by Emily Tilton
“Ah,” said Maia. “Jenny, I get whipped in Gordon’s den.”
Jenny raised her head, a strange, hopeful thrill rising in her heart. Thinking Maia North might have a relationship like her own, and imagining it, didn’t have anything like the power of those words from the older girl’s own mouth.
“You do?”
Maia nodded, a little smile on her lips.
Part of Jenny shouted exultantly, I knew it, but another part simply felt her blush intensify: if both the women at this table belonged to the men the way it seemed Maia and Jenny belonged to Gordon and Henry, what might happen now? It couldn’t be like Rome, could it, here in Jenny’s own lovely suburban home?
Please let it be like Rome, whispered the rebellious, exultant, wanton thing in Jenny’s heart and loins.
She looked over at Henry, whose dark eyes regarded her with love and sympathy, but also with the kind of hungry, dominant evaluation that made her heart beat so much faster.
“I’ll listen carefully,” she said in a soft voice, feeling Maia give her hand another squeeze.
“You’d better address me the way you should, sweetheart,” Henry said, his words slow and measured, as if to warn her that the trip to the guest room had not represented an idle threat, even with friends there in the house. “Now that you know for sure that Maia submits to Gordon the way you do to me.”
Jenny bit her lip, and glanced quickly across the table at the lovely brown-haired older girl and her master, perhaps five years older than Henry. Gordon smiled at her, as if to tell her that he wouldn’t think any less of a young wife who called her husband by a term that gave audible evidence of how he took charge of her in the bedroom, of how every orifice upon her nubile young body lay at his command whenever he wished to enjoy himself.
A new blaze of heat rising into her face, she turned back to Henry. “I’ll listen carefully, sir,” she whispered, sure somehow that whatever their new friends had to tell her would involve a great many more blushes.
Gordon said, his voice matter-of-fact and businesslike, “Selecta needs a favor, and because of the nature of the favor, only someone from outside of Selecta can help—and the best possible person to help is someone from Selecta’s most prominent competitor.”
“Relicorp,” Jenny said into the pause that followed, when no one else ventured a word. She glanced quickly at Henry to make sure she had been expected to speak, and her heart rose a little to see him smile and nod. How could she love him so much, when he behaved so differently from how a modern husband should behave?
The wayward voice, quieter now because all of her understood the need for attention to Gordon’s words, whispered, You love him because of that. Jenny managed to keep the resulting flush to tiny, flaming spots on her cheekbones, but the modest part of her said, We’ll talk about that later!
It wasn’t as if she didn’t have this inner conversation twenty times a day, after all. What escaped Jenny’s considerable intelligence (Max had said, once, while she learned to suck his penis, that she qualified for the Thoroughly Trained program in large part because of her IQ) was how and why her mind and heart could never come to a final conclusion.
The present moment certainly didn’t furnish an acceptable occasion: Gordon had begun speaking again.
“Exactly. Maia and I, for example, couldn’t do what needs to be done, but you and Henry can, we think?”
Jenny turned her eyes again to Henry, a little nervous now because of the vagueness in what needs to be done, before looking back to Gordon.
“What needs to be done?” she asked.
Henry spoke, then. “Call Gordon sir, from now on, Jenny. It will help you get ready for what’s going to happen in France.”
Jenny’s lips parted. She had called Max sir, and he had told her to call Henry sir, but she had thought then that after Henry took her home with him and married her, she would call only him that sacred name. She looked at her husband with her upper lip between her teeth and a crease in her forehead.
Maia spoke next, to Jenny’s surprise. “Your master will always be your master, Jenny. But you’re going to have to learn to serve other men, too, because he wishes it.”
Oh, no, Jenny thought, looking over at the older girl and feeling how wild her eyes must look. Even in Rome, where those other girls had different men touching them... She swallowed hard. Using them... using their mouths and their pussies and their bottoms...
