Abigail's Abandon

by Leigh Turner

Genres: LGBT Lesbian

Synopsis

Do women have time for a mid-life crisis? The recent actions of Abbie's husband in that vein seemed to have propelled her into one of her own, however much she wished that her world hadn't been turned upside down. The sojourn in the south of France was just what she needed. Time to think, time to indulge in the type of pleasures she had never even contemplated before. When Keith took her to meet Catherine and her associates, they were to stay only a week or so. But the perverse dramas enacted during that short stay at the beautiful former model's villa would ensure that Abbie's future would be re-mapped irrevocably ...

Release date: September 19, 2013

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 234

Sample

Chapter One – Temptation

Abigail gasped. Her whole body tensed as she felt the pleasure transmit itself into the deepest, most primitive part of her brain.

Jean-Claude’s face smiled above her. The reaction had told him all he needed to know. There was a pause before his finger began to gently caress her, teasingly probing the folds of skin which hid her clitoris.

The pause was the moment when she should have uttered something. A yes for the faithless cock-lover lurking unashamed within her, a no for her civilised, sensible, calculating side. A no which would preserve the status quo, her secure position in the idyllic world she had entered so recently and so gratefully.

She knew her passive silence was the equivalent of assent as she opened her mouth and her eyelids drooped over her hypnotized eyes. He would not stop now, nor did she wish him to. The massage had been too much, the sensual barrage too powerful.

Perhaps that was the moment when she should have declined contact with him, before he offered to rub the sun lotion into her back. Or the further juncture when his ministrations around her spine, exploiting her nudity, had fully relaxed her and he had suggested she turn over.

Yes. That was definitely the moment. But turning over afforded her the possibility of catching another glimpse of his naked cock, the prospect of which had fascinated her as he worked his strong hands over her torso.

She had earlier watched him as he plunged into the small swimming pool, and afterwards, as he climbed from it, dripping, his shoulder-length brown hair clinging to his neck. His cock was the largest she had seen, well framed by his muscular body, darkly tanned all over. He had strolled towards her without the slightest embarrassment, before crouching near her lounger, engaging in chit-chat about her journey from England, before the suggestion about the sun lotion had initiated her demise.

Now, she gave in to it. The finger probed and rubbed, confidently and unhurried. The slowness of it gave rise to a last stand from her rational mind, the thought that Keith and Catherine might be back soon. But the very slowness and patience was arousing her more thoroughly, and the bastion of reason collapsed with the rationalisation that it was a long way to the small town, and the pair had left not long before.

Not that she cared, now. Jean-Claude worked on her until she was a wettened, moaning strumpet. When he stopped, she was ready, even for that massive penis which filled her thoughts and would soon fill her willing pussy. As she spread herself on the wide lounger, the surprise when he went down and began to tongue her clitoris caused her to cry out in a mixture of frustration and ecstasy.

She felt as if she had never been quite so aroused, even with Keith, skilled as he was. By the time Jean-Claude paused, she had experienced two distinct waves of orgasm, and was near a third with the mere thought of what was about to happen.

He slid the cock in, gradually, so she could accustom herself to its length. But with the first touch she was lost, and raised her legs high, the better to present her accommodating fanny. She rejoiced in the unexpected ease with which she enveloped him, and drifted into an all-encompassing reverie of pleasure as he pumped her, at first on her back, then putting her lying sideways on the lounger as he reinserted the cock from beneath her, hand under her upper leg. She was an object now, owned by his lust.

He finished by ordering her to get on her knees on the thick towel he put on the floor, which she did without demur. The cock filled her cunt then, so easily and fully. Whatever happened next, this apotheosis, this delirious submission to the phallus, was a moment of supreme fulfilment that could never be taken away from her. Her mind in a zone far away from everyday cares, she allowed herself to become a passive vessel, feeling the pulsing as his desperate thrusts brought his release, just as they heard the distinct engine note of Keith’s MG, climbing up from the valley.

She drifted into daydream. Pleasured, yet still capable of more. Her thoughts encompassed Keith and the status of their affair, even as she watched Jean-Claude towel his guilty prick before plunging headlong into the pool, the better to cleanse the sin.

