Authors: Emily Tilton
“Dammit,” said Joe, from the assessors’ desk. “Why does he keep doing that?”
“Four,” Claire said.
Jean called down to Joe, “Four, Joe, not zero.” He turned to Anne-Marie. “All the same, it would be best to have a word with him, I think. Those questions don’t help much.”
“I think I’d like to have Brian’s opinion on that as well,” Anne-Marie said. “Also, we need to see more data before we can say that for certain, correct?”
“That is true,” Jean said.
Abigail had not answered the question. The fear in her eyes was winning. “Three,” Claire said. Then Anne-Marie noticed something on another monitor. She laughed. “I think we’ve forgotten how patient Hans is,” she said. “Look at monitor five.”
Monitor five showed a medium shot of the two of them lying on the bed; Abigail’s knee was raised and her nightgown had bunched up slightly onto her hip. The thin cotton veiled from sight what Hans’ right hand was doing, but it had worked its way from behind, underneath the nightgown, and the fabric was moving slightly but definitely, and very rhythmically.
“Six,” Claire said. Then, “Seven.”
“Tell me when you are ready to answer my question, little one,” they heard Hans say.
“He totally just improvised that,” Joe said, with admiration in his voice.
“Ten,” Claire said.
“I am still not happy,” Jean said. “We cannot have him branching off on his own like that too often. Certainly we know it will happen from time to time, but at such a crucial moment…”
“Relax, Jean,” Anne-Marie said. “I think you watch too minutely. You forget everything we gain from simply putting two well-matched erotic souls together.”
“Another eleven,” Claire called. That meant that Abigail was once again more aroused than they had ever seen her.
“See?” Anne-Marie said to Joe.
“Pre-orgasm,” Claire announced. This part relied on more exact measures than the numbered levels did: it was obvious to everyone, including Hans, that certain muscles had begun to tighten in a way unique to an oncoming climax.
“Do you want to come?” Hans asked Abigail softly.
Abigail didn’t answer. They watched Hans take his hand away, and they heard Abigail give a frustrated whimper.
“If you want to come, little one,” Hans said, “you know what you need to say.”
“Seven,” Claire said. Anne-Marie watched as Hans returned his fingers to their place underneath Abigail’s nightgown. Now he took a moment to raise the nightgown higher, so that, propped up on his right elbow, he could look down at the work of his hand on Abigail’s cunt, and even inside it.
“May we get a view of the
con
?” Jean asked.
“Working on it,” said Joe, whose skill with the camera setup in the pick-up room, as they were calling Abigail’s accommodations, had grown quickly. He panned camera 3 down from Abigail’s face, then zoomed camera 2 so that Claire would still have a close-up from which to work. Working with camera 3 again, he zoomed, and
voilà,
Abigail Podret’s pretty cunt, with Hans Goterborg’s fingers at play there.
“He’s not the best at that, is he?” Joe asked.
“Perhaps not,” Anne-Marie replied, “but the skills themselves are as nothing when a man exudes power that way.”
Joe chuckled. “You would know,” he said. “But I’m better, aren’t I?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Anne-Marie said playfully. Then she sighed. “If only you were a billionaire,” she said.
“I think you may make me one,” Joe replied.
“Careful,” Jean said half-seriously. “Anne-Marie is not going to submit to any billionaires she made herself, is she, no matter how well they know their way around a
con
?”
“I can certainly pretend, though, and
pauvre
Joe here’s cock is really quite beautiful.”
Claire giggled.
“Do not laugh, Claire. I haven’t sucked a bigger one in several years, and that of course includes all our handsome new trainers.”
On the monitor screens, Abigail was writhing under Hans’ left hand as he kissed her shoulder, where the lace collar of the nightgown slipped down to reveal the tender skin, pink with the flush of the girl’s arousal. The close-up of Abigail’s pussy showed her hips bucking so much that Joe had to pull the camera back to make sure the spectacle of Hans driving her nearly over the cliff, and then easing off so that she cried out in her frustration, stayed in view. The billionaire’s middle finger controlled Abigail’s clitoris thoroughly, and he used his other fingers to increase the sensation for his little concubine. He ran them down, for a moment, and opened her inner lips, and gently worked three up inside the newly open slit, making Abigail cry out at the novel feeling, then he gave flickering attention to the cute little clitoris again.
