Chapter Two
Eric had never seen a more beautiful girl than Serteau’s eighteen-year-old concubine. He had already been in attendance for three of these little Friday afternoon gangbang lunches, at which the men of Eric’s new acquaintance in the city shared their lovely female acquisitions, some mistresses and some concubines. Last week Jacob Ferrers had even brought his wife to share, a beautiful young woman whom he treated as he would a concubine. None of the three girls’ bodily charms had even approached Helen’s in Eric’s estimation.
The sight of Serteau with his hand on the girl’s bottom in the seatless panties made Eric’s cock stand up in his conservative charcoal gray suit’s trousers as hard as a bar of iron. He felt no true embarrassment at all to know that all these men acknowledged his cock’s size as very imposing, though he found it convenient to pretend he did. George Veau’s Norwegian girl had indeed obviously felt sore after Eric had come in her ass, but she had also had a smile on her face.
Now he wanted sweet young Helen, whom Serteau clearly knew to be the most beautiful girl in the possession of any of this informal club of financiers, kneeling in front of him so that Eric could show her exactly how true were the things the other men had said. These billionaires had received him warmly when he had relocated from the West Coast and instantly proven himself worthy of their notice with a seven trillion dollar float for a satellite network. When George had told him that he was welcome to join the Friday club, he had already known from offhanded comments that it had something to do with sex, and in particular with the kind of sex Eric hadn’t really had a chance to try, but very much wanted to: the kind of dominant sex he knew men like George Veau and Xavier Serteau were having with their concubines—and Ferrers, it seemed, was having with his wife. Eric had readily accepted, though of course he had done his best to feign ignorance.
The reception afforded by the Friday club changed subtly when Eric had lowered his pants to fuck Henry Porter’s mistress in the upstairs room of the Century Club, and the other members had seen between Eric’s legs—then heard in the girl’s cries—the size of the new member’s member. The club had formed for the purpose of diverting itself with the casual gangbanging of submissive girls, in order to provide everyone with needed entertainment after a long week of high-stress business, and to help the girls learn their place in the lives of the men who kept them. Alpha males like these titans of finance, however, could do nothing in a completely casual way: the fucking of a shared girl presented an opportunity for competitive display just as the boardroom did. The entry into this little erotic world of a cock the size of Eric’s was bound to create some alpha envy, which he thought had now started to subside, with the knowing chuckles to which the men in the private dining room treated Helen as Serteau displayed her anus to them.
Eric did wonder briefly, though, whether the extremity of the man’s degradation of his lovely golden-haired girl had in it a message for the younger, better-endowed participant: I dominate with words far more thoroughly than you can dominate with your penis.
Nor did Eric question the truth of that idea: he had a good deal to learn before he acquired an indentured concubine of his own. After seeing Helen reach back to open her bottom for the Friday club’s inspection, though, he no longer had the slightest doubt that he would buy himself a girl, as a personal reward for his rapid success here in the East.
If only I can find one as beautiful as Serteau’s.
“There,” Serteau said with satisfaction. “Not too tight and not too loose.” He held her skirt high with his left hand, and patted Helen’s lovely backside with his right. He put his fingertip on the pink dimple of her anus and pushed it in so that the girl, head hung low though her pretty French braid remained intact, gave a low whimper. “I was in here just last night, and it was a lovely bottom-fuck.” The finger pushed further, and the whimper became a moan.
“Alright, gentlemen,” Serteau said. “I’ll go now and leave her with you.” This represented an essential aspect of the Friday club’s procedures: the video recording, set up with the help of the clubhouse or restaurant hosting them that day, would of course come straight to the computer of the member who left the girl with his friends. The idea that her owner had surrendered her to them, however, made for greater enjoyment for the club and a more thorough lesson for the girl. Besides, Serteau got to fuck her every night of the week, and would probably fuck her tonight, too, if one or more members of the club didn’t decide to take his girl to a hotel, an extension of lunch that lay within the rules.
Who did Eric think he was fooling? Helen would definitely be coming to a hotel room. He only hoped the other four men who would enjoy her now had pressing engagements, so that Eric could have the girl to himself, in the boutique hotel only a block away, until noon tomorrow, the absolute limit specified in the club’s extremely informal bylaws.
“Be a good girl, Helen,” Serteau said. “One of my friends will bring you back to Mrs. Foley when they’re all done with you.” He withdrew the finger from her anus, and gave her bottom a final pat. Helen started to straighten up. “No, Helen. Stay like that, please. My friends will tell you how they want you now.” He walked to the door and vanished through it just as the waiter came in with the salads.
Eric’s dominant blood pounded in his veins. Something about the presence of the waiters at these club gangbangs always seemed to make his erections rage harder.
