Breaking Abigail (2 page)

As Abigail made her way toward the Podrets’ summerhouse, Mark seemed to relive the entire thing in an instant. He wondered whether it would in the end prove a good or a bad thing that he had been checking the health of his trees just when Abigail was going to the summerhouse after being whipped by her father, but to return to his house as if nothing had taken place would betray his nature—and hers, he felt certain.

Mark could not deny that he had a thing for Abigail Podret that had been on his mind since at least her eighteenth birthday. He had reached the age of thirty-eight and, thanks to quick work in the years since the divorce, he was now an experienced dominant. When you lived an hour’s train ride from New York City and were newly single with a daughter who lived with her mother, spending three nights a week at BDSM clubs easily became a habit. He had developed no attachments, really, but friendships with dominants and submissives alike sprang up by the dozen, and Mark felt now, finally, like he had a world where his true nature found a welcome.

He had recently found it very difficult to stop thinking about the way what he called his ‘sub radar’ had gone off at Abigail’s lavish party at her family’s ancestral mansion, the day she had come of age. Again and again in his mind’s eye Mark had replayed the moment when a friend had said, “Who’s going to give you your birthday spanking?” and Abigail had looked straight at Mark and blushed.

And he had detected by other means as well that Abigail was in need of a spanking. Her tendency to say outrageous things and then to pause to see what effect they had. Her way of checking to see who, among the boys, was looking at her, and then turning away from him.

Mark had been at the party because his daughter Janet was one of Abigail’s best friends from grade school, and he and his ex-wife Paula had been friends of the Podrets since the girls were toddlers. He hadn’t seen Abigail in several years, and the stunning birthday girl with her raven hair and her bewitching smile had made him think thoughts that he knew were entirely improper about a friend of his daughter. And that had been before his ‘sub radar’ had even begun to send the signals that said that Abigail might well benefit from a firm hand, when it came to her blossoming sexuality—though ‘blossoming’ seemed to be the wrong word, since she also showed signs of being terribly repressed, in the way she carried herself. Abigail presented an enigma, but he was sure he wasn’t wrong about the look she had given him, or the blush it had caused.

That party was several months in the past now, and here came Abigail, clearly recently whipped by her father. Mark’s sub radar kicked into overdrive as he watched Abigail take the key from its hiding place under a stone and unlock the door to the summerhouse. When she had gone inside, he moved through the woods, across the property line, praying she would turn on the light and make him invisible to her and let him observe whatever she did, knowing that he was invading her privacy but unable to help himself.

Abigail didn’t turn on every light, but she did turn on the one in the entryway, which cast enough illumination into the living room that Mark could see her walk in and sit on the old couch there, wincing as she did so. Immediately, she turned onto her hip to avoid the pain her backside caused her.

Then, as Mark swallowed hard, knowing that events had begun a course he wouldn’t have the power to stop, Abigail, in the half-light and through the transparent reflection of the woods in the big living-room window, began to take off her jeans. Sitting on the couch, she unbuttoned them. Then she stood up and began to pull her pants down for the voyeur she didn’t know was watching.

To his distress, Mark found that he was whispering, “That’s right, sweetie. Take them off.” What had gotten into him? Mark LeMarchand wasn’t a peeping Tom—he was an ethical dominant who played consensually. The only thing he could think was that his libido and Abigail’s had so tuned into one another that he had started playing a scene with her, responding to her submissive nature and her submissive needs.

Beautiful eighteen-year-old Abigail Podret took off her jeans. Her panties were modest white cotton, and Mark, hard as a rock now, wouldn’t have had it any other way. Abigail bent to pull the jeans off, then stood, looking out the window where Mark was sure she could see the dark shapes of the trees among which he lay concealed, through the reflection of the furniture in the summerhouse living room. She held the jeans she had just removed in her hands, bunched up, as if trying to decide what she should do now that they no longer clad her.

Finally, with the ghost of a smile, she dropped them on the floor and turned back toward the couch. To Mark’s aroused astonishment, she bent over and put her hands on the cushions of the couch. Now he could see just how severely Dan Podret had whipped his daughter, even with her panties still on. Fiery red streaks, their color so vivid Mark could even make it out in the half-light, crossed her thighs and backside.

