Breaking Abigail (8 page)

“Take off your underwear, right now, Abigail, or I’m going to spank you,” Ian said. “Think about how that will feel on top of my cane marks. Do as I say, girl.”

Abigail stood there, eyes still closed, taking shallow breaths. Then she opened her eyes and looked down at the floor. Without another word, she bent to pull her panties the rest of the way off, and kicked them away. Then she put her hands behind her, unhooked her bra, and shrugged it off. She threw it in the same direction. Abigail Podret stood naked before him, looking so fuckable that Ian had to suppress a little cry of arousal of his own at the sight of her perfect little breasts, with their tiny brown nipples, erect at what he made her undergo, and the sparse nineteen-year-old curls that didn’t quite conceal the tender cleft of her sweet cunt.

“Good girl,” Ian said, as he went to put the cane back in the closet. “It appears we don’t need the inspection, so we can proceed to the next part of your training. I am going to leave now, and you are going to go to this closet, find the white nightgown there, and put it on. You will put away your clothes in your dresser.”

Ian closed the closet door and turned back toward Abigail. He said, “Your owner, who has been watching our little session here, will come in after you do that. Because your virginity is so valuable to your owner, your defloration will be an important part of your breaking, and it will take place today, in a few minutes. Once he has claimed your maidenhead, we can begin to train you in earnest. I will be watching, of course, and if you fail to do as you are commanded, Abigail, I will return and enforce your owner’s will with my cane. Your owner has been given a thorough medical examination, and you were given birth control shots while you were asleep, so you need not worry on any such score. Do you understand?”

Chapter Nine

Yes, of course she understood, but that didn’t mean she could do anything but cry. “No,” she said, sobbing. “It’s just too… it’s monstrous… surely you can see that! Please… please, master… a man I’ve never met… you can’t—you can’t do this!”

“Think of yourself as a bride from the Middle Ages, Abigail. I happen to know you think about that kind of thing all the time.”

“Oh, my God, how can you know that?”

“You don’t need to know the answer to that question, Abigail. You need to obey the man who will be here very soon to take your virginity. He has paid handsomely for the privilege, and it’s my job to make sure he gets what he paid for. If I see you resist him, I’ll make sure your backside pays a heavy price for it.”

Abigail saw something in Master Ian’s eyes, then, that gave her pause. She saw hunger first, and realizing that hunger was there in him, for her, sent the blood rushing to her face, but it also seemed to increase the wetness between her thighs: she had the sudden impulse to throw herself at him and beg him to deflower her himself. She must be going crazy.

At the same time, she also saw in his eyes a restraint that seemed to have almost the opposite effect on her, and convinced her even more surely that something inside her had taken a wrong course, or had come unglued, somehow. She could see that Master Ian wanted her, but that he knew he had to allow another man—a wealthier, more powerful man—to deflower her. The feeling turned her desire for Master Ian into a desire for something else, which she knew she couldn’t say was her owner, whose name Abigail didn’t even know.

Abigail wanted to put on the white nightgown, lie on the bed, and be deflowered by the wealthy man who had purchased her. She wanted to be the girl whom the lord had chosen for a night’s pleasure, who would capture his fancy. The lord would be unable to part with her, so much did he enjoy his nights of pleasure, and he would raise her up and make her his lady.

Janet’s father. Mr. LeMarchand. The lord would be like him: tall, with piercing brown eyes and high cheekbones and a strong chin. His eyes would smolder when they looked at Abigail, and he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from ordering her into bed, with her face in the pillows, so that he could have her hard, from behind.

Her blush grew even more intense as the fantasy went through her mind while she stood there naked in front of Master Ian. He put out his hand and cupped her chin gently in his fingers. He smiled. “I’ll see you again soon, Abigail. And then we’ll really start to have fun together.”

Abigail heard a dominant, threatening note in his voice, and it made her shiver and, suddenly, though she seemed almost to have forgotten about the more conventional parts of modesty, to feel the need to put her right hand down to hide her private part and her left arm up to shield her breasts so that Master Ian wouldn’t see her nipples.