“You know what to say, Abigail,” he murmured.
“Oh… hmmmmm,” she began, then gasped, “Master, please, I want to… I want your… your cock in there.”
“In where?” Hans withdrew his fingers, and Abigail groaned. “In this cute little cunt?” He moved his hips then, and Abigail whimpered as she felt his hard cock come up against her bottom, then, with the help of his left hand, against her pussy.
“Oh, lord, little one,” he said. “Your pussy is too sweet to resist. I am going to have it again now for a little while.” He curled his left hand around her thigh for leverage, and thrust inside Abigail with a violent motion that made her cry out under him.
“New eleven,” Claire said. “I can’t see where she goes from here—that’s an objective ten, as I see it.” Claire meant that over the range of observed human erotic behavior, the signs Abigail manifested—wetness, flushed skin, above all the uncontrollable motions of her muscles under the fucking Hans gave her—stood at the peak for all women observed. Hans literally had to hold on to her writhing young body, steadying her hips against the bed so that she didn’t unseat him with the passion of her arousal, as he began to thrust faster.
“Agreed,” Jean said. “Congratulations, Anne-Marie.”
“Pre-orgasm again,” Claire announced.
“
Merci, monsieur,
” she said. Getting Abigail to objective ten had been a goal they thought they could probably achieve during her actual training. They had not thought they could do it so soon.
Suddenly Hans stopped, with only the tip of his cock inside his concubine’s girlish slit. “Do you want to come, Abigail?” he said. “You know what to do.”
“Please… please, master…”
“You must earn your pleasures, little one. Do as I have asked, now.”
“I w-want to… t-to have your… cock in m-my mouth.” Her eyes were closed, and her face seemed to waver between pleasure and pain.
“Still an eight,” Claire said, with some wonder in her voice.
“I knew it,” Anne-Marie whispered.
Hans said, “There, little one. Not so difficult, was it?” As he spoke he began to fuck her again, playing with her clitoris at the same time.
“Pre-orgasm,” Claire said. Then, only a moment later, “Orgasm.” Abigail screamed as she came with her master’s cock inside her, and Hans kept pumping in and out as she did, a look of rapture on his face, until her body quieted in front of him. He withdrew his cock from her pussy then, and moved back from her a little.
“We are going to go to the chair, now,” he said. “You will kneel in front of me once I have sat down, and we will have a little lesson about a man’s cock, and how an obedient girl must treat it.”
Chapter Twelve
Abigail watched her owner get up from the bed where he had just… could she say it in her mind, even now? Where he had just (she thought in a mental whisper that seemed to hurry over the word, and a mental blush) fucked her, for the second time: where he had just fucked her to a shattering orgasm—a climax of a kind she had never thought before that day her body might have been capable.
Could she do it? Get up herself and go over there and kneel before him, and… do that?
The tiny voice in her mind that had been shouting just a few moments before,
Say it! Say what he wants so that he’ll just keep fucking you!
had fallen to the softest of whispers, but now had more to say, in a sort of constant stream of insidious words:
Don’t you want to see it? Don’t you want to kiss it to show it how much pleasure it gave you? Don’t you owe that to the man who has paid for you?
Abigail’s owner was so handsome, and so graceful. He wasn’t terribly muscular—not like Master Ian, anyway—and he had rather a lot of golden fur on his chest that Abigail wouldn’t have suspected she could find attractive, but his eyes shone out so very blue from his Nordic face. When he had made her thank him for… doing that to her, she had for a few moments thought her mind had begun to break under the pressure, but when he threatened to spank her it had all become easy, suddenly, if only for an instant: she belonged to this handsome, powerful man, and she should be thankful that he found it pleasurable to use her that way.
