by Emily Tilton
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.
Chapter Three
Helen’s face burned as she passed underneath the edge of the solid table, the crisp white tablecloth brushing against her hair, then her back, then her bottom, shamefully exposed in the seatless panties. She had tried to avoid looking into the waiter’s face, but in the end she hadn’t been able to help it; something in her needed to see whether he would wear an expression of pity, of fellow feeling for a girl made to wear seatless panties in a private dining room and made to show her anus to the wealthy men who would use her there.
Instead of sympathy, though, she had seen—as she somehow knew she would see, and somehow needed to see—envy of the billionaires. Lust to be one of the prosperous members of this exclusive little club who gathered to fuck in the dominant style to which the waiter also would like to become accustomed. He had looked at her, as he picked up her dress to carry it to the closet, with a hunger in his eyes that seemed to say, If there are any crumbs left from this banquet—a pretty pussy, already well-fucked, offered as an afterthought to the help, or a casually awarded blowjob from a thoroughly befouled mouth—I will greatly enjoy being one of your gangbangers, girl.
Her face had burned, and it had burned even more when Mr. Potter had given his command for her to serve him under the table. His legs loomed in front of her in the dim light beneath the tablecloth, clad in the navy blue wool of his business suit.
At least he had denied the idea of letting them all watch, Helen thought as she saw his well-manicured hands descend into his lap, to shift the napkin aside. She knew how false that consolation was, because she could feel that before long they would all be watching one another’s enjoyment of her, and perhaps inviting the waiter to watch as well, and even to join in.
Since her indenture to Mr. Serteau she had only been fucked by him, though Mrs. Foley brought Helen to her bed almost every night to pleasure the needy place between the housekeeper’s thighs. She had known, though, because it made a part of her contract and because she had spoken to other indentured girls at the social facility where Mrs. Foley brought her in the afternoons, that she would probably be loaned to other men before too much time had gone by. Just the previous day her friend Katrina had expressed surprise that Helen hadn’t even been sent in a taxi to another man’s home to serve alongside that man’s concubine in the kind of threesome that was apparently so common.
“He must really l
ike you,” Katrina had said of Mr. Serteau as they sat sipping cappuccino in the little café full of pretty girls like them, “if he’s keeping you to himself that way.”
“He had to widen my bottom, he said,” Helen had whispered, meaning that she thought Mr. Serteau must be waiting until he thought her anus would give as much pleasure as it should.
Katrina had giggled, to Helen’s surprise. “My owner sent me in my harness, with only a miniskirt to cover it up. His friend thought it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. He took the harness off and fucked my ass while I kissed his own girl’s pussy.”
Helen’s mouth had fallen open, and she had nearly spilled her cappuccino.
Katrina had adopted a sympathetic expression, then. “Sorry, honey. I promise you’ll get used to it.”
Helen didn’t feel sure she would; she could hardly get used to watching Mr. Potter unzip his fly. The words from above the tabletop came down to her, muffled, along with the sounds of fine dining: silver on china, the chime of glasses lightly touching plates as masculine hands raised or lowered them for a sip of wine or of iced water.
“Has she started yet?” Helen thought the voice was Mr. Ferrers’.
“No,” said another man. Mr. Klee? “You’d see it in Henry’s face.”
“I don’t know.” Mr. Lindgren: definitely Mr. Lindgren. A shiver went through Helen’s nearly naked body. “Henry is a heck of a poker player.”
Then the voice with the most authority: Mr. Potter, directly above her. “She hasn’t started. Helen, take out my cock and suck it, or your master will receive a poor report from me of your conduct.”
She hadn’t thought of that. She hadn’t thought that of course Mr. Serteau would want to know how the girl he had supplied had pleased his friends. She would be spanked by Mrs. Foley, or even caned by Mr. Serteau. Feeling faint, she crawled forward, so that she arrived at a spot on the scratchy carpet between Mr. Potter’s spread knees, from which she knew she could reach his unzipped fly.
Helen remembered learning how to take a man’s penis out of his fly. Mr. Serteau had taught her that on her very first day, when the officer from the indenture center had delivered Helen to his office, high above the city.
Her new owner had been talking on the phone, looking out his enormous window, when the secretary had shown in Helen and the officer. Helen had worn the white halter top and bikini briefs in which she had been auctioned. They looked terribly, shamefully incongruous in this elegant setting. The secretary had closed the glass door behind them, as Mr. Serteau had turned so that Helen could see her owner’s handsome face with its neatly trimmed, gray-flecked beard, for the first time.
“I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes,” he had said in the cultured voice that still sent shivers down Helen’s spine. “Your answer had better be yes by then.”
He had put the phone down. “Take off your clothes and kneel, please,” he had said. “Everything off.”
Helen had looked wildly at the officer. The officer had said, “Do as your owner says.”