He chuckled. “Lovely,” he said. “Your owner is a lucky man.” He turned then, walked to the door that led to the outside, and opened it, revealing a nondescript hallway, like a hotel corridor. Master Ian turned back to Abigail and said, pointing, “That door goes to the bathroom, of course. You’ll probably want to use it before your owner arrives, and he would also like you to shower before you put on your nightgown. You may take your time, within reason, getting into the nightgown. If I see you not wearing it in an hour’s time, though, I’ll be back to cane you again. Also, you’re going to want to play with yourself in the shower. Don’t.” He stepped through the door and closed it behind him. Abigail heard something that must be a bolt turning on the other side of the door. She decided instantly that she wouldn’t give them, whoever they were, the satisfaction of watching her trying and failing to open the door.

She went to the bathroom to think, but seeing herself naked in the mirror (how mundane, to be naked in a bathroom! But here it meant something else, something dirty) seemed to make it even more difficult to get hold of her thoughts and her imaginings. There were red lines on her bottom, made by Master Ian’s cane. Her owner would see those red welts, and he would touch them. The thought made her close her eyes, as a shudder went through her body. The pain from them had dulled, so that from moment to moment she was no longer aware, as she had been a few minutes before, that she had been caned, but the sight of the cane marks had a power over her that she could hardly get her mind around.

After she had finished peeing in the standard luxury hotel bathroom, with its shower stall and an enormous Jacuzzi tub, and filled and drunk a glass of water, she decided she might as well shower, since she wouldn’t have to look in the mirror in there, and she always seemed to think better in the shower.

But having the wonderful hot water running all over her, claiming her, stinging a little, but not really unpleasantly, on the welts of the cane, didn’t seem to improve matters. Washing her hair only made her think of what would happen when she put on the white nightgown—how he, whoever he was, would come and claim her more thoroughly than Abigail had ever been claimed. Abigail Podret was going to be deflowered, very soon, by a man she had never seen. The thought seemed to dominate her mind as thoroughly as Master Ian had dominated her body when he had begun her training a little more than an hour before.

Or was the shower actually having its clarifying effect, truly? Didn’t Abigail want precisely what was about to happen to her, in that bed, wearing that white nightgown? She realized that she needed to wash between her legs, that she had been avoiding doing that, the thing she usually did as soon as she got into the shower to get it out of the way, as her mother had told her to do long ago. When she shyly put her soapy hand down there, she gasped. The sting of the cane welts seemed to burst forward through her loins and make her sex glow like a burning ember. She couldn’t stop herself, she was touching herself now, the way Master Ian had touched her. It wouldn’t take long.

Suddenly she heard something, and her eyes flew open. Master Ian was standing there outside the shower stall, to which he had opened the door, with a stern, but also rather amused, look in his eye. Abigail screamed; her hands left her pussy and her breasts, where they had been naughtily toying, but then returned to the very same places to try to shield them, absurdly, from Master Ian’s eyes.

“Turn off the water and come out here for a spanking, Abigail,” he said. “I told you not to masturbate, and just look at you.”

“I… I d-didn’t!” Abigail protested weakly.

“Don’t make it worse by lying. I saw you.”

“I… p-please… I won’t do it again!”

Ian walked into the stall and reached past Abigail to turn off the water, apparently not caring that he got quite wet himself in the spray. Then, to Abigail’s horror, as she stood paralyzed with fright, he put his left arm around her naked waist and hauled her over his left knee, clad in now-soaking jeans. As Abigail looked at the tiled floor, with the last of the water running down into the drain, Master Ian began to spank her, very hard, on her wet, naked bottom, where the cane marks made the pain so bad that Abigail sobbed from the very beginning.

“Playing… with… yourself…” he began, emphasizing each word with a spank, “is something that isn’t tolerated here, Abigail. Do you think… you can… grasp… that… simple lesson?”

“Yes, master! Yes! Ow! Oh, God…”

“Very well,” he said, ceasing to spank her, but continuing to hold her firmly over his knee. He put his right hand back on her bottom gently, and said, “I don’t mind spanking you as many times as you need it, Abigail. I hope you realize that.”

