by Ava Sinclair
She felt the plug slide into her pussy now and pushed back, whimpering with need as Simon worked the plug in and out for a few moments before moving it up to position at the tight little opening of her posy.
“Now, Abigail,” he instructed. “When I push the plug into your bottom, try to push it back out. This will relax your bottom and you’ll take it in. And eventually you’ll take my cock there, too.”
Abigail obeyed, hissing against the sting of the plug’s entry as it widened past the tip. Then Simon’s finger found her clit as the plug disappeared into her bottom up to the flange.
“You look so beautiful with your bottom plugged and your pussy so open and hungry.”
She looked back at him. “Please?”
“Please what? Say it.”
“Please put your cock in… in my pussy.”
He helped her to standing and then pushed her down until she was kneeling in front of him. “I will,” he replied. “But first I wish to enter your mouth as I’ll enter your bottom. Are you ready to give me your second virginity, my little one?”
She nodded, looking up at him with loving eyes.
“Open your mouth.”
Abigail parted her lips, watching hypnotized as he withdrew his cock from his pants. She’d not had a chance to study it the night before, and now marveled at its beauty. The skin of the shaft was smooth, the underside ridged with veins that showed purple under the stretched skin. The head was flared, the hole at the tip oozing a clear fluid. Without being told, she poked out the tip of her tongue, catching the droplet. It was salty and slick, and she could tell by the way her husband groaned that just this small, simple act had pleased him.
He did not have to tell her what to do. For Abigail, closing her mouth around his turgid cock was felt completely natural. She could feel her own arousal running down her thighs as he moaned. The fullness in her ass and in her mouth only increased her excitement.
“Oh, my little Abigail,” he said throatily. “You are so exquisite. Do you have any idea how you are pleasing me?”
“Mmmmm,” she replied, and could feel him shudder in response.
“Is papa’s little girl ready to swallow his cream?” he asked.
She closed her eyes. Her hands moved beneath his cock, cupping his balls. They were growing tight and hard in her hand. She could feel his fingers in her hair, holding her still as he thrust into her mouth.
She wasn’t sure what to expect. His cock was just hitting the back of her throat, and she heeded Simon’s breathless urging to relax. And then it happened; with a groan, he began to come. Abigail felt his cock pulsing, felt the hot seed pumping into the back of her mouth. She reflexively swallowed, and then swallowed again, suddenly wanting him inside of her, wanting to absorb the very essence of his passion.
“Touch yourself,” he said when the last drop was gone. “Touch yourself and look at me. I want to see you come.”
Abigail obeyed, her fingers eagerly finding the little nub. She circled it with her fingers, images floating through her mind: his cock in her mouth, his cock in her pussy, the plug in her ass, his mouth on her breast, his punishing hand on her bottom, his cock, her pussy, his cock, her mouth…
She cried out, coming hard against her fingers, the shuddering so strong that she had to catch his leg for support.
For a moment, she was breathless. Then she looked up at him.
“Did I please you?”
“More than you will ever know,” he said.
Chapter Eleven: Protecting His Treasure
“Doctor Abbott! Doctor Abbott!”
The persistent knock on the door roused Abigail from the haze of sleep. She sat up to see her husband had already exited the bed and was pulling on his nightshirt as he headed to the door. It was a messenger, and he handed Simon a note.
“What’s wrong?” Abigail asked when she saw the shocked look on her husband’s face as he read it.
He didn’t immediately answer as he walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, still staring at the paper. After a moment, he spoke.
“My mother is dead.”
Abigail, who’d risen up on her knees to place her hands on Simon’s shoulders, now sank back on her heels. “Oh… I’m so sorry.”
He looked at her sadly. “I am, too. I was going to write her, to let her know I’d wed someone who has made me very happy. I hoped to heal the wound I’m sure I caused by giving her an ultimatum of either accepting our marriage or never seeing me again.” He sighed. “My mother was never a warm woman, but I was her only child and I know she wanted the best for me, even if we didn’t always agree on what that was.”
“Including your choice of a wife?” Abigail asked.
Simon sighed. “It was her sister’s meddling that swayed her toward Susan as the most suitable match. The message I sent insisting that she accept my choice rather than Aunt Helen’s was meant to emphasize my resolve. I never thought…”
“You never thought that would be your last communication…” Abigail leaned forward, comforting the man who never hesitated to hold and comfort her. “So what will you do now?”
