Abigail's Abduction

Everyone in this store is over eighteen, and so should you be.

First a bit of background:-

People have been telling me, for as long as I can remember, and far too often, that I 'was born with a silver spoon in my mouth.' Quite right, I suppose; Daddy is 'Something in the City' and I was brought up in a large Tudor house, set in wooded gardens, in rolling Sussex parkland. We always had a cook, a maid, a gardener and a chauffeur, and Mummy did charity work, if she did anything at all. (except, I grew to suspect, fuck the chauffeur)

I was packed off to boarding school when my older brother James went up to Cambridge, and it was there that I learned more than the 'three R's.' Sarah, who slept next to me in the dorm, showed me more about my body than all the dry lessons in human biology could begin to show me, and together we explored the delights of masturbation whenever the opportunity presented itself. I knew instinctively that sex was going to be a major influence in my life.

During the long summer vacs, spent wandering about the house, the gardens and woods, I met Mark, the gardener's son, on leave from his first year in the army. I gave myself to him readily, none too anxious to retain my virginity. He returned to his ghastly duties on Salisbury Plain immediately after that first, rather unsatisfactory union, but I wore my new status with something akin to pride when I went back to school, and soon had a rather more fulfilling – if brief - liaison with a young policeman who came to lecture us on traffic safety.

I was recruited into Daddy's company, and hated it roundly for two years – the boredom, the hours, the false people – in short, it wasn't for me. I decided to go to university, and Daddy was a gem, paying all my bills as I progressed to a modest degree in economics at Sheffield. I won't bore you with details of the sexual encounters I had – suffice to say there were several, of little importance. When I finished there, I was promised a nice job in Paris, but a year on. There was nothing for it but to do what a lot of young people (mostly a bit younger than my 22 years) do, backpack around for a while. Australia came first, and a dalliance (nice, old-fashioned word, that) with a muscular guy who, if he wasn't called Bruce, should have been. There was, I was starting to realise, something missing from my life, something I couldn't put my finger on. The sex was fine, but I found myself faking orgasms too often – not really getting out of these affairs what I felt I ought to be. Was there something wrong with me?I really didn't know.

But I left Australia,when Melbourne got too cold, and flew to the USA, to have a look at the Big Apple – that's where this story has its true beginning..............................

Although Daddy continued to be generous, Manhattan hotels weren't for me, and I found a nice enough small hotel in Brooklyn, just a few minutes on the subway from the fleshpots of Times Square. A week into my stay, having done most of the touristy things, I was mooching around Greenwich Village, trying to decide whether I really wanted another coffee or not, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Looking around, I found myself face-to-face with my old schoolfriend, Sarah. I could scarcely believe it, and we talked over two or three coffees and a long lunch. She told me she was sharing a fourth floor walk-up in the Village with three more girls.

'Suit you!' I remarked.

'Catty!, she rejoined, 'but part true – I go both ways these days, darling, and you?'

I didn't know how to reply. 'Straight, I suppose,' I said, hesitantly.

'You don't sound too sure.'

'It's just that....no, it's silly really.'

'Hey, I'm Sarah, remember, your old friend!'

'I was going to say that there's something missing from my life, and I can't begin to tell you what.'

'A woman's touch?' she suggested.

'No, I don't think it's that.' She looked a trifle crestfallen, so I elaborated: 'It's not that I couldn't respond to...to another woman – I'm sure I could, but there's more. Oh, I can't explain.'

She laid a long-nailed hand on mine, and said softly, 'Then don't try, darling. Look, we're going to a party in Queen's tomorrow night – please come!'

'I don't know,' I said lamely.

'There'll be lots of hunky guys there,' she said.

'You've talked me into it, but what to wear?'

'None of your backpackers' gear,' she replied, 'strictly sexy, eh?'

'But I've only got jeans and shorts and stuff.'

'Then go cane your credit card,' she said.

Before we parted, I gave her the address of my hotel, and she told me she'd get a guy called Ben to collect me there at eight the next evening. We parted with a kiss.