“Yes, master,” she sobbed. Master Ian stood her up again.

“You may finish your shower now,” he said. “There’s lotion by the sink; I suggest you use it on your backside, after you’re done in here.” He turned and left, closing the stall door behind him.

Was the intention not to let her think, not to let her consider at all what was happening to her? If so, they were doing a very good job.

After she had finished her shower, she stood in front of the sink in the bathroom, looking at the moisturizing lotion that sat there, desperate to put some on her bottom, which now stung like fire. But she knew with absolute certainty that to put the lotion on would arouse her so much that the apparent destruction of her reason would only grow much worse.

Abigail reached out and pumped a few squirts of the lotion into her right hand. She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t see the naked virgin trying to soothe her sore bottom, so recently spanked because the virgin had touched herself between her legs. She put the hand with the lotion behind her, and gasped at the initial sting, and then the soothing coolness.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, over and over, as she rubbed the lotion gently into the welts Master Ian had made.

Could she put on the nightgown? Abigail was intelligent enough to recognize on some cognitive level that the nightgown was a kind of challenge to her. To put on the white nightgown (could she even go to the closet, open the door, and look at it, to see what kind of nightgown her owner had decided she must wear for her defloration?) would demonstrate her submission.

She didn’t think about it. When she had thoroughly moisturized her backside, she went to get her bra and her panties, and her shorts and her top.

They weren’t there. They weren’t in the dresser. The dresser drawers were completely empty.

“Oh, no…” Abigail said. She turned, trying to see the cameras she knew must be in the walls. “No, please. Please… you can’t. You just can’t. You mustn’t.”

For a long moment she stood in the center of the room, on the carpet on which she had knelt for Master Ian. Then, naked, she sat on the bed, and waited to see what would happen. Her mother’s talk of easiness had always seemed faintly absurd, but Abigail realized now that some part of it had penetrated deep into her psyche, for as she sat there, thinking “I will not put on the nightgown. I will not even open the closet door,” she understood that she was also saying to herself, “Abigail Podret is not easy. Abigail Podret does not want to submit to a man. The things Abigail Podret fantasizes about belong to her, and she will never tell anyone about them. Abigail Podret does not belong to a man, no matter how wealthy that man might be.”

After a while, Abigail heard the bolt being turned, and her heart quailed. Would it be…? At that moment, she desperately wanted to run to the closet and put on the nightgown, but she felt nailed to her place on the bed by fear. Master Ian opened the door. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and walked straight to the closet, where he opened the door and took out the cane.

“No… please…” Abigail said.

“Get over the chair, Abigail,” Master Ian said.

“I can’t bear it, master… please… give me more time…” She clasped her hands in front of her face, in entreaty.

“More time would serve no purpose, Abigail. You are going to wear the nightgown your owner picked out, and you are going to lose your maidenhead in a very few minutes. The only question is whether you need to be caned before those things happen.”

Abigail looked into his stern, handsome face, and saw terrible resolution.

“Please…” she said, but as soon as she opened her mouth to say it, Master Ian reached out and took her by the hair again, and began to pull her toward the chair.

“No… oh, no…” Abigail wailed, thinking about the pain she had already had from the cane. “I’ll… I’ll do it… I’ll put it on… oh, God…”

Master Ian let go of her hair.

“Yes, you will,” he said. He returned the cane to the closet, and once again closed the closet door. As swiftly as he had come, he left, closing and locking the door behind him.

Abigail rose from the bed, went to the closet, and opened it. On hooks at the side hung the cane, a short strap, and a wooden paddle. All alone, on a hanger, though, hung a lovely white cotton nightgown with a nearly translucent weave and lace at the collar, the cuffs, and the hem. Trembling, Abigail put out her hands and slipped it off the hanger. She rolled it so that she could put it over her head, and then at last, she donned the garment her owner had appointed for her.

It felt odd to be clothed after having had her clothes so emphatically taken from her, and odder to be clothed in something so diaphanous and… well, grown up. Was this how a bride of the Middle Ages felt?