Breaking Abigail (22 page)

“Oh, God… master… may I…” Hans began to worry that the weaving of her hips might be enough to overturn even the sturdy stool the Institute had provided—no doubt with exactly this kind of activity in mind.

“No, little one. I shall give you one orgasm, just before I send you back to your training. But you shall have none until then.” He held her hips absolutely still then, and pounded her backside with his own hips, knowing that would take some of the pleasure away.

“Oh… master…” she sobbed.

“I have vowed it, but you shall nevertheless demonstrate to me, at great length, exactly how well you are being trained to take my cock here.” And he touched her there, she cried out, and he thought she might come. Evidently her training in feminine pleasure served her well, though, and she seemed to tighten her muscles against the pleasure.

At the same time, certainly using a technique she had learned in her masculine pleasure course, she tightened something inside her cunt, and the feeling was so powerful, the pleasure so great, that it sent Hans spinning out over the edge of his own orgasm, breaking his self-control. He shouted, and his whole body shook.

“Thank you, master,” sobbed Abigail as his cock pulsed inside her.

“You are a very good girl, little one,” Hans said softly, stroking her back through the gorgeous lace. “So very good for your master.”

“Thank you, master,” she whispered again.

He withdrew from her slowly and rubbed her bottom, first her right cheek and then her left, as she whimpered. Then, very deliberately, he began to caress her cunt, teasing her for long minutes, while the whimpers grew to moans of frustration.

“Please… oh, God, please, master…”

“I have said what I have said, little one,” he replied, feeling that no sound could ever be so delicious to his ears as the sound of his concubine’s pleasure. “You may rise, and put the cushions on the bed so that I can play with your bottom when you are over them. Please make them comfortable for yourself, because you will be there for a very long while. Then arrange yourself on the cushions. I will be in to play with you in a few minutes.”

He stood back and watched Abigail rise a little stiffly from the stool, her eyes downcast. As she moved toward the bedroom, the sight of his own seed, mingled with her wantonness, dripping down her thighs began to make him hard again.
Who controls whom?
he wondered. Then he smiled.
It doesn’t matter at all, does it? That is the Institute’s raison d’être.

Chapter Twenty-Two

When Abigail moved to obey her owner and put the cushions on the bed, so that she might lie over them and have her bottom played with at length and without regard for her feelings in the matter, she still had no idea what to do with what she had figured out the previous evening, as she left her conference with Miss Anne-Marie and walked back to her room.

Miss Anne-Marie had been encouraging her to talk about Mark LeMarchand, after Abigail had brought up what had happened at her eighteenth birthday party, when she had looked at him and found him looking back when someone had thoughtlessly mentioned a birthday spanking. But Miss Anne-Marie had seemed to steer the conversation in a way that Abigail hadn’t expected.

More than once, as Abigail talked about the thoughts and fantasies that look from Mr. LeMarchand had excited and played into, Miss Anne-Marie had said, as if casually, but in the same words each time, “And this was all about the father of your friend.”

It was the dissonance of those words with the way she thought about Mr. LeMarchand that started the train of thought that led to the realization of which Abigail was becoming more and more sure. There were memories about Mark LeMarchand that Abigail didn’t have access to. It was a very strange feeling, like trying to remember the name of a minor author she had read in high school, but with an entire part of her life. The more she tried to remember the last time she had seen Mr. LeMarchand, the more confused she got.
I had a dream about him,
she thought to herself.
I must have had a dream about him, and how he came to the summerhouse when I was playing with myself. It had to have been a dream.

But in that dream, had she also been at a café with him, somehow? And had he said, “You won’t remember”?

Then that strange dream had merged with the constant intellectual drumbeat that had begun as soon as Master Ian had entered the strange room and told her that they knew all about her, that she had been chosen because she would make the perfect concubine for her owner. The beat had grown louder the more she learned about the Institute, and above all the more she got to know Miss Anne-Marie.

The drumbeat was “How could it be legal?”