Next morning I set out to hiy Fifth Avenue in a big way, and, after a lot of trying on, plumped for a backless mid-blue minidress in a material that looked and felt like silk, but wasn't. I tried it on in the cubicle with my bra on, and realised it would look quite different when I wore it for real, as there was no way I could wear a bra under it. Whilst musing on that, I took a good look at myself in the big mirror. A raddled backpacker looked back, hair like rats' tails, make-up so-so..... I decided there and then on the next punishment for my credit card, and found a ruinously expensive beauty salon just a few doors away. With a silent thanks to Daddy, I slipped inside and booked a 'full treatment package' for that afternoon.

I filled in the intervening time buying shoes (strappy stilettos, suitable for a party) and some costume jewellery, as well as some make-up items I had been neglecting for months. When the time came for my appointment, I was almost nervous, but the pretty young assistants set me at ease, and I was soon enjoying being pampered. They shampooed, cut and styled my long black hair so that I hardly recognised the glossy mane I saw in the mirror, praised my long eyelashes, tol me I needed no false ones, and made them up expertly. Turning their attention to my long-neglected nails, they tutted a little, then suggested a set of porcelain ones. I was soon fitted up with awkwardly long, silver-glossed nails, which were going to take some getting used to. After treating my skin to a long, lingering massage with scented oils, I certainly didn't begrudge the cost.

Back in my hotel room, I rested until an hour before th appointed hour, then started to get ready. I stripped off my customary jeans and tee shirt, bra and panties, and took a long hard look in the mirror. My half-Italian mother's legacy of jet-black hair and big brown eyes were my best features, I thought, but the exercise I had been putting myself through, trudging around with a massive rucksack, had hardened my already lean body, so that what I saw was a flat stomach, firm breasts with nice, puffy nipples – which always brought memories of Sarah sucking on them and muttering about how nice they were – and a tight but nicely rounded arse. Before I dressed I took a razor to my black

bush, and trimmed it back to the nice little triangle I had kept it to when I had been used to wearing my bikini in Aussie.

'You'll do, girl,' I said, to the mirror, 'some lucky bastard may get this view – who knows?' But the truth was that I wasn't anticipating the usual selection of chat-up lines, the inevitable groping, awkward fumbling undressing, the equally inevitable premature ejaculation, with any pleasure.

When I dressed in the new minidress, however, I took narcissistic pleasure in walking towrads my wardrobe mirror, and watching how my breasts jiggled ever so slightly under the silky material, the jut of my nipples obvious through the soft material. I wore nothing under the dress but a pair of white silk panties, and stepped into my new stilettos, clipped a little gold anklet I had bought around one slim ankle, and put in a pair of large gold hoop ear-rings. I felt ready.

When I went down to the hotel's reception to await my lift, the middle-aged receptionist, who had never before seen me in anything other than a pair of jeans, did a double take, and I smiled sweetly at him.

Ben turned out to be a slightly overweight young man with thick spectacles and a crew-cut, but he seemed pleasant enough, and kept glancing sideways at me as I sat beside him in his Taurus. It only took us about forty minutes to negotiate the heavy city traffic and arrive in front of a big, clapboard house, from which music could be heard issuing long before we drew up in a line of cars.

A big room had been cleared of furniture, and was already full of people, so early in the evening, though nobody was yet dancing. I caught sight of Sarah, dressed in a long, shimmering gold sheath, with spaghetti-straps, so low-cut that her nipples were only just covered. Her blonde hair was swirled up on top of her head in an elegant style, making her neck look long and swan-like.

'You look lovely, darling,' I told her.

'So do you....what a transformation!' she replied, and started to introduce me to more people than I could hope to remember.

We drank from the free bar, and, when everybody started to dance, as if some secret message had been passed and understood, I danced too – with a variety of partners. The noise level being high, and the dancing of the disco variety, my partners didn't seem to matter all that much. But then, the music was interrupted and somebody made an unintelligible announcement. I asked Sarah what it was all about, and she told me thaat we were having a half-hour break for food. I was grateful, as my stomach had started to rumble. As I ate the usual party fare, I looked around at the assembled gathering, and decided that there was absolutely nobody there that I fancied in the least, except possibly Sarah, which made me grin to myself.

Just then, though, I turned around, balancing a paper plate with a portion of quiche, intent upon heading for the bar to get myself another glass of merlot, and found my way blocked by the tall form of a guy I hadn't seen before, wearing an immaculate cream linen suit and an open-necked black shirt. He must have been about forty five.There was a slightly sardonic half-smile on his aristrocratic face, as he looked me up and down, with unashamed curiosity.

