Breaking Abigail (12 page)

“Yes, master.” She brought her left hand up, and touched the wrinkled sack very gently. As she watched what her hands were doing, she began to feel her pussy dampen, to her surprise. Somehow to give such lewd service to the man who had apparently bought her, to feel his hand in her hair making her watch as he received pleasure from his concubine who happened to be Abigail herself, had become one of those things—like spanking, above all—that could reach into her secret places and call forth a nearly unaccountable response. More, those things, and this thing—watching her hand move rhythmically, and feeling the throbbing of her master’s heartbeat just underneath the tender skin that covered his stiff cock—made her feel that the voices of society in her mind must be wrong, because didn’t her arousal mean that Abigail was made to please a master’s cock?

“Kiss my cock, now, little one,” came her master’s voice, above her. Abigail bent her head, kissed the head of his cock, and thrilled at the little sound of satisfaction he made. She thrilled even at the naughty feeling of the wrinkly texture of his cock head against her lips. A part of her marveled that she, a captive, had been brought to treat this vulnerable part of the man responsible for her capture with such respect.

But… but they had picked her, Master Ian had said. It seemed so strange: why would they pick Abigail Podret for this kind of captivity? Now, though, she began to wonder if they had picked her because they knew her body would betray her this way.

“Take your hands away now, Abigail,” her master said gently, tilting her face up to look at his, with a tug at her hair. Abigail obeyed, holding her hands up in front of her like a rabbit holding its little paws. “I’m going to let you use them again in a few moments, to make me come in your mouth…” Abigail couldn’t help making a little fearful sound at that, but at the same time the arousal—the
submissive
arousal, she suddenly realized—only grew. Her owner pulled her head back harder, hearing the sound. “Yes, you had better be prepared for that, little one—you will be swallowing my seed whether you like it or not.” Now Abigail’s whimper had much more arousal than fear, and her owner smiled. “Right now, though, I need to feel your mouth holding my cock. I am going to use your mouth for a little while to make myself feel good. You will not like it, but I promise that until you become skilled at taking me deep into your throat I will not make you do it for very long. Do you think you understand?”

“Yes, master,” Abigail whispered. Now she thought she understood about the hands.

“You are to let me move your head as freely as you can. Do you understand?”

“Yes, master.”

“Open your mouth now, and put out your tongue.” Abigail obeyed. Her owner took his cock in his left hand and held it out straight. Then, without any more warning, he drove her head down, and her mouth onto the stiff flesh of his manhood.

His cock had no taste, really, but it had texture and, above all, size. It filled her mouth and came up against her palate, and pushed further until she gagged. Her owner let her gag, still holding himself inside her, with her nose buried in the hair of his loins and her eyes looking only at the stark white skin of his waist, and then he pulled her all the way off, grunting in pleasure.

“Nice,” he said simply. “We will try that again.” He drove Abigail’s face down again toward his lap and onto his cock as she fought desperately for breath. Now his left hand came to join his right atop Abigail’s head, and she gagged even sooner. He lifted her head, so she could breathe, but he left the head of his cock inside her lips, though instinct made her try to keep raising her head. But her owner kept it down, saying, “Don’t try to fight me, Abigail, unless you want a spanking.”

He let her catch her breath though, murmuring, “Good girl… good girl. You are doing fine.” When the panic had subsided, as he must have been able to tell from the slowing of her breathing, he pushed her down again, and began to move her head up and down so that her mouth moved exactly as he wanted it to move, as if it were a more pleasurable version of his own hand.

It held no pleasure for Abigail, but she found that being held and being used that way somehow aroused her—not the nearly overwhelming kind of arousal he had forced on her when he was possessing her from behind, pounding her punished backside and filling her sex with his manhood over and over—but a kind of insistent, low arousal that seemed to keep her warm between her thighs without making her any wetter. To her shame, she realized that she wanted him to touch her there again, with those big hands that could command pleasure that Abigail knew she could not refuse, or she would be spanked, so she could just feel it.