“Not me,” he replied. “We. As surviving heir, I must settle the estate and see to the final arrangements. I’ll send a note to Nurse Trinket asking her to ask the other physicians to see my patients until we return.” He got up from the bed and began to dress.
“Wait,” Abigail said. “You want me to go?”
Simon looked at her. “Of course. You’re my wife.”
“I can’t!” she said. “Your aunt will be there, as will your cousin…” She shook her head. “They’ll blame me.”
He walked over to the edge of the bed and pulled her to him. “Not if they know what’s good for him,” Simon replied. “You’re my wife.” He kissed her on top of the head and turned away to resume dressing as she looked down at her own nakedness.
“I’ll have to wear proper clothing,” she said.
“You’ll go in the clothes I selected.”
Abigail was off the bed now, trailing the sheet she’d wrapped around herself behind. She put a gentle hand on her husband’s arm and turned him to her.
“I live as your little one. And I am happy with that. But the others I met—Lily and Charlotte and Ruby—even they realize they cannot dress as a little girl when their husbands are about public business. Please, papa. Just because I look like a grown woman on the outside does not mean I’m not your little girl in here…” she put her hand over her heart, “…where it counts.”
He gently caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Clever girl. Of course, you are right. And I’m being stubborn. But you don’t have anything appropriate to wear.”
“Actually, Nurse Trinket packed a few things at my behest, just in case.”
“And where did she get them?”
“When she ordered my other clothing, she had a few things made. You should know how resourceful she is.”
Simon nodded. “That she is.”
* * *
It was hard saying goodbye to their hosts. Lily made Abigail promise to return, and hugged both Simon and Abigail as Hugh Brownlow expressed his condolences.
The trip to Simon’s childhood home would take them back toward London but to the north, just outside the small village of Hampshire. As the carriage moved along, Simon pointed out the sights—the church where he’d been christened as a child, the river where he’d once nearly drowned, the field where he and his father had once seen a white stag.
Abigail could not help but smile as she tried to imagine her dominant husband and protector as a child. But she noticed that Simon fell silent when a large house came into view.
While not nearly so grand as Brownlow Manor, Simon’s family home still dominated smaller houses in the village below. Upon seeing the splendor of what her husband had left behind, Abigail was filled with renewed admiration for a man who had walked away from wealth to serve London’s sick.
“It’s so lovely,” Abigail said as Simon h
elped her from the carriage. He kissed her and took her hand as they approached the house, where an elderly, kind-eyed butler greeted them at the door.
“Master Simon,” he said fondly. “It is good to see you again, even if on so sad an occasion.”
“Thank you, Peterson.” Simon clasped the servant’s large hands and smiled.
“And this must be… your new wife.” The butler’s face was unreadable now.
“Yes. Peterson, may I introduce you to Abigail Abbott.”
“Mrs. Abbott.” He bowed his head and Abigail nodded in return.
“The other members of the family are already gathered in the parlor,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s been quite a shock for all of us; even though your mother was ill we had hoped she’d have longer. When her maid found her the morning after she’d passed in the night it was quite unsettling, as you can imagine.”
“Had she complained of any excessive discomfort?” Simon asked.
“She’d been experiencing increased pressure in her chest, but the day before she seemed better than usual. She’d been in her room writing letters—she specifically mentioned wanting to write you following Helen’s visit…”
“Aunt Helen was here?”
The butler scowled. “Yes, with your cousin Susan. I am not sure what transpired, but your mother seemed quite upset afterwards…”
Abigail noted how Simon winced at this, and knew he was worried that his mother’s distress over his message had, indeed, vexed an already weak heart.
“I suppose we should go join the others,” he said to Abigail, who now felt a renewed reluctance at how she would be received. With each step toward the parlor, she felt a heavier sense of dread and quickly realized that it was warranted when the door opened and all eyes fell on them.
The room was dead silence, the faces turning their way all masked with disapproval.
“Why, Simon.” His aunt Helen was the first to break the silence. “How nice of you to show up. And what a shame that you couldn’t be bothered to visit her sooner, but of course you’ve been busy with your… ward.”
“She’s my wife now, Aunt Helen,” he replied stonily, and turned to greet the others in the room, deliberately refusing to address his cousin Susan.