“Helen,” said Henry Potter, the senior member of the club and thus the one who had the right to use her first, “come here and kneel down, under the table. You’ll suck my cock now, you little whore.”
“Shouldn’t we get her out of her dress first?” Ferrers asked.
“And not under the table, please,” Veau put in. “The rest of us want to see, if you’re going to keep her to yourself while we eat.”
“Jim,” Potter said to the waiter. “Would you please help this girl off with her dress?”
The young man transferred the final salad plate from the platter he had put in the corner of the room, and said, “Yes, sir, Mr. Potter.” He went to Helen, who had risen, and turned around now, looking up at the tall waiter in his neat white coat with an expression that Eric found both affecting and highly arousing in its uncertainty.
Potter continued, “George, you can get down on the floor and watch the girl do her business, if you want, but she’s going to do it under the table, so I can enjoy my meal. If she’s as good with her mouth as she should be, and swallows like a slut should, I’ll pass her on to you.”
Technically, Potter’s desires for the girl’s first sexual service this afternoon couldn’t be questioned: if he wanted to keep her under the table for the entire meal, he had the right according to the club’s mostly unwritten rules, as far as Eric had been able to tell. The other four—Potter, Ferrers, Veau, and Klee, along with Serteau—had been gangbanging one another’s fucking pieces for four or five years now; as the newcomer Eric rarely spoke up, despite having already made such an impression with his cock.
The older men turned to their salads, only looking up at Helen’s progress in stripping down to her seatless panties, thigh-high stockings, and lacy black bra to see how matters stood, but Eric didn’t tuck in yet. He wanted to watch the revelation of this lovely girl’s body, and he wanted to see where her eyes traveled, and what it meant to her.
The dress dropped to the floor, and the waiter picked it up to carry it to a hanger in the dining room’s closet. Helen’s eyes were fixed on the carpet, her fair cheeks a little pink. Eric wondered what it felt like to have a waiter at a fancy restaurant help make you available for fucking, and his erection grew still further. Potter probably would share Helen’s mouth, he thought with a little leap down there; the usual practice was to have the girl suck each man’s cock before they laid her on the table.
Then, to Eric’s surprise and delight, she raised her eyes and looked straight at him, her blush growing darker as soon as she realized where his own gaze rested. She bit her lip and dropped her eyes. What had she thought, in that moment? What did the blush mean, exactly? Was it only about the size of his hard penis, or was there something more, there, perhaps: a real attraction?
Eric knew it didn’t constitute self-flattery but merely self-knowledge to admit to himself that he had attractions for the opposite sex: a fit body, a relatively handsome face, and a great deal of wealth and influence. It had made him wary, through his early twenties, because girls tended not to tell him the truth about how they felt about him—the man who liked to cook and liked to read and didn’t like nightlife unless nightlife meant the opera. It made for brief, uncomfortable ‘romances,’ if they could even really be called that.
In particular, when he slept with an eligible bachelorette of his own socio-economic stratum, it made for feeling a certain degree of conflict when the look of fear crossed the young woman’s face at the revelation of Eric’s manhood. In every case, it had already become clear by that time that the girl didn’t like the opera, or Shakespeare, or even the mountains, but had made the decision to try to reach Eric’s bed in hope of landing him anyway.
But by that point his desire for the bachelorette’s gym-toned body in her usually pretty underwear had taken over, and he had no real desire to spare her the disclosure of another of Eric’s interests: dominant sex.
“If we’re going to go further tonight,” he would always say, after a bachelorette had found out his big secret with her bold, gold-digging hand, “you’re going to obey me. Kneel down now.”
They all did, and Eric gave them a safeword at that point, which none had ever used.
Then he fucked them just the way he liked best, taking pleasure in the way his huge cock made them cry out, especially when he took their bottoms’ virginities, as he generally did before the night was over. Nor did he enjoy the society bachelorettes this way with the intention of breaking up with them the next day, though the breakup always happened within two weeks. He merely invited them to a museum, and then for a hike, and then the bachelorette decided she had had enough, for reasons that in her words always involved being not ready for a commitment right now. Eric worried a bit that soreness from the sex played more of a role than it should in the bachelorettes’ not-unwelcome-to-him decisions, but if he ever did marry he intended to have sex with his wife every night, and a girl should certainly be aware of what that would involve, shouldn’t she?
Serteau’s Helen, who knelt now to crawl under the table toward Potter’s lap, could have no aspirations of marriage, of course; only her owner could give permission for her to leave his service that way. Eric shook his head a bit as he turned to his salad, to try to clear the thought. This girl also couldn’t be an opera fan, couldn’t love the mountains, wouldn’t appreciate his coq au vin.
But she would most certainly come to a hotel room with him, after lunch.