“Come here, little one,” her owner said, from behind her. She rolled over and saw him beckoning her. He had turned the chair toward the bed, and his dressing gown was open, Abigail saw with a hot blush. She could see her owner’s cock, which he held in his hand, gently pumping it up and down. Abigail saw that his cock, and his fingers, glistened a little in the light, and her courage nearly failed her when she realized that the sheen came from her own private wetness, with which her owner had made her anoint him when he decided he wanted to have her down there again, so very soon after he had ripped through her maidenhead and taught Abigail her very first lesson in sex.
A new lesson waited, now—a different kind of lesson. She must be active, she must do; she must kneel, taste him, and taste her own most shameful places.
“It’s time, Abigail,” he said. “Come kneel here. I can’t wait to feel that pretty little mouth on my cock.”
Not understanding at all really why she did this instead of that, why she got out of the bed and began to move slowly toward the place where her master held his cock ready for her to suck, rather than run for the door and pound on it, screaming for help, or at least cower in the corner and refuse to give them—her master, Master Ian, anyone—the satisfaction of doing anything willingly here in this terrible, shameful room, she obeyed her master.
“There we go,” he said with a satisfied air, when Abigail had sunk to her knees in front of him. “Just watch, for a little while.” He kept stroking his own cock, and it seemed suddenly terribly shameful that he made her watch him do it. Her owner saw innocent Abigail Podret forced to watch something so lascivious, so pornographic, even: the big blond hand going up and down on the part of a man that a girl must never see, must never seek to have a peek at, even on her husband.
“See how I keep one rhythm for a little while, then speed it up, then slow it down?”
“Yes, master.” Despite herself, Abigail began to feel a sort of fascination with the way the head of her owner’s cock emerged completely from his fist, then almost disappeared, then emerged again. She saw the little slit in it, saw a droplet of fluid come out.
“You are going to try to do that with your mouth and sometimes with your own hands. But you may only use your hands when I give you permission. Do you understand, little one?”
“Yes, master,” Abigail whispered. She didn’t really understand about the hands—at least, she didn’t understand about the reason for it, but she was sure her owner would explain, if she needed to know.
“Right now, to get you acquainted with the cock, you may use your hands.” He let go of his cock, and reached out with that hand, bending forward a little so that he could lay it on the back of her neck. He splayed his knees and began to pull her toward his lap, his cock. Abigail felt her body respond almost willingly, shuffling forward on her knees, as her mind said, “Don’t touch it—you mustn’t touch it, let alone put your mouth on it!”
Her owner kept his hand on the back of her neck, but he had stopped pulling. Now he worked his fingers into her hair, in much the same way Master Ian had done, gathered it into his hand, and used his grip to hold her head still, like a threat, or a promise. Abigail felt the dominance in his hand very keenly, the way her owner with his fingers and without words said that Abigail must look at the cock, and serve the cock.
Abigail’s owner’s manhood stood out long and hard.
Arrogant,
Abigail thought.
That’s the only word: a cock is an arrogant thing.
Its nest of wiry blond hair made Abigail think of what her owner had said about the removal of Abigail’s own private curls, and down below was the little wrinkled sack where he kept the seed he had shot into her pussy.
“Touch it now, Abigail,” her owner said. “Very gently, at first. As you feel me respond, you will learn how to please me. Begin by trying to imitate what I was doing with my own hand.”
Abigail realized as she was reaching out her right hand, feeling his fingers move slightly in her hair and the way her body responded to that controlling grip, that the thought of resistance had not even entered her mind when he had told her to touch his arrogant cock. She reached her hand out as if a girl must do whatever a man with a cock like that—a hard, upstanding manhood, demanding that the girl serve its pleasure—said.
She touched it, trying to touch as gently as she would touch an egg, or a baby chick, and her owner rewarded her with a sigh. “Good girl,” he murmured.
Abigail made a little fist around the strange, sinewy thing, and began to move her hand up and down. “Good girl,” her owner said again. “That feels lovely.”
He was right, of course, about how she would learn: Abigail seemed to improve very quickly, with the help of the little sounds he made in his throat, and from the way his arousal corresponded to her wicked knowledge about her own arousal and its rhythms.
“Take my balls in the fingers of your other hand, now,” he said. “They are very sensitive, so you must just hold them lightly, and stroke them a very little. Soon, you will kiss and lick them, but you must do even that very gently. Do you understand?”