Although she felt the wetness from his orgasm, and her arousal, evident in her crotch, her ennui allowed it to remain, undisturbed. As though she wanted the risk of tangible evidence. She was not practiced in deceit, and that part of her that viewed life as a bystander, somehow detached from the everyday concerns that preoccupied the general mass of humanity, was now once more to the fore.

Jean-Claude turned in the pool after churning the water’s length with a lazy crawl. His glance did not hold hers for long. Was he slightly worried, seeking to reassure himself of her complicity? Probably. She did not really know him well enough to read the full nuances of his expression.

What will be, will be, she thought, as he set off to swim the return leg. Nevertheless, at the last, her hand moved down and fiddled with the towel, her civilised self reasserting itself by banishing any vestige of uncouth stickiness in the hairy triangle.

As they now heard the crackle of the sports car’s tyres on the unmade road at the front of the villa, she reflected that she had somehow, by drying her most intimate cranny, baulked at a door which would have opened into danger and adventure, even as her prudence bought her a reprieve, time in which to reflect. Sooner or later she would come to that fork in the road again – to confess or to remain a two-timer, harbouring a secret which might shatter her idyll.

Her world had seemed relatively well ordered before today, on the up after a year of tribulations. Why she had succumbed to temptation and risked it all was a mystery to her. Abigail, of the organised mind and carefully thought out business plans. The one they depended on, the rock of reason in stormy seas, constant, reliable.

It all seemed to be dissipating within her. She felt almost as though another was living life by proxy, within her body, as she watched, fascinated to see what results her behaviour would bring. She was, she knew, by no means convinced that her uncharacteristic abandon was automatically an unwise action.

They heard the small doors of the MG click as Catherine and Keith disembarked in the front courtyard. A small gate at the side of the villa separated the pool area from the courtyard, but no doubt the pair would first go through the large kitchen, unloading the shopping, before coming through the open-plan lounge to the pool, via the open glass doors.

She stared at Jean-Claude, who continued to swim. Her thoughts were largely of Keith, her lover of some six or seven months now. She was undoubtedly happier since she had known him. He had been so generous in bringing her here. Obviously the financial cost was not an issue to him, but she was grateful for the holiday, the change of scene from England being immediately therapeutic as they travelled south through France in his motorhome, the MG trailered behind.

She had been fascinated by the sights, sounds, and smells of the crowded streets of Angouleme, where he had taken the MG to participate in the annual Circuit des Remparts event, in which vintage and classic cars raced determinedly upwards through the hairpin bends below the cathedral, and powered past the vantage points near the start line on their way to the small streets near the square, thereupon to plunge downwards below the old city walls on another lap.

While hardly a motoring buff, she had nevertheless admired the assemblage of lovingly cared for machinery. Keith’s 1930s MG must have been worth a six-figure sum, she thought, yet he seemed unconcerned with the element of risk attached to the enterprise of racing it. Rather, he felt duty bound to use it for its intended purpose, he had explained. She had agreed with him. The little two-seater was a kinetic and vibrant creature, not a cosseted museum piece. Keith had been entranced by the Bugattis, especially those which looked as if they had just emerged from a pre-war pit stop, unashamedly greasy and dust-stained, their paintwork matt with the patina of age.

She liked this in him, that he was attracted to deeds rather than words, action over sterile artefacts preserved behind glass. An uncomplicated contrast to her husband, David, with his intellectualisation of everything. Until his affair with Magda, of course, whom Abbie could not think of as a cerebral powerhouse, notwithstanding her other qualities.

She sighed as the recollection depressed her, trying to turn her thoughts elsewhere. The whole thing had rocked her world, and she and David were yet to reach any proper resolution of how to move forward from it. She had been treading water since the betrayal, delegating the management of their small hotel to him while she enjoyed her dalliances with Keith.

He could hardly refuse, after what had happened.

The morning when she set off to the cash and carry, using the people carrier rather than her small sports car, would remain etched on her mind, probably for ever. The moment when it had petered out, bereft of fuel. The long trudge back to the hotel, seething at David’s laziness in not filling it earlier.