But Mark got an even better view a moment later, as Abigail, still bent over her face still hanging down toward the couch cushion, reached back and hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and, as if responding to the command Mark couldn’t have brought himself to voice, pulled them down to her slightly bent knees. Then, as Mark’s mouth fell open and he realized he had begun actually to pant, she moved her feet apart until Mark could just make out the shadowy secrets between her well-punished bottom-cheeks and thighs.

Abigail put her left hand on her bottom, moving it slowly, and began to rub. Mark fought hard against the urge to masturbate, and defeated it, only to have to wage the battle more vehemently when he saw Abigail’s right hand go between her legs. Involuntarily, he stepped forward to get a closer look, and was rewarded beyond his fevered erotic dreams to see that he could discern the eighteen-year-old’s fingers moving in her eighteen-year-old virgin pussy, which was glistening with her arousal in the faint light coming from the entryway.

Abigail was saying something loudly, in a cry of passion, and he couldn’t quite make it out. He stepped closer to the window, trying to tread carefully, until he was only three feet away from the glass.

“Oh, God…” he heard Abigail cry, “oh, Mr. LeMarchand… oh, don’t whip me… please, don’t…”

Perhaps he calculated wrong, but how could he calculate any other way? As Mark walked around the house to the open door, he tried to think of how he would approach the matter, and he had no idea—his mind couldn’t form a single thought except that he needed to be in that room, taking eighteen-year-old Abigail Podret and giving her what she needed after her whipping.

Mark stood in the living room before Abigail realized that she had heard footfalls. Suddenly her eyes, which she had closed in her erotic reverie, opened and grew wide in fear and startlement. Her hands flew away from her loins and she crumpled onto the floor, trying to hide herself.

“Mr. LeMarchand! I… I don’t…”

“Stand up, Abigail,” Mark said calmly, but with authority. A simple test, his gut told him, could give him everything he needed to know—above all, whether he should be as bold as his cock wanted him to be, or pretend that he had just seen the light on and wanted to make sure there weren’t thieves involved.

Abigail stood up.

“Pull up your panties, young lady.” She blushed crimson, and bent slightly to comply.

Now, a first gamble that Mark, his dominant blood singing in his ears, knew must succeed. “Take off your shirt.”

“What?”

Mark reached to the wall and turned on the light. Abigail started and blinked, her mouth half-open, apparently unable to figure out what to say. In her eyes, Mark saw the submissive look he had hoped he would find. The scene would be consensual, and Abigail needed it just as much as he did. He strode to the window and drew the curtains.

“I think you heard me,” he said softly, coming closer to Abigail, but still staying about two feet away, so as not to push her flight instinct too hard. “What have you got under there, a camisole? I’d like to see it.” Mark spoke without making the sexuality in his words overt at all. Power exchange was what he wanted to teach Abigail about, not juvenile fumbling or dirty old man exhibitionism. When he said he wanted to see Abigail’s underwear, he said it dispassionately, conveying the idea that for Mark to see Abigail’s underwear would be for her benefit as much as for his. Abigail was wearing a black cotton top that was just the slightest bit translucent. She gulped and took its lower hem in her hands. She pulled the shirt over her head and looked at Mark uncertainly, holding the garment in her right hand.

“Drop it on top of your jeans,” Mark said, and Abigail did.

Mark’s own breathing came hard as he looked at the beautiful eighteen-year-old, her perfect breasts heaving with anxiety and arousal in the thin white cotton of her camisole.

“Mr. LeMarchand…” she whispered.

“Sir,” he said.

Abigail drew a gasping breath at the word. “Sir, I… I’m… a virgin.”

“I could have guessed that, Abigail,” Mark said. “Why were you punished today?”

“I… sir… I… um… Jon Southey…”

Mark shook his head in an admonishing way. “You got caught with him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What were you doing?”

“Oh, God… please… please don’t make me say.”

“Abigail, I can spank you just as hard as your father can, and then I’ll tell your parents about what I saw you doing.”

“Oh, no… you didn’t… please say you didn’t…”

“Call me ‘sir,’ Abigail.”