Mr. Serteau had dismissed the officer with a curt nod, then, and though Helen turned imploring eyes on him as he left he had not even looked at her. Then she had noticed again that the door and the wall of Mr. Serteau’s office were made of glass, and although none of the few workers she could see seated in the cubicles outside were looking her way, they would be able to see anything their boss did with the girl who had just been brought to him.
The faint feeling had grown until she thought she would probably be better off on her knees. As she turned back to see that her new owner had advanced around his desk to stand watching her appraisingly, his left hand at his chin stroking his beard thoughtfully in a gesture of easy connoisseurship and his right hand starting to unbuckle his belt, Helen had felt frozen in place and utterly unable even to sink to her knees and beg for mercy—because she knew somehow that mercy was not what she would find, once she knelt before Mr. Xavier Serteau, who had bought her contract of indenture.
From above the table now, Mr. Potter’s voice came again, more insistent. “Last chance, slut, before we begin today with a spanking for that pretty bottom instead of a nice blowjob.”
Helen did as Mr. Serteau had taught her: she leaned forward and kissed Mr. Potter’s trousers, as a gesture of respect. She nuzzled there, planting more little kisses to show the man to whom her master had loaned her that to serve his hard cock made her feel happy and grateful.
“That’s it,” he said. “You may take out my penis, Helen, and suck it.”
The words were the same ones Mr. Serteau always used. Helen must have permission to touch a cock. Of course no such consideration need be given to her mouth, her pussy, or her anus, which her owner had taught her might be penetrated and used by him or by Mrs. Foley whenever they chose.
Helen’s response came automatically to her lips, though she wasn’t sure it would even be audible to Mr. Potter. “Thank you, sir.”
Happy and grateful. Mrs. Foley had taught her how important it was that she at least make herself appear content and thankful for the gift of Mr. Serteau’s thrusting cock and the gift of Mrs. Foley’s own strap-on dildo, with which the housekeeper trained her employer’s sexual servant.
“Because,” Mrs. Foley had said the first time she had fucked Helen with the jet black strap-on, bent over the little stool where she also spanked Helen with her wooden spoon when she found Mr. Serteau’s concubine in need of improvement, “you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t the sort of girl who is grateful for any hardness inside her, the bigger the better.”
Mr. Potter’s cock, which Helen now gently freed from his silk boxer shorts and woolen trousers, so that she could transfer her little kisses to its red, fluted head and its darker shaft with the throbbing vein that frightened and fascinated her, was not very big. As she kept kissing, and darted her tongue out to play just below the tip where you had to be very gentle but could make your owner feel very good, she began to free Mr. Potter’s scrotum as well, tugging and caressing in equal measure and hearing his approval in little noises from his chest, above.
“There we go,” said Mr. Ferrers. “Is that nice, Henry?”
Mr. Potter’s voice sounded thick when he responded, but also rather matter of fact, as if he had his cock sucked under the table twice a day—which Helen supposed might be the case. “Very. Helen, lick the balls now for a little while, and then take me deep, until I come. I have a meeting in half an hour. Then you’ll suck Mr. Ferrers’ cock.”
Mrs. Foley had trained Helen with the strap-on to take a penis deep, and Mr. Potter’s was easier to allow to find the back of her throat than Mr. Serteau’s, even in the awkward position under the table. Mr. Potter rested his hand atop her head, and stroked her hair, which she could feel becoming loose and wild now—to match me, she thought. He didn’t push, though, the way Mr. Serteau and Mrs. Foley did.
“Listen to that, Eric,” said Mr. Klee. “She’s got him deep in her throat. Don’t think she’ll be able to do that with you, though.”
Helen bobbed her head, now, feeling her consciousness float above her the way it always seemed to do when she had to devote her face this way to the penis’ pleasure—even when it was the hard rubber dildo that made her jaw ache even more than Mr. Serteau’s cock did. Mr. Potter gave a sharp little grunt, as if surprised by how very good she was at fellatio, and she thought she heard his silverware clatter down onto his salad plate.
Happy and grateful. Any hardness inside me. Helen didn’t know if it was true. Did she?
The semen spurted down her throat, burning a little, but tasting rather sweeter than Mr. Serteau’s did. Helen hadn’t thought men’s seed would actually taste different; she had thought Katrina was making that up. Helen made the grateful whimpering noises Mrs. Foley had taught her to make when her owner came in her mouth. Mr. Potter stroked her cheek, and lifted the tablecloth so that suddenly the full light in the dining room came again to Helen’s eyes, and the scents of the table, obscured u
nderneath by the smell of wool and of Helen’s helpless arousal in her seatless panties, came to her nose.
“Look at me,” said Mr. Potter, and Helen looked up into the billionaire’s rather kind eyes. “Good slut,” he said slowly and purposefully. “Go to the cock on my right and take it out and suck it. I hope I get to fuck you another time.”
Heat and wetness flooded her panties, then, at the degradation, and still more when Mr. Potter pushed her away and lowered the tablecloth again, enclosing Helen anew in this lower world of serving men in the most shameful possible way, while they carried on conversations about business, about sports, and about her own pussy, in the world above.
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.