The shock as the wave of anger was dashed on the sight which met her in the lounge. By chance, she had looked for him there first, not even closing the front door behind her, such was her rage.

They must not have heard it opening, lust enveloping their senses. Magda was perched on one of the semi-antique chairs, her head facing the backrest, kneeling on the seat as her hands held the decorative curved wood at the top of the chair. She remained in her chambermaid’s uniform of white blouse, but its counterpart black skirt was on the floor nearby, along with a carelessly strewn pair of white knickers. She wore white suspenders which clipped onto black stockings, pulling them up to an apex of blackness on her creamy skin.

Behind her was David, naked, with his clothes strewn nearby. He was clearly enjoying to the full what Magda was offering so readily; the bare, tensed arse; the fit young thighs in their stockings; the vagina …

Abbie watched as her husband moved his hips rhythmically, pleasuring himself in one or other of the hired girl’s holes. She was placed directly behind him and could not discern which, but neither did she wish to know.

She later regretted the cry of anguish which had welled unbidden from within her. Perhaps she should have remained supercool, sneaking out, armed with her new knowledge, later to use it to Machiavellian advantage. Then again, surely he would have sensed her presence soon, without the wail. As it was, he half turned …

‘Abbie …’

‘Yes?’ she had said. As if to say, would you like to speak to me, and if so, what might you have to say?

At least this quick response had left him high and dry, verbally slapped down, as she marched out of the hotel, picking up the keys of her Mazda before slamming the front door behind her. It was scant consolation. She had barely driven two miles before finding a quiet layby and pulling over. He would not follow. He could not; the lazy bum hadn’t put any petrol in the Ford, which remained on the verge where she had left it. She had trembled uncontrollably as her bitter laughter mingled with the flood of tears in which her ordered life started to dissolve.

‘Chérie!’

Catherine’s bright voice brought her back to the present.

‘I see you are enjoying the chance to relax,’ said her hostess rhetorically as Abbie opened her eyes. She smiled up at Catherine, who reassured her. ‘Do not worry, Abbie, we will join you soon. But first, some lunch. Keith will help me prepare it, stay as you are.’

Jean-Claude rose from the pool and towelled himself. Keith, asking Abbie if she was OK, then followed Catherine back into the villa. Abbie stared at Jean-Claude as he wandered through the patio doors, unconcerned by his own nudity. She felt the power of social conditioning affect her as she donned her sundress and entered the house. She was still the reserved Englishwoman to a large extent, even though all four of them had spent the early morning sunbathing nude, before Catherine and Keith had gone down to the town. Clothed or unclothed, she felt most comfortable following the herd. Casual nakedness such as Jean-Claude’s was still a novelty to her, making her feel off balance.

She felt vindicated as soon as she entered the kitchen, for even Jean-Claude had put on a striped robe. She watched as he uncorked a bottle of wine, his face impassive. Gradually, they all settled at the big wooden table and enjoyed salad and pate with the freshly purchased baguettes.

They chatted, with Keith, prompted by Catherine and Jean-Claude, regaling them with the details of his exploits at Angouleme. Not that he was filled with importance; he seemed overwhelmingly pleased that he had managed to sneak into the top ten finishers in his main race.

Eventually, there was a lull, and Catherine broached the question.

‘How long, then, can you stay, mes chères?’

Abbie was unsure what to say; the ball was in Keith’s court, really. Catherine was his friend firstly. Abbie still wasn’t sure how well he knew her. While not quite evasive, all he had really told her on the trip down was that he had known the Frenchwoman for some years, that she rented one of his properties in London, and it was through this connection that he had got to know her.

‘About a week, week and a half?’ he said.

‘Of course,’ Catherine replied, her voice chiming upwards, emphasising the extent of her hospitality. ‘You know you are always welcome here anytime, Keith, for as long as you like.’

Abbie wondered just how deep this friendship went, as he turned to her.

‘OK with you?’

