Chapter Four
Serteau watched the scene in the private dining room with one eye, sitting at his desk in his office high above the city. Truthfully, his other eye, which should have been scanning the financials for the rare-earths mining merger had a difficult time keeping itself from the screen of the laptop he had open to his right, with the intention only of making sure Helen was being a good girl for the Friday club. The video showed him only the men, though; Helen must be under the table.
Of course that meant that she was undoubtedly being a good girl; that her mouth was full of the cocks of men she had only met half an hour ago, and that she had begun to show them how well trained to the penis Serteau had her. For a moment he pretended that he still felt some measure of anxiety on that score, and that it was for that reason he had the urge to listen in and hear what his friends said, and what noises came from under their china and silverware, where Serteau’s pretty young concubine served them lewdly on her knees.
But Xavier Serteau hadn’t gotten to this beautiful office through self-deception: often his edge in business dealings came from his ability to see his own motives more clearly than others saw theirs. He knew his desire to hear the action in the private dining room didn’t originate in a need to make sure Helen performed as submissively and pleasingly as she should.
He had developed an affection for her that his more rational self—a portion Serteau liked to estimate at approximately ninety-five percent of his complete composition—told him he needed to extinguish. Helen had come to Serteau’s city apartment as his third concubine. Her predecessors, though nearly as lovely, had not found their way into his heart, though Mrs. Foley had trained them just as well as she was training Helen now. Something in Helen’s honest desire to please him and even to please Mrs. Foley despite the terribly degrading, terribly arousing circumstances of her indenture had affected a heart Serteau took a good deal of pride in calling cold.
Spanking Helen felt much more like actual discipline ‘for her own good’ than punishing his first two girls. He spanked her just as often, on the general principle that a concubine needs frequent reminders of her place in the household. When Helen lay weeping, bare bottom up, over his lap, though, and when she cried out under the cane, bent over her bed receive her strict lesson, he could feel her submissive soul reaching out for reassurance that her master found her bright pink or red-striped backside pleasing.
Mrs. Foley had remarked on it, too, from time to time.
“She’s a good girl, Mr. Serteau,” the housekeeper had said only the previous week. “I almost hate to put her over the stool for little things like not folding her clothes neatly, though I know I must.”
“Yes, you must, Mrs. Foley,” he had replied, and she had nodded. Serteau had concealed, of course, his complete agreement: part of him hated to spank Helen and to flog her as often as he did, though of course another part of him couldn’t do without it. He had spent a very large sum on her, after all, and he would get what he had paid for: a girl to whip and to fuck whom the corporate psychologists had verified needed it to feel safe and sexually satisfied.
How ironic, though, to spend that much money and develop ‘feelings’—to buy heartache and, consequently, headache at such a price. Given his friends’ experiences with indentured girls he had probably gotten off easy; Jean Klee had fallen in love with both of his, though of course he was French and the idea clearly meant something different to him.
But Serteau, after his highly successful ownership of his first girl, Victoria, who now ran the marketing department at an enormous tech company, had allowed himself to claim bragging rights for his cold heart. Grace, his second girl—married now to a distant relation of Serteau’s, to whom he had loaned her for a week when he had had to take his wife to Europe—had seemed to him to prove that Serteau was immune to ‘feelings.’
It just seemed so inconvenient to be forced to think about Helen even at home on the weekends, when he had to manifest the signs of a prosperous suburban life, as women at the country club wondered behind their hands whether Xavier Serteau was one of those city men.
He was indeed one of those city men. He got home to the suburbs late not because he worked until all hours but because he had a beautiful young woman to take to dinner and then bring back to his pied à terre for discipline and dominant sex. He and his wife, the great friend of all country club women, had not slept in the same bed for seven years, now, but the women at the country club apparently still wondered, for reasons Serteau had some difficulty determining. He occasionally considered asking his wife whether she had told her friends about their arrangement, but really what business of his was it, any more than Victoria, Grace, and Helen were any business of his wife’s?
With a sigh Serteau picked up the headset connected to the laptop and put one of the earbuds in his right ear.
“Is she good, Jacob?” George Veau was asking. Serteau noticed that Henry Potter had left already—he generally came in the girl’s mouth and departed, if he felt satisfied, so Serteau supposed Helen had done well in her first duty.
Jacob Ferrers’ face had turned a little red, and he had his left hand on the table, clutching a bit at the cloth. His right hand seemed to be in his lap, though the angle of the camera high in the corner of the room prevented anything like a good view. It seemed highly probable, though, that that hand was in Helen’s hair, guiding her mouth up and down on his cock.
“So good,” Ferrers said, managing with highly apparent difficulty to crook a suave smile.
Serteau scanned the face of the other men at the table; Veau and Klee had finished their salads and were looking at Ferrers, clearly waiting their turns to feel Helen’s mouth on their probably rock-hard erections. Eric Lindgren, however, was placidly and slowly finishing his last few bites of romaine.