“So nice,” he murmured, as he moved her up and down, not so deep that she gagged, but deep enough that she worried that she would, at every downward motion. “So nice to have a little toy like Abigail, with a pretty little mouth to put a cock in.”

If her mouth had been free, she probably would have uttered one of her predictable ‘Oh, God’s’ at that, but she felt obscurely grateful that her mouth had a cock in it, so that Abigail didn’t have to worry about the repetitiveness of anything she said: she didn’t have to say anything at all, because her master had decided she should be silent, and had put his cock in her mouth to make sure she obeyed.

After a few thrusts like that, though, Abigail’s owner released her head, with his cock still half-sheathed inside her mouth and said, “Your turn now, Abigail. Make master come, and get your first helping of his seed. You may use your hands.”

Those words sent a shock of arousal through Abigail so great that she did not question why they affected her, and she did not hesitate, but instantly began to try to imitate the motions he had enforced on her when he had been holding her head tightly and moving her mouth up and down. It proved much easier to take him deep when she was the one in control, but she could tell she would have to work harder to give him pleasure: she would have to show at every moment that she loved being his toy, loved belonging to him.

And at that moment, at least, she did. She removed her mouth from the shaft of his cock and kissed it reverentially on its tip, then she licked the cock from bottom to top, and took it as deep into her mouth as she could, again. She cupped his balls in her left hand, and remembered that he had said she should lick them, too, and so she planted a little kiss there. The hairs tickled her nose, and she realized that she could smell a new smell from him, a scent that seemed to match her own familiar aroused scent that she had sometimes thrilled to sniff on her fingers when she touched herself, and had forgotten for a moment all about her modesty. It was dirty, somehow, and musky, and lewd—and yet it intoxicated her senses and made her desperate to touch herself.

Tentatively, she put out her tongue and licked the little purse, and got more of the naughty taste. Her master responded with a grunt of pleasure. “Good girl,” he said. “You’re doing so well. I’m almost there. Take me deep, now.” On fire to obey him, she took the cock in her mouth again, and pushed her mouth down on it as far as she could. Suddenly his hands were in her hair again, and he was moving her mouth up and down as he had before. Somehow Abigail knew that he hadn’t intended to do that, but that the pleasure she gave him had made him need to dominate her that way.

He shoved her mouth all the way down, and up, and down again, and as she gagged on his hard manhood she felt every muscle in his body tense, and then the hot, thick seed began to spurt into her mouth, bitter and even acidic, and yet just right, somehow, for Abigail, her owner’s sex-toy.

* * *

Abigail’s owner spent the night with her in the bed in which she had awoken, what seemed so many hours before. Exhausted, Abigail fell asleep almost immediately. In what must have been the early morning, her owner awakened her so that he could enjoy her with his cock, taking her from the front for the first time, instructing her to raise her knees high so he could drive his manhood into her, hard and deep.

Abigail had two of that new kind of orgasm she’d had for the first time the night before. The pleasure from this submission to a man simply telling her to put her knees up and take his cock where he wanted to put it, for as long as he wanted to have it there, began to seem almost familiar. But though she still felt the same guilt at letting a man make her do the things that she had always felt bad about when playing with herself after a spanking, her body responded very quickly now to the way her master treated her. That sensitivity to his voice, his hands—to the very sight of him together with the knowledge that he had bought her and she belonged to him, and must serve his lusts—only seemed to be growing, the more his regard for her own good and her own pleasure shone through.

Somehow, being a purchased captive had made Abigail Podret begin to feel that she could actually experience things she had been sure she could never experience.

After he had taken her that way, and had come inside her again, he looked at her meaningfully, and she said, as soon as she remembered, “Thank you for fucking me, master.” Her owner smiled and kissed her for the very first time. Abigail found to her surprise that she was eager for the kiss, and welcomed it, and loved the tenderness in it. As he broke the kiss, she pictured Mr. LeMarchand for a moment and blushed, thinking about how she had longed for him to kiss her that way.