‘Yes, sure. I’ve just got to be back in England after that, to … sort things out there. But yes. It’s very kind of you,’ she finished, addressing Catherine.

‘No problem, my love. Make yourself at home. Keith tells me you have had a difficult year. You must relax. You have to do nothing.’ Smiling, she continued. ‘I have a girl who works for me, Monique. She will come tonight and take care of cooking etcetera. So pamper yourself and relax.

‘I must tell you, I have also some paying guests arriving from tomorrow. But it is no problem, there is plenty of room. You will, I think, enjoy their company. That is OK?’ Her tone ended the statement in a question.

‘Of course. You are more than kind.’

Catherine was certainly generous. She must be a very good friend of Keith’s. A sojourn in the beautiful surroundings of northern Provence, no outlay. Abbie luxuriated in the thought of nearly two weeks, lounging in the sun, free of care. She needed it. On her return to England, she would have to grasp the nettle of divorce, she was beginning to think. She allowed the thought process to germinate, the pros and cons to bubble in her unconscious, later to form the beginnings of a decision. She already knew what the answer would be. Some form of new life.

They adjourned to the pool area after lunch. All four once more disrobed, Abbie gazing a little too intently at Catherine, over on the other side of the pool with Jean-Claude, as Keith rubbed sun cream into her back while she sat on the lounger. Her hostess was a striking woman, tall and beautiful, something like a UK size 16, yet the contours of her figure were to be envied: large breasts and hips contrasting with the slimmer waist, poised in a confident and elegant stance on her long, tapering legs. Abbie had watched as she stepped out of her T-shirt and skirt, then bra and panties, displaying an all-over tan as she stretched and then positioned herself so that Jean-Claude, now also nude again, could anoint her back with lotion, from the broad, smooth shoulders down to the perfectly sculptured indentation at the base of the spine, above the curved contours of her well-toned bottom.

Abbie felt a degree of jealousy, prompted by the voluptuous figure and perfect face, framed by the medium length, immaculately straight, chocolate brown hair. Maybe it was more to do with the ages, though. Jean-Claude and Catherine were in their early to mid-30s, still in their prime, whereas she and Keith were both 42, beginning to look up that intangible escarpment beyond which lay the inexorable descent into middle age.

It was inexcusable to let her mind wander onto such unworthy topics. She had a lot going for her, she knew. Hardly old yet, possessing a trim figure, which Keith clearly adored, judging by his frequent compliments. He even liked the way she’d had her slightly unruly mop of blonde hair cropped short, for comfort on this late summer trip down towards the southern end of France. It turned him on, he said, though goodness knows, most things about her turned him on, it seemed. A far cry from her errant husband, whose libido seemed to have gone into hibernation until that Polish maid … She could hardly bring herself to use Magda’s name, even in the internal dialogue of her thoughts.

Stop it! Stop finding the negative all the time. Keith was good for her, even if she sometimes wondered whether he was just a randy old goat and she, the current girlfriend, was merely the convenient receptacle for his baser instincts. Uncharitable. The negative explanation rather than the positive again.

Soon the thoughts faded. She drifted into innocuous, half-moulded dreams. She was in a cornfield near her hotel in Dorset, basking naked in the heat of a bright summer afternoon. She saw the red uniformed soldier from that Thomas Hardy novel on the horizon, and she lay down, bashful, out of sight amongst the tall crop. She was aware of a finger touching her bush, just above the clitoris. The young Terence Stamp, preparing to ravish her. She could not see his face or body, and was aware only of the bright sun on the other side of her eyelids.

As they opened, she blinked in the power of the real sun. There was still a finger there, near her clitty now. Instinctively, she swatted the arm it belonged to, provoking a small gasp of surprise and slight pain from Keith as he withdrew it.

She stared at him, puzzled at the effrontery, a little offended. He returned the gaze for a moment, but then his head swivelled, drawn by some other spectacle. Now even more annoyed, she followed the direction in which he clearly had more interest.

What she saw made her mouth quite literally gape. She had been a little nervous that morning about the casual nudity, but that had just been relegated to the status of a minor sideshow, in an instant.