“Sir… he… Jon… he had his hand…” Abigail closed her eyes and cast her face down to the floor. Her wavy black hair spilled around her face so adorably that Mark couldn’t resist taking the first step, literally, toward possessing her. He moved forward, until his face was only a foot away from that beautiful hair. He breathed in sharply through his nose. He smelled Abigail’s floral shampoo, and he smelled the arousal of her young cunt, and felt the intoxication of a scene so perfect he couldn’t have set it up with a thousand drafts of a script.

“Where did he have his hand, Abigail?” Mark asked softly.

She shook her head.

“Did he have his hand on your cunt? The sweet little cunt you showed me in the window?”

Chapter Three

“Oh, God…” Abigail said.

Suddenly Mr. LeMarchand’s hand took hold of her hair and pulled her head back.

Was it really happening, this thing she thought about every night, begging the universe that it might somehow become real? Was he here: the man who made a girl do what he wanted, who punished her when she didn’t? Was Mark LeMarchand, the man she fantasized about spanking her more often than it seemed to Abigail she thought about anything else, really here in the summerhouse with her, and had he seen her playing with herself? Had he
heard
what she cried out when she masturbated?

She closed her eyes, not wanting even to see the terrible look on Mr. LeMarchand’s face.

“Open your eyes, girl,” he said, and she did, because his power rang out in his voice. His handsome face was inches from hers, and he had a hard look in his eye, but not… not at all… like the hard look on Abigail’s father’s face when he had told her to get over the sofa for a whipping—really, when Dan Podret said anything.

The hard look in Mark LeMarchand’s eye said that he took a very great interest in Abigail not as some extension of the family honor but as a thing in herself: a thing Mark LeMarchand very much wanted to have and to enjoy.

“Answer me, Abigail. Did that handsome little airhead put his hand on the sweet little cunt that belongs to me?”

How could he say that word? Abigail had tried so hard to keep thinking of her private part as a pussy, so that she would feel that even though sex didn’t interest her, she could still separate herself from her parents’ sexless marriage. When she had heard her friends giggle about what really dirty girls called their pussies, though, Abigail had turned bright red and tried to pretend she hadn’t heard.

“Yes, sir,” Abigail whispered up at Mr. LeMarchand.

“Now we’re making progress,” he said. “You’ve earned a little reward, Abigail. Go back to the couch and resume the position you were in when you were so immodestly touching yourself. Keep your hands on the cushions, though. You’re not to touch yourself there again without my permission, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Did he mean ever? Why did it thrill her to think that he might mean he would punish her if he found out she had ever played with herself?

He released her head and she turned, automatically, to obey the order he had given her. As she put her hands on the cushions covered in a faded red check, she wondered, with a hot flush that seemed to go from her face to her nipples and the little bud at the top of her pussy, what Mark LeMarchand’s manhood looked like.

She had never wondered that before. Never. Even when she had imagined him tying her to a wagon wheel, the way they did with bad girls in the old days, ripping her clothes off, and flogging her with a bullwhip, she had not imagined what he might look like without his clothes. Mr. LeMarchand, or sometimes Lord LeMarchand in her fantasies, always dressed very elegantly, in contrast with the way Abigail, in those same fantasies, was almost always naked. If she wasn’t naked at the beginning of the fantasy, she always became naked by the end of it.

She felt his hand on top of her waist, and she whimpered at the thought of what he might do. Oh, how she wanted him to spank her—but she didn’t know if she could take it on top of what her father had bestowed.

What Mr. LeMarchand did, though, was better: he brought his other hand ever so gently against her bottom in the white cotton panties, and he began to rub her there, as she made little sobbing noises in her throat.

“Shh, little sub,” Mr. LeMarchand said. “You’re just a naughty little sub, aren’t you, Abigail?”

“What’s a… wh-what’s a sub, sir?” Abigail was breathing so fast and unevenly at the terrible, lovely feeling that she could barely get out the words.

“A sub is a submissive, Abigail,” he said patiently, continuing to rub her bottom, where the sting of the belt had seemed to transform into warmth in her pussy. “A submissive is a girl like you, who needs a man like me to dominate her, and make her do the things she can’t admit she wants to do, and do the things to her that she can’t admit she wants him to do.”