That young man presented an interesting puzzle. He clearly belonged at this table of alpha males—none of the members of the Friday club had shown any doubt about that when Lindgren’s name had come up—despite his youth. The club liked to admit a new member every two years or so, and hadn’t done so for the previous four. When Ferrers had suggested the new hotshot from the West Coast, the agreement to invite Lindgren had come almost instantly.
After all, he had already, famously sent the top predator of city society, Tanya Pulliam, packing, bearing stories of bedroom bad behavior that earned Lindgren dirty looks at fancy restaurants. Serteau had no doubt, of course, that many of the dirty looks were accompanied down below by very damp panties. Nor did reports of Lindgren’s subsequent bedroom exploits do anything but confirm that impression: he had that apparently irresistible air of the prosperous playboy. Serteau should know, since he had had it himself, once upon a time.
Only with the revelation, at the first meeting of the Friday club attended by their newest member, of his impressive endowment, did Eric Lindgren become anything like a mystery to Serteau. At first the enormous size of the man’s cock had seemed to explain his magnetism and his dominance. Serteau considered himself a sophisticated man, and he knew that penis size didn’t have any truly magical effects, but surely—so his first impression of the matter had run—when you owned a cock like Lindgren’s you would live a dominant life.
Size might not in itself count for everything, or even very much at all—though the beneficial effect on a submissive girl of a hard fucking by a large penis should not, Serteau thought, be discounted—but subliminal phenomena were very real. A cock as big as Eric Lindgren’s stirred the front of his trousers in a way other men’s didn’t. Men who had seen Lindgren in the locker room at the Century Club would—Serteau felt sure—give the man a slightly wider berth, and would to a certain extent follow in his wake, like a pack of wolves trailing their natural alpha.
Even women not in the habit of inspecting men’s crotches would feel the effect at second or third hand. The story had got out, of course, from Tanya Pulliam, and then Jenny Reed, and then Rebecca Westing, of where the center, so to speak, of the bedroom eccentricities of Eric Lindgren, was to be found. Serteau supposed more women had peeked at his crotch, after that, but the real magnetic attraction would come from a more subtle source: hearing what kind of sex Lindgren liked to have. Hearing with what a magnificent tool for the creation of female pleasure and submissive discomfort Lindgren had been endowed, women would find themselves attracted to him despite themselves—as Serteau saw it, at least.
None of that seemed mysterious—rather, the puzzle lay in Lindgren’s attitude toward his dominance and his naturally superior equipment for expressing it. The man, Serteau thought, wasn’t embarrassed by it, exactly. For one thing, Lindgren certainly took the envious ribbing he got from the rest of the club very much in stride.
For another, when the time came for fucking, Lindgren laudably showed no shame and no compunction. Serteau had on several occasions now watched the man’s massive shaft take away the breath of the girls on offer Friday afternoons; both on first sight and when he entered them and began to enjoy himself. As refined as Serteau thought himself, he knew he would have said something a little arrogant at those times, had he been endowed like Lindgren: “You’ll take all of it, and like it, slut,” or something of that nature.
But Eric Lindgren just smiled, and stroked the girl’s cheek as she knelt before him. He nodded, to show he knew she felt anxious, but also to show that she must open her mouth to receive him, and to show him how well her owner had trained her. When Anne Ferrers had been the girl who must have her face, and then her cunt, and then her anus fucked by the enormous cock, her husband had of course supplied the necessary degrading bit of dialogue:
“You don’t get that at home, do you, sweetheart? Lindgren, I want you to make her walk funny tomorrow.”
Lindgren himself, however, had just gone on smiling—as he was smiling now, in the private dining room, down at the place where the tablecloth moved slightly up and down at his lap. Helen had begun to suck the cock of the club’s newest member, while the waiter put the main course on the table.
“How is she doing?” Ferrers asked. Serteau wished he could hear the wet sounds of Helen’s service over the waiter’s noises, but he had no doubt his indentured girl was pleasing Lindgren greatly, since he seemed a little distracted—and now even closed his eyes, as if to shut out the mundane scene and focus on the pleasure given him by a beautiful, unseen girl in seatless panties and thigh-high stockings.
“Very well,” Lindgren said, though, opening his eyes and smiling at Ferrers. “Let’s put her on the table.” He looked down again. “Helen, sweetie, you may stop. That felt wonderful. Come on out, and we’ll tell you about what’s going to happen next.”
Self-control, Serteau thought. I have it, and it’s my greatest advantage, in life as in business. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone with more of it than Eric Lindgren.
Helen crawled out next to Lindgren’s chair, her eyes watering and her face flushed. Mrs. Foley had made certain the girl wasn’t wearing mascara that would run, but the effects of her lewd service were charmingly noticeable. Above all, she had obviously passed into the zone of submissive experience that Serteau knew took hold of girls whose mouths have just been thoroughly enjoyed: her dazed eyes showed that her whole body now pulsed with submissive need.
“Come here, girl,” Veau said. “Stand by me and show me that beautiful ass close up.”