'And to whom to you belong?' he asked. I thought it a very odd question, and bridled somewhat at its lack of political correctness.

'To myself,' I replied, 'and if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get a drink.'

'Allow me,' he said, 'merlot, isn't it?'

'Yes, please,' I replied, wondering immediately why on earth I had let this stranger get me a drink, then deciding that it didn't matter anyway.

I watched him walking back with my drink and his, perhaps a gin and tonic, or a vodka, I thought. He was really very handsome, greying hair slightly longer than was fashionable, and a lithe grace about his walk which promised a still-hard, athletic body.

When he was beside me, handing me my drink, he said, 'I was being slightly disingenuous. I already know who you are, Abigail.'

I looked up at him in surprise, and found his grey eyes regarding me intently.

'Who...?' I began.

'Your friend Sarah has told me about you.'

'Why would she do that?' I wanted to know, more than a little angry that Sarah had been discussing me with a complete stranger.

'She thought you would interest me,' he said.

'And do I?' I asked, a trifle more coquettishly than I had intended.

'Your odd mixture of evident good breeding and a synthetic dress is fascinating,' he said, tweaking the hem of my dress between finger and thumb as he did so.

I made to pull away from him, feeling insulted, and he laughed, taking my arm lightly but firmly. 'Stay and have a drink with me, at least. I have a feeling you are much more interesting than most of the gathering here.' He indicated the swarm of people now starting to dance again as the music obliged him to raise his voice. 'I think we can go and sit out on the terrace – it isn't cold.'

Meekly I followed him out through double doors, and we sat and watched night fall as I found myself relating my trip around Australia to this stranger, without finding out anything about him. When, finally, I asked him his name, he said, 'You can call me Bruno, for the time being. Later, we shall have to see.' I thought that a very odd answer.

'Would you like to dance?' I asked him, much later.

'No,' he said, 'I believe I should like to take you to my home now, where we may enjoy

some privacy.'

My God, Abigail, I thought, as I stood in the driveway waiting for Bruno to get his car, what is all this about? I had agreed to go to the home of a perfect stranger, old enough to be my father, with a slight foreign accent, and a direct, even insulting manner. No 'come for coffee' even – no – 'we may enjoy some privacy' – shit!

After a few moments, a flaming red Ferrari drew up, and the passenger door was flung open for me. I was impressed, and then by his driving skills as we hurtled away from Queens, past JFK, and out, I thought onto Long Island, though my local knowledge was very limited. I had imagined he would live nearby, but we drove fast for more than an hour, arriving in an area of large suburban mansions, set in wooded gardens.

After driving in concentrated silence for the entire journey, Bruno touched a remote control console, and pair of huge iron gates opened onto a long gravel drive. At its end, we pulled up on a circular space in front of a well-lit brick-built house, not much smaller than my father's, with at least six windows on each of its two storeys, flanking a big, pillared portico. He got out, and came around to open my door and hand me out of the low car, a manoeuvre which I tried to accomplish as gracefully as possible.

He led me up the steps and opened a big, varnished door. Waiting beside it, standing at a respectful distance, was a very pretty girl, with short hair as black as mine, wearing a short dark blue pleated skirt, embroidered peasant blouse, fishnet hose and high heels.

'Good evening, Sir,' she said to Bruno, and he nodded perfunctorily to her, without making any introduction. Taking my arm, he led me through into a large, comfortable-seeming lounge, with at least four sofas.

'Ana, fetch us a bottle of the Merlot '76, will you?' he called, and gstured for me to sit down. No sooner had I done so than the maid had returned with a silver tray, two glasses, a plate of assorted nibbles, and an open bottle of wine.

Bruno sat beside me and poured, then raised his glass and waited until I mirrored his action. When I did, and clinked mine to his, he said, 'I think we may drink to the start of a new direction in your young life, my dear.'

I looked at him in surprise, not even beginning to know what he meant. His grey eyes had a hypnotic quality, and I was siezed with an insuperable desire to kiss him. I even felt wetness starting to build between my legs. I put my glass down on the coffee table, having taken only one sip of the smooth liquid, and, my lips slightly parted, leaned towards him, but he swayed back as if in rejection, and said, 'No, my dear, your lips are too precious for mine.'