Her owner got up and dressed swiftly, while Abigail watched, confused. He returned, kissed her once more, and said, “I will see you again in a few weeks, if all goes to plan, little one, and then I will take you home with me. I think you will like my home.” He turned, walked to the door, opened it, and was gone, in the space of a few seconds.

Abigail’s thoughts turned again to Mr. LeMarchand. Why? It was almost as if there were something lurking underneath her thoughts, teasing her, making her think of him. What if Mr. LeMarchand had been the one to take her virginity, as she had imagined him doing (or, really, imagined him saying he would do without ever imagining him actually doing it)? But wasn’t her owner, as different as he was from Mark LeMarchand in so many ways, the same where her fantasies were concerned?

Chapter Thirteen

On the video feed, Mark watched Ian re-enter Abigail’s room, wearing now the same sort of dressing gown Hans had worn, of the sort Anne-Marie had ordered an even hundred of and designated the Institute’s ‘master’s robe.’ Mark tried to sort out his feelings: that task seemed to become both easier and more difficult as her early training continued.

Mark thought he probably could never give up thinking of Abigail as his own girl, but watching Hans Goterborg deflower her hadn’t produced in him the uncontrollable rage he had worried it might. When Hans had entered Abigail’s room, Mark had frankly thought himself in danger of running down the hall, flinging the door open, and attempting to punch Hans in the face. Knowing that he wouldn’t make it more than a few steps before the attendants of the Institute stopped him had been the only thing that had prevented him. Or so he thought, though really he wondered if those attendants, hired precisely for their skill in restraining the human body from doing anything foolish, were simply the excuse he used.

For at the very moment he almost ran down the hall, the video feed had switched from Hans to Abigail, and he had begun to study Abigail’s face as it reacted to the entrance of her new owner. He remembered once again that Goterborg, by himself, even without the Institute to guide and train and monitor, could do much more for Abigail than Mark ever could. When Goterborg had deflowered her fifteen minutes later, Mark had to his surprise found that he actually found the sight both moving and extremely arousing. It was as if he could detach himself and leave Mark LeMarchand, neighbor who had a thing for young Abigail Podret, behind, and become the man who was placed where he was to make sure that Abigail’s needs were met by the program Anne-Marie and Jean had developed for her.

Thus, he had watched the session that followed, with the oral, almost dispassionately, observing that Abigail seemed to be more aroused by the time she went to take her master’s cock in her mouth than she had ever yet seemed to be. He had let go of the idea that he was there as a man who might someday have Abigail as his own, and embodied his role as the man who would be sure she found happiness with the man who owned her now.

Abigail was lying in bed after Hans had departed. Her eyes were open, and she seemed to be processing the experience of his visit, or perhaps wondering what would happen next. Ian came in and walked to the side of the bed without saying anything. When Abigail saw him, she shuddered as if at a recurring nightmare and her eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything, either.

Finally, Ian broke the silence. “In the presence of a master, Abigail,” he said. “You will kneel.”

Abigail scrambled out of bed. She still had the white nightgown on, and she looked adorable kneeling at Ian’s feet, looking up at him.

“Eyes at my feet,” he said. Abigail blushed and obeyed, turning her face downward.

“Today you will go to the Institute. At the Institute there is a specific protocol concerning the nightgown you wear in certain situations. There are three colors: white, blue, and pink. You will wear white in the morning. If your pussy has been enjoyed, you will wear blue. If you have been punished, you will wear pink. What color should you be wearing now?”

“Blue, master?”

“Exactly. There’s a blue nightgown in your closet now. Please go put it on.”

Abigail blushed and rose, and went to the closet.

“You may put the white one in the hamper in the bathroom.”

“Yes, master.” Her responses were becoming automatic, Mark noticed. The conspiracy that Brian had sketched out for him, between her body’s will to avoid the pain of a spanking or a caning and her heart’s need to submit to a dominant man, had begun to take firm hold.

Abigail fetched the blue nightgown and brought it over to the bed. Then she seemed to hesitate.