and then carried out that intention.
She had tried to smile, but she did not know, now, as Mrs. Foley continued with the awful inspection that nevertheless renewed Helen’s submissive arousal, whether she had succeeded. She had wanted to tell Eric that she forgave him—that she thought that if circumstances were different, she might like to be his concubine, even if it meant receiving his wild, almost painful attentions every day.
But his eyes had remained troubled, and he had simply said, “Thank you,” instead, and let the doorman help her out of the limo.
Mrs. Foley spread her pussy open now, and Helen whimpered in shame and discomfort. “It looks like they had fun in here, slut,” the housekeeper said. “It’s as swollen a cunt as I’ve ever seen, and your anus looks like you had a giant-sized cock in there all night. Mr. Serteau is here.”
Helen couldn’t suppress a cry of alarm at this unexpected news. “But he’s not supposed—”
“Silence, slut,” Mrs. Foley thundered. “You’ll have extra over the stool for that. Do you think you get to decide when your owner comes and goes from his own apartment, any more than you get to decide when he comes and goes from this bed, to fuck you?”
She emphasized her words with a rough probing of gloved fingers inside Helen’s vagina, which drew a wailing moan from her chest. “No, ma’am,” she gasped, knowing that failure to answer would only summon further punishment.
“Get over the stool, now,” Mrs. Foley said. “It’s time you learned your lesson for your whorish pleasure with all those cocks. Mr. Serteau will come in to fuck you after your punishment, I believe, so make up your mind to take your punishment like a good little slut, and he may reward you once he’s had his own fun in your cunt.”
The probing hands departed. Helen rose on shaky legs and went the few steps to the middle of her room, where Mrs. Foley had of course pulled the little stool over from its place in the corner. Helen didn’t know why this simple piece of furniture should seem to her to symbolize the paradox of her submissive needs so well, but her heart quailed now as it always did when confronted by the stool’s pink-painted surface.
The smooth wooden top rose to a height just below her waist, so that when she bent over it and grasped the bottom rung, the way Mrs. Foley had instructed her to do the very first time, her feet on the other side were raised at the heel. This posture made it possible, though not easy, to push up her bottom as she knew she must, even as it steadied and stilled her hips, so that she could not avoid the attentions of the housekeeper’s wooden spoon any more than she could avoid the strap-on dildo when Mrs. Foley trained her with it, after a spanking.
Something about the domesticity of the stool made it frightening, arousing, and even in a strange way reassuring: this was Helen’s place in her owner’s household—over the stool to learn how to please him, and to give his cock the pleasure he had bought, when he had acquired Helen. Now, after the night with Eric, the stool seemed somehow to comfort her even as she feared the first impact of the spoon. It had been a night to remember, she supposed, and she hoped he would remember it too, but the time had come for Helen to come home, and pay for her pleasures—even if those pleasures had been forced upon her.
“Get that bottom higher, slut,” Mrs. Foley said. “Offer it to me the way you did to your lover last night.”
Your lover. Helen felt her lips curl into a secret smile. Yes, she supposed, Eric could probably be called that, based both on his tenderness and on his aggression. Maybe someday she would have a lover like that for more than one night.
She did her best to obey Mrs. Foley, using her grip on the wooden dowel and her stance on the balls of her feet to arch her back as best she could. She had indeed offered herself this way to Eric, hadn’t she?
The spoon came down hard, and Helen cried out, the way she always did, from the beginning of every spanking. Her noisy conduct under punishment seemed to release her into the sensuality of the experience, so that even when Mrs. Foley or Mr. Serteau decided truly to punish her, she experienced it as a response to the wild passions of her body—even as a check upon them, a boundary telling her that, yes, she might go this far in her wicked desires, but no farther.
Mrs. Foley spanked her hard and quickly, covering both bottom-cheeks and Helen’s upper thighs with stinging swats that soon had her hips bucking against the stool’s surface, backside clenching and unclenching. The stool did its job, though, of course: Helen could buck, but she could not avoid her fiery lesson. She sobbed, tears soaking into the blue pile carpet of her little room. Yes, I’m paying for my pleasure. I need to pay for my pleasure.
“Please, Mrs. Foley,” she pleaded, as she always did. “Please… it hurts so much.”
The housekeeper answered in the severe tone she always used. “It’s meant to hurt. Sluts who give themselves to the cock the way you do need to learn what respectable people think of you, and take the consequences.”
Even in the throes of her need for those consequences, Helen knew that the logic made no sense outside the world of her service to Mr. Serteau’s lusts. Inside that world, though, it made her moan as the terrible spanking continued.
Suddenly a strange sound—or, rather, a familiar sound that could not have been more out of place in the middle of a spanking—came to Helen’s ears, and at the same moment Mrs. Foley stopped bringing the spoon down on Helen’s rear end. For a long moment she couldn’t place it, and it was only when Mr. Serteau spoke from behind her that Helen realized that the sound had simply been the opening of her door.
“Don’t let us interrupt you, Mrs. Foley,” said her owner. “Mr. Lindgren and I are just going to watch the end of Helen’s punishment, and then we are going to decide what to do with her.”
Helen twisted her head helplessly, wildly at that, trying to see whether it could possibly be true.
“Head down, slut,” Mrs. Foley said. “Is this the one with the big cock? Well, he doesn’t have it out now, so I don’t think there’s anything you need to see.”