Breaking Abigail Read Online Free Page A

utterly changed, and seeing in his own eyes distress and confusion. She put everything she had into her performance as she said angrily, “Get out! Get out of my summerhouse!”
    “Abigail… I…”
    “Get out!”
    He closed his eyes for a moment and bowed his head, as if gathering his thoughts. Then he opened them and said. “I’m sorry, Abigail. I’m not sure I understand, but I think maybe I do. I’ll go. May I put on my pants?”
    “Yes,” Abigail said, still pretending fury.
    Mr. LeMarchand pulled his jeans on and buckled his belt.
    “Abigail, I’m going to go now,” he said, now with a sad look on his face. “I think you may have second, and third, and fourth thoughts about this moment. I’m there for you. I know what you need much better than you do, it appears.”
    Then he walked out. When he was gone, Abigail collapsed on the couch in tears. How could she have done it? she asked herself, but from moment to moment ‘it’ seemed to change meaning. One moment it meant, how could she have almost let her childhood friend’s father deflower her in the summerhouse? The next it meant, how could she have stopped him and sent him away, the man she had fantasized about at least since her eighteenth birthday?
    Then she asked herself, and couldn’t stop asking, why didn’t he make me? If he had just taken what he wanted and pushed in, everything would have been alright. More than alright: wonderful. She would belong to him now, and he could have her whenever he wanted to spank and fuck and make her do terrible things to please him. Why didn’t he just take her hips firmly and start fucking her?
    God, he couldn’t have done that, could he? It would have been… horrible. And yet it would have been perfect. She sobbed as she realized just how messed up she was. If the only way she could have that feeling, the incredible feeling she’d had while Mr. LeMarchand had commanded her to do those things—to strip and assume that position bending over the couch—and when he had been touching her… If the only way she could have that feeling was for a man to take her against her will, and no man she could ever love would take her against her will, truly, how could she ever find happiness?

Chapter Four
     
     
    The next time Mark saw Abigail was at Christmas. That night in the Podrets’ summerhouse—the feeling of lust so great he thought it would rip him apart and then the titanic struggle to stop himself from taking the lovely girl against her will—had haunted him. In the intervening months, he had talked, in hypothetical terms, to as many experienced people in the BDSM scene as he could (such as it was in Westchester County, though of course he spent a good deal of time in the city, where there was much more advice to be found). Mark had laid out to everyone who might have advice what had happened, and the response had been exactly the same from nearly everyone he told: “Poor girl.”
    Only one person, a switchy, aristocratic Frenchwoman named Anne-Marie Ney, whose trim bottom he had been delighted to spank for an hour in her beautiful Park Avenue apartment after meeting her at a very exclusive club in Williamsburg, had anything to offer beyond “Poor girl.”
    “It may be,” Anne-Marie said, “that a gifted psychologist could create the conditions under which your little girl could consent, and then have the memory of that consent taken away, until she had experienced enough that she could truly enjoy playing consensually.”
    “How?” Mark had asked, though the idea sounded preposterous. He wanted to help Abigail—frankly, he wanted Abigail—so badly that he would entertain any notion, though.
    “I don’t know,” Anne-Marie said simply. “But I do know a psychologist who uses hypnotism in therapy, and sometimes talks about the way our memories can be manipulated. I will try to remember to ask him.”
    Janet had begged him to throw a Christmas party, because she hadn’t seen her friends in