How could it be legal? The question would not leave her alone, because these were not people who were stupid enough, or crass enough, to try to do something like this, involving what had to be vast sums of money and vast pools of political influence, if they wouldn’t be able to defend themselves in court.

How could it be legal? The answer came to her like a downpour from a clear blue sky: she must have consented. Abigail herself, somehow, must have consented, and they must have the proof of it, and they must have made her memories seem like they weren’t real, like they were dreams. She must have consented to some legalized version of prostitution—the sex itself probably wasn’t in the contract, but she had probably agreed to some other sort of employment with the Institute, and there must be compensation involved.

Why would she ever have consented? Oh, God: she knew exactly why. She remembered feeling like she was going crazy—they hadn’t been able to take her memory of that feeling of incipient madness away. Or maybe they hadn’t wanted to, because when Abigail was being trained, deflowered, used, there was always now the feeling deep down that she had gained her sanity that way, even if she had lost her freedom.

She still didn’t have the memories, and she realized now, as she waited over the cushions for her owner, that she wasn’t sure she wanted them. Her handsome Viking owner would take her to Scandinavia—maybe to a castle, maybe to a fjord, maybe on a Viking ship (she smiled at her silliness, but it simply didn’t matter). In possession of all the facts, as she must have been when she gave them the rock-solid evidence of her consent to everything the Institute wanted to do with her—no, for her—Abigail had said yes, and now here she was.

And there was probably a lot of money involved, right? Maybe even more than the volunteers were getting? Abigail wasn’t a venal person, but she had dreams that her family money probably wouldn’t fund, given her parents’ disapproval of their daughter even thinking about majoring in computer science. She must have given her consent because she had assurances the Institute would keep her safe, and because there would be money to make her dreams come true.

And Mr. LeMarchand. He must have been involved. Those ‘dreams’ about him—they must be all that was left of her memories of how this all had happened. Her heart swelled with love for him, without even knowing exactly what he had done for her.

She heard her owner’s footsteps behind her. “Lovely,” he said. “I fear it will be very difficult to keep my vow tonight.” She heard the sound of a chair being drawn up to the foot of the bed, and she blushed. Then, with a shock that faded and left a strange satisfaction behind, she realized something. Abigail was blushing even more now that she had figured it all out than she would have if she hadn’t. Knowing that she herself had admitted somehow, somewhere, that what Abigail Podret really needed was a powerful man, with an enormous butt-plug in his hand, pulling up a chair behind her to spend the next few hours giving her wicked bottom everything he wanted to give it—knowing that she had been naughty enough to give her consent made her blush even hotter.

She felt the now-familiar sensation of lubed fingers, preparing her, and she gave a little whine that made her master say, “Shh, little one.”

She loved it when he called her ‘little one.’ She could admit that now. She didn’t want the memories: she just wanted her master.

Abigail cried out at the feeling of the enormous plug, pushing, testing, making her demonstrate how Master J and Miss Anne-Marie had patiently taught her to open. “Thank you, master,” she sobbed. “Thank you.”

* * *

After he had sent her back, the last days of her training went by in a blur. Abigail worried at first that she would show some sign that she knew she had consented, but she soon realized she need not have feared. Just as when her owner had come to play with her bottom, the shame that seemed the mainspring of her erotic self only seemed to grow at the thought that she had brought it all on herself. Now that she knew, in her soul, the rightness of her will to submit, it seemed to her that she could enjoy her modesty’s resistance even more than she had enjoyed it in the early days.

Now she found that though the volunteers had been the ones, before, to look at Abigail with pity, she herself began to look at them that way. She remembered when Victoria had said that she envied Abigail, and Abigail had been at an utter loss to comprehend. Now it all seemed clear: Abigail’s need to be forced made her responses even more intense, and those responses made her the kind of concubine that dominant men seemed to enjoy above all things.

Zoe’s
nuit à derrière
was scheduled for two days before Abigail’s own. Her owner had come to sample her. Zoe said at dinner the night she had returned from the guest quarters that he was very handsome, and (she whispered) very famous, though she couldn’t tell them who he was.