Catherine was supine on her lounger, eyes shut, face lost in an expression of blissful pleasure. Jean-Claude faced her, his head buried in her crotch between her widely spread legs. Abbie could see his arse directly in her line of vision, the balls and cock hanging below as he spread his kneeling legs, his arms gripping Catherine’s thighs up near her hips.

Abbie looked across at Keith, who now returned her glance. Without speaking, he placed his left hand on his engorged cock and began wanking it rhythmically, shamelessly. With his right he resumed his ministrations to the most sensitive part of her fanny. There was no urgency to it, but rather an insistence that said “I will gently wear you down, soon you will gasp and enter our domain of exhibitionist desire”.

Her ordered accountant’s brain prepared three options for her consideration. She could stare at their uninhibited hosts as their well-toned bodies cavorted at whatever next impelled them. She could stare at Keith’s cock, still being stroked so slowly and hypnotically, as fully erect as she had ever seen it. She could get up and go off in a prudish huff, demand to be taken away from this den of iniquity, back to buttoned-up England, a future, if she did so, of just that. Buttoned-up frustration.

She needed this holiday. Stay with him, she told herself. Don’t give in to some fragment of upbringing that has conditioned you to think this sort of thing is too far beyond the pale to even contemplate. In deference to her sense of politeness, however, she averted her gaze from her lascivious hosts and returned it to Keith’s cock.

Keith too had soon accustomed himself to her tell-tale gasp, knowing that little would deter her from further lovemaking once she had uttered it. This time, on hearing it, he repositioned himself, kneeling now at the side of her lounger and recommencing the work on her clitoris with his left middle finger. His right hand switched to his penis and offered it up to her mouth. With little hesitation she accepted the erotic feast and embraced the glans fully with her lips as he stared down at her. She knew the satisfaction this gave him. He had shown her some erotica at his flat after they had lost their early inhibitions with each other. He seemed particularly fond of one image which showed a woman by the side of a pool like this, kneeling on all fours, sucking a naked male’s dick, eyes closed in silent supplication, while another naked male inserted his cock into her from behind. A slut, a bare-arsed whore, in full worship of two lovers’ cocks.

Her mind remained on the image as her excitement mounted. Perhaps such an event was a possibility in this febrile environment. As he straddled her and reinserted his penis between her eager lips, going down and beginning to suck her clitty in the 69 position, she was lost, the orgasm immediate and unstoppable.

Chapter Two – Girl Talk

Abbie stood in the semi-darkness, consciousness slowly infiltrating her with the glimmerings of late dawn through the blinds. It took a few hazy minutes for her to recognise where she was, remembering gradually her surroundings and the events of the day before.

After her climax, she had watched Keith as he climbed off her, once more staring across the pool at the other two and resuming his stimulation of his cock, thumb and forefinger encompassing it, stroking its length. She had looked over there too, seeing Catherine on all fours, side on to them, Jean-Claude’s cock in full profile, sliding in and out of her proffered vagina. Aware of Keith’s impending ejaculation, she had raised herself onto an elbow, her mouth gaping like one of the big, lazy carps they had seen in the clear waters of the Ardeche during a pause on their journey down here. An inelegant and crude gesture which ironically rewarded her ingrained need for tidiness as he inserted the tip once more and she felt the hot pulses of liquid when his increasingly frenzied strokes brought his relief.

As she swallowed, eliminating any possibility of any uncouth stains on their hosts’ poolside tiling, Catherine and Jean-Claude, across the way, appeared to achieve almost simultaneous orgasms, signalled by her delicate squeal and his following grunt.

Everyone had then settled down into a languid, sun-creamed torpor, save for Jean-Claude when he got up to bring them all cold drinks. Abbie had later fetched her novel from their room and sat back to read, as if this was a normal holiday, and the four naked people cavorting earlier was just a racy fantasy somewhere amongst the printed pages.

Monique, Catherine’s maid, had arrived in the late afternoon in a battered Renault. She had prepared an excellent casserole and busied herself with some tidying, before leaving the four of them, dressed once more, to th. . .