But she had known, hadn’t she, from the look in Henry’s eyes, that night in Rome when he made her watch the other girls, and had raised her skirt and lowered her panties to fuck her, too. And he had seen, in Jenny’s face...
Another wave of heat, through her whole body as she sat at the table listening to such simple, even modest words from their new friends.
Henry had put his hand in her hair, in Rome, and turned her face around to look at him as he fucked her against a bedpost in a room full of naked girls serving the men their masters told them to serve, and he had seen the wanton part of Jenny Granby telling her master that she, too, should be made to serve that way,
She felt her forehead, her nose, and her lips work for a second in response to Maia’s words, and she turned again to Henry. She knew he would see there that same thing he had seen in Rome, as much as the prudish part of her tried to push it away, and so she could only look at her husband’s handsome face for a moment before she looked down again at the table.
“Go ahead, Jenny,” Henry said. He didn’t have to mention the guest room again; she could hear it in his tone. She would call Gordon sir or she would go straight to the guest room to have her bare bottom whipped for disobedience, while Maia and Gordon surely watched.
“What needs to be done, sir?” she whispered, turning her attention back to Gordon with an act of will that made her breath come in short little puffs through her nostrils.
“We need you and Henry,” Gordon replied, “to go to a certain party, where you’ll play an unusual game.”
Chapter Ten
Henry had never felt particularly happy about the alliance between Relicorp and Herrier Industries. As the chief financial officer originally of Relicorp Manufacturing, based in Chicago, he had watched as the executive suite of Relicorp Holdings in Manhattan cozied up to the French firm and its ostentatiously aristocratic, notoriously controlling CEO.
It hadn’t surprised Henry at all to learn from Gordon Ernkat that Jules Herrier liked to play at dominance, and to do it in a way the Institute considered unethical and reprehensible. Henry’s move to realign Relicorp’s interests away from Herrier Industries and toward a synergy with Selecta, though, had preceded that bit of salacious intelligence: he could see that the French tycoon and his European allies wanted the center of gravity for the world’s energy markets on their side of the Atlantic. Henry thought it served Relicorp’s interests a good deal better for it to reside in North America, even if that meant accepting Selecta’s role as the first among equals of American mega-corps.
Even when Gordon had led off the latest of their monthly-or-so off-the-record, secure, back-channel conversations with the information about Herrier’s sex life, though, Henry hadn’t suspected where it would lead. If Gordon’s tone hadn’t seemed so serious, the Relicorp CEO might have thought the Californian to be joking about the need to contain the threat from the Groupe Synergistique.
“The Groupe Synergistique?” Henry had asked, frowning at the image of Gordon on his screen. “Aren’t they... well, you know... a fairytale?” The cabal of European energy magnates with their hands on the levers of the market, to Henry’s knowledge, existed only in the realm of speculation and hypothesis.
“I can’t cite you chapter and verse,” Gordon had answered, “because legal would have my ass, but let’s just say I believe in them, and I believe strongly that they need to be dealt with, Herrier most of all.”
If Henry had felt surprise at Gordon’s serious reference to the threat from a legendary assortment of old-world tycoons, the actual ask to
which the financier proceeded took him farther aback. Henry had most certainly not expected Gordon to give him reason to ask his young bride to build so very quickly on the wonderful progress in her sexual submission she had made in Rome.
“You won’t be offended, I hope,” Gordon had said after laying out for Henry the facts on the ground in Paris, the missing Selecta personnel and the need to get some information on their situation, “to hear that I asked Charlotte Elkins-Nakama over at the Institute to take a look at Jenny’s file, and give me an idea whether she’s ready for this. You should go ahead and call her if you want more detail, but Charlotte thinks Jenny will do fine...”
Henry had frowned again, then. Gordon clearly had something more to say, something that went beyond, Take your wife to a kinky party at a kinky chateau where you’ll probably have to strip her naked except for a collar around her neck, and make her crawl on all fours at the end of a leash.
Gordon had continued after the delicate pause, “...even if you’re called upon, as we think you may be, to play a certain special game.”