Gently, he put one hand to my head , whilst, with the other, he deftly unzipped his fly. He must have been wearing no underpants, because an impressive shaft sprang proudly erect, into his hand. Rounding my lips, I fell upon it, and took his crown softly into my mouth, teasing the very tip with my tongue, taking a tiny drop of pre-cum away, and looking up into his eyes as I did so. His tool seemed to swell and grow, pulsing as I licked its whole length, massaging his balls with my hand, and when I finally allowed him to plunge his great length deep, deep, into my throat, he groaned and arched his back, quivering with passion as he pumped his cock hard into my mouth. I sucked in a way no-one had ever taught me, and reaching down below his balls as I did so, I found his arsehole, and thrust my forefinger deep into it. He came in huge, hot gushes, right into the depths of my throat, and I swallowed every salty drop, then licked him clean. He let me do it in silence, then, without even tucking himself away, he picked up his glass and took a deep draught, then called, 'Ana!'

She came clicking in on her high heels, seeming to ignore completely the sight of his flaccid cock, which lay there in the opening of his trousers, to my embarrassment, but seemingly not his.

'Did you do as I asked?' he queried.

'Yes, sir,' she said.

'Then kindly take Abigil to her room, will you?'

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. 'But...but...I'm not staying here!' I protested, 'I have a hotel room – I must go, Bruno, please take me!'

'Your hotel has been notified,' he said, 'and a room has been made ready for you. I'm sure it will be to your liking.'

'But...I can't possibly stay here,' I insisted.

He fixed me with those grey eyes again, which bored right into me, saw into my very soul, 'Yes you can,' he said, 'sleep well, and tomorrow we'll talk. Now go with Ana.'

Obediently, I followed the maid up a broad carpeted staircase, to a polished wood corridor, and into one of the many rooms which led off it. She left me alone in the room as soon as she had shown me where the light switches were. It was beautifully furnished, with a big double bed, a couch and a dressing table, and there were mirror-fronted wardrobes, which seemed to be full of someone's clothes. There was an en-suite bathroom, which appeared to contain all manner of toiletries and cosmetics. I raised the shutters and tried to look out of the window, but all was darkness, so I gave up the attempt, and decided that I had had enough for one day. It was almost two o'clock and time for bed. When I turned to the bed, I found a long silk nightdress and negligee, lace-trimmed and luxurious, lying across it. They appeared to be for my use, so I undressed and slipped into the nightie, then climbed in between satin sheets and slept immediately – a dreamless sleep, which lasted until sun found chinks in the shutters.

I glanced at my watch – it was nine-thirty – shit! An instant realisation of my situation hit me and I slipped on the negligee, intent on going in search of Bruno, to put an end to this nonsense. The door was locked! I was locked in! What was going on? No answer was to be found by looking out of the window, which looked out over empty woodland, but just then a key turned in the lock, and in came Ana, with a tray of coffee and hot rolls, which she placed on the dressing table.

'Why was the door locked?' I demanded, 'what the fuck is going on?'

'You can ask the Master yourself,' she said, and left, almost at a run, leaving the door ajar, but, before I could follow her, Bruno was stood in the doorway. Fuck, I fancied him! He stood there in a paisley dressing gown, and as I faced him, my knees turned to jelly, and the protest that was about to spout from my lips died a horrible death, in the face of this fascinating figure of a man, unlike anyone I had ever met.

'Sit down and drink your coffee before it gets cold,' he said, 'and I'm sure you're hungry. While you have breakfast, I'd like to put a few things to you.'

'Did you need to lock me in to talk to me?' I managed to ask.

He smiled. 'I needed to be sure of your security, my dear,' he said smoothly, and passed it off as a matter of no importance, as I tucked into a delicious fresh roll and drank deeply of the freshly-ground coffee.

'Now,' he said, settling himself on the arm of the couch, 'I should like you to listen to what I have to propose. Please do not interrupt – you may ask questions when I have finished.' He looked at me hard to see if I was attending well, and, satisfied, continued:

'Our mutual friend Sarah Beaumont, whom you may not know practises as a psychologist here in New York, has directed you to me, to answer both of our needs, as she sees them. She has identified you as a submissive, and knows I have need of one, since my last one met with a tragic accident last year.'