“He said he wants to take me away to this exclusive resort in Fiji for a whole month and just fuck me senseless, morning, noon, and night.”

Beatrice giggled. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Thank you, master,’ of course.” Zoe giggled too. Abigail blushed, thinking about how much she would love to have her owner say that to her. Not that he hadn’t said very similar things, of course!

“I think,” he had said softly as Abigail moaned at the feeling of him moving the big plug a little in her anus, “I want to tie you in this position in my bed at home, and leave you there for a week. The servants will feed you and wash you, but you will be there, ready for me, just a beautiful bottom waiting for your master’s cock.”

* * *

Abigail watched Miss Anne-Marie strap Zoe to the special bench in the Great Hall, thinking that it would be her turn in two days’ time. She hadn’t absolutely decided what she was going to do, but she had nearly settled on continuing to pretend she didn’t know that her memory had been suppressed. She could save that for the future, in the event that they weren’t eventually going to tell her anyway: she felt sure that she would never have signed a contract for the
permanent
alteration of her memory.

Zoe’s owner entered, wearing a master’s robe, and began to advance across the enormous expanse of Persian carpet toward his concubine’s waiting backside. He had decreed that Zoe should wear red: a red corset and red stockings that went beautifully with her red hair, and looked particularly striking against her pale skin. Miss Anne-Marie stood to the side of Zoe, in her white nightgown, facing the advance of Zoe’s owner. She held a bottle of lube.

He was a movie star. They all recognized him immediately, and gasped. He was an honest to God movie star—one who everyone thought must be a closeted gay, because his name was never linked with anyone. He was tall and dark-haired, and about as gorgeous as a man could ever be. His cock, Abigail saw, wasn’t as big as Abigail’s own master’s, but she was sure that his physical presence and his personal power would more than make up for that, for Zoe.

His cock stood out from his loins, and he held it in his hand and stroked it arrogantly as he made his way through the circle of kneeling girls toward the bottom of his own concubine. He put his hand on that bottom possessively, and Abigail saw Zoe shudder at his touch.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said, the same way he spoke his romantic lines in his multi-million-dollar films.

“Hello, master,” Zoe replied.

“I’m going to get you ready now,” the movie star said, in a matter-of-fact way that Abigail found nearly made her swoon at the thought that her own master would get her ready that way, very soon. The movie star took the bottle of lube from Anne-Marie, and began to apply it, gently but insistently, while Zoe made little kitten noises at the feeling of having his hands there. The whole thing was so unbearably arousing that Abigail found her right hand drifting, rubbing against her nightgown, and she had to pull it away guiltily.

“It’s time, Zoe,” the movie star said.

“Yes, master,” she replied. Abigail longed to be able to see the beautiful cockhead pushing up against the little hole that she had herself been made to kiss now a great many times, but she could certainly imagine it, and she did. She saw it vividly above all when Zoe cried out in discomfort at the invasion, and then at the vigorous fucking in which the movie star began to engage. Abigail felt her eyes widen as he grunted with the extremity of his pleasure, and began to seem almost bestial in the way he impaled his new concubine, whom Abigail now considered one of her best friends in the world.

“Oh,” Beatrice said softly, next to her, but they had been forbidden to speak, and she said no more.

The movie star took hold of Zoe’s corset and pounded her cute little bottom. “That’s it, Zoe,” he said. “That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. Take it.”

Zoe screamed in response, and her pain seemed to bring him to the summit of his pleasure. “Fuck!” he roared, and then he was still, holding her hips and pressing his loins against her bottom. They watched the strong muscles of his back ripple, and his head suddenly hang as if he had given his essence entirely to Zoe.

They heard her say, “Thank you, master.” Abigail wished she could get up and run and kiss and comfort Zoe, but at least they had been promised that they could hug her one last time before the movie star took her away. He pulled out now, and belted his robe. He moved to Zoe’s head and squatted down so that he could look into her eyes. Abigail could see that they were watering, but that Zoe’s expression was radiant.