“Game?” Henry had inquired, raising his eyebrows. “Naked charades?” he ventured, smiling to cover a bit of annoyance at the lack of candor in the other man.
“Don’t kill me, but I can’t tell you, because I’m fairly sure Herrier will want to surprise you. I’m sure you’re a pretty good actor, but unless we want things to get pretty uncomfortable, it’s much better if he doesn’t suspect you’re helping Selecta out, and... well, this game is kind of a Selecta thing.”
Henry had grown so mystified by that point in the conversation that he could only shake his head. “Okay,” he had answered.
“As one alpha to another,” Gordon had said, “if you play, you’re going to enjoy it, and so will Jenny, but she’ll probably find it off-putting at first. Everything the Institute knows about your wife says that you should follow your dominant instincts in France the same way you did so well in Italy.”
Now, as they approached Herrier’s chateau in the limo the magnate had sent for them, he tried to calm Jenny’s nerves, relying on the assurances Gordon and Maia had given both of them that although the party would involve some very new experiences for both of them, they could handle it. Herrier’s response to Henry’s inquiry concerning a time to stop by in the evening and “Enjoy your special sort of hospitality” had confirmed what Gordon had told Henry to expect: the discreet question, “Is Mme. Granby prepared to conduct herself properly? If so, I shall send some things for her to change into as soon as you arrive. There is a private dressing room for guests, and the butler will show her there.”
They turned into a long drive, with a magnificent castle at its end. Henry hoped he had answered correctly when he had replied, “Mrs. Granby is prepared.”
“There’s a place for me to change in private?” Jenny asked for the third time, looking up into Henry’s face from the car seat beside him.
“That’s what Mr. Herrier said in the email,” Henry confirmed, squeezing her hand to reassure her.
“I know it’s silly, because... you know... I’ll only have the cloak, but...” She seemed very hard pressed to collect her thoughts, and so Henry felt not the slightest annoyance, or even much sense of irony, at his pretty young wife attaching such evident importance to privacy, when she took off her dress and underwear, and donned the long blue cloak and the blue leather collar Herrier had sent.
Henry had the plastic shopping bag containing those things, which had made Jenny’s brow furrow as she stood looking at them in the hotel room for long moments. He carried it with him when he stepped from the limo at the grand entrance to the chateau, and he helped Jenny from the car with his other hand.
His modest bride looked wonderful in the red dress he had bought her their first day in Paris, her flaxen hair sweetly and demurely worked into a neat French braid tied with a ribbon to match the dress. Nevertheless Henry admitted to himself that he could hardly wait to see her without it, and without her bra and panties, dressed for submission and prepared to conduct herself properly.
As Henry tucked Jenny’s hand inside his elbow, the massive wooden door under the portico swung open, and a man in a dark suit who could only be Herrier’s butler stepped out. He looked gravely at the flagstones as Henry led his wife, her feet seeming to falter a little, toward the entrance.
Just as they reached him, the butler looked up and in almost perfect English said, “Mr. and Mrs. Granby, welcome. The dressing room for Mrs. Granby is just to the right. When she is properly attired, I will show you into the salon.”
The man’s voice did not vary at all from its respectful tone, but at the words properly attired, Henry could feel Jenny shiver on his arm. He put his other hand upon hers, a little awkwardly because that hand held the bag containing the cloak and collar. He rubbed gently to encourage her. Jenny moved toward him as she felt the pressure, seeming to cling to his arm as he led her into the little room to which the butler had pointed.
Two small rooms lay within, in fact: an outer one with an inner one adjoining through a doorway hung with a curtain. The first room contained a bench, presumably for someone to sit and await the emergence of the occupant of the changing room, and a rack fitted with clothes-hangers, upon which Henry noted an elegant green dress and three black cloaks, perhaps for women who had not brought their own. A shelf above the rack had upon it a neatly folded pair of black panties and a matching bra, next to rings of black leather which it took Henry a moment to recognize as collars like the blue one Herrier had sent to their hotel. A pair of green heels sat below.
Jenny stood looking at the bench, the rack, the shelf, and the curtain that led to the room where she would change—or, rather, Henry thought with a leap of his cock in his black wool trousers, where she would undress, submissively, for his pleasure and that of those to whom he decided to show his lovely wife’s nubile charms.
“Someone’s already changed,” Jenny said quietly, as if trying to process what the things she saw might mean. “That’s her dress. She must be inside, and she must be... she must be wearing the same things...”
Henry still had her hand inside his elbow, and now he felt her clutch hard at the fabric of his suit coat. She turned to him with a mixture of fear and need on her face so moving that his heart melted. He set the bag with the cloak and collar on the floor, then put his hand to Jenny’s face, gently cupping her chin.
“We don’t have to do this, sweetheart,” he said. He had no idea how he could explain it to Gordon if they backed out now, but his love for Jenny represented the most important motivation he had ever known or, he thought, could ever know.
Her forehead creased very deeply, and a look of pain came into her eyes, as if Henry had made the whole thing more difficult for her, rather than less. He remembered what Gordon had told him about following his instincts, and what Charlotte had said when Henry had called her just to hear her confirm Gordon’s words. “Jenny needs this, and she needs you to ask it of her.”
“I...” Jenny began.
“But,” he said, finding the path laid out for him in her troubled expression, “you need it, don’t you?” She gave a little gasp that told him all he had to know about the state of her panties—and made him wonder, incidentally, about the gusset of the panties displayed on the shelf. Without waiting for a verbal response, he reached down to get the bag, then held it out to her. “Go ahead and get undressed, Jenny,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Jenny whispered. She took the bag and stepped behind the curtain.
A moment later, as he tried to decide whether to sit on the bench or to remain standing, he heard a little cry from the changing room.
“What is it?” Henry asked, mystified.
“I...” Jenny started, from behind the curtain. Then she said, her voice sounding rather strained, “Come and see.”
Henry drew the curtain back a little and poked his head around it. He saw a full-length mirror on one wall, and another bench against the other. Jenny, though,
had her attention fixed on a placard above the bench, just at her eye level. The text on the sign was in French, with English, German, Spanish, and Italian translations below it.
Girl, you are here to remove your clothing for your master’s pleasure. Use this opportunity well to consider how just a thing it is, that your body be fully available to the man who owns you. Look in the mirror as you remove each garment, and see your master’s property. Regard your cunt, and resolve to furnish it for his enjoyment. Turn, and spread your buttocks so that you can see the little ring into which his hardness will go when he chooses that path, to show his mastery. Above all, remember that when you require correction, it is upon your shapely backside that he bestows it, and leave this little room upon your hands and knees, to present him with his property where he sits awaiting you.
Below there was a little line drawing, of a young woman, her cloak pulled completely aside as she knelt before a man seated on a bench. She had her back to her master, and she had prostrated herself and curved her back to offer her bottom to his arrogant eyes.
“Well,” Henry said as he looked into Jenny’s eyes, where her arousal seemed to him now to be getting the upper hand over her alarm, “at least I know now that I should sit on the bench.”
Chapter Eleven
In the salon, Herrier made Barbara suck the cock of the English banker, while the other guests watched.
“Is she good, Mr. Fredricks?” asked the American sitting next to the Englishman on the couch. He started to unbutton his own fly.
“Very good, Mr. Logan,” said the blond man who held Barbara’s head still now and thrust up with his powerful thighs from the couch into her open mouth. A moment later he pulled her head off his hard shaft and buried her face underneath, in the musky darkness of his tight, hairy scrotum, the golden hair tickling her nose and making her feel terribly naughty to have to serve the handsome, arrogant Englishman that way. Sure she would be punished if she did otherwise, Barbara kissed and licked gently, just as Jean—and then Herrier, as Barbara pretended to be a very quick study—had taught her.