Abigail took note of those in attendance. There was an Uncle Rupert, and three male cousins on his mother’s side—James, Horace, and William—as well as another woman he introduced to Abigail as Aunt Florence, his father’s sister, and her daughter Eleanor.
“Your… wife?” His cousin Susan stepped forward. “You… you went through with it? You married this… this stranger?”
“I told you when you were at my home that that was my intention,” Simon replied coolly, putting a protective arm around Abigail.
“How could you do that?” his aunt chimed in again, her voice scornful. “We saw her, you know. We saw your mother just before she died. She told us that she would never, ever bless this union.”
She turned away and then whirled back. “Foolish man. I did some checking before I left London. I know the full circumstances of this sordid union with your ward. I know you assumed her father’s debt and promised to pay it. How do you expect to have any kind of life on a doctor’s pay with such a debt?” Aunt Helen sneered, the expression making her ugly face even uglier. “She’s reduced you already.”
Abigail could take no more. Turning, she fled the room, ignoring Simon’s calls for her to return.
“Abigail!” he called after her. “Abigail!”
She ran faster, and upon seeing more people coming in the front door, headed for the staircase. She did not know where she was going, only that she wanted to be alone. Never had she felt so terrible.
“Abigail!” Simon had almost caught up with her when she reached the top of the stairs and headed into the first room she came to. Once inside she stopped in her tracks, her eyes fixed on the portrait above the fireplace.
She could hear Simon’s breath as he walked up behind her. She pointed at the painting of a handsome, unsmiling man and a beautiful woman in a blue dress with a little boy on her lap.
“Is that you?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I was very young. Maybe three or four. I remember sitting for that portrait. My father threatened me with punishment if I fidgeted. My mother promised sweets if I’d stay still.” He paused. “Now that portrait seems like a metaphor for my life—there were always threats or promises made to keep me in line.”
Abigail turned to him. “Like your father’s threats to keep you from becoming a doctor?”
“Who told you that?”
“Nurse Trinket,” Abigail said shyly. “Don’t be cross. I don’t think she intended to gossip. I asked her once why you rarely smiled and she said you’d been raised to be stoic, obedient. But I got the impression that you were your own man, and still are.”
“I am,” he replied. “I loved my parents. I still love them, even though they are gone. But I was determined from an early age not to let them make my choices.”
Abigail took his hands. “I understand,” she said. “But if those choices make your life difficult…”
“Don’t tell me you’re talking about our marriage.” His voice was stern.
“Simon…” It was the first time she’d used his name, had addressed him as an equal and not her guardian or father figure. “Marriage to me carries huge debt without the windfall of an inheritance to offset it. I see how hard you work. What will it benefit you to keep a wife who costs you so much?”
Simon took her arm in a grip firm enough to make her start.
“You listen to me, Abigail Abbott. True wealth for me is found in nurturing, in caring, in guiding. As a doctor, I heal people. Sometimes the treatments they need are painful or frightening, but they know in the end that I am doing what’s best. I want my partner to realize that as well. When I spank you or correct you in some other way, or subject you to a routine for your health that you may not enjoy, it is always for your own good. It is my way of taking care of you. It satisfies only half of me to care for strangers. The other half—my intimate half—needs more, needs you. What is the purpose of caring for others if I have no one of my own to coddle and love and protect and guide? Do you have any idea how long I dreamed of finding someone like you? Do you think that the trappings of this cold house or figures on a bank paper could ever compete with the joy you give me? You are my treasure, and I will protect you always. Do not even think of trying to convince me to leave your side. I will not. Do you understand me, my little one? I will not.”
Tears were streaming down her face, and she was nodding now. Abigail pressed her face into his jacket, sobbing grateful tears that she had found such a man. But after a moment she forced herself to regain composure and looked up at him.
“Perhaps I should at least go back to London,” she said, “so that you can spend time with your family and mourn your mother together.”
“No.” He gently released her arms and began walking around the room—his mother’s room. “We will present a united front. If anyone…”
He stopped talking suddenly and walked over to a small writing desk in front of the window.
“Do you remember what Peterson said my mother was doing the morning before she died?”
Abigail wiped the back of her sleeve across her eyes and sniffed twice before answering. “Yes. He said she was writing correspondence, I think.”
Simon moved to the side of the desk. “And he specifically said she told him she was going to write to me.”
There was a box on the desk, and he opened it and withdrew a handful of letters, each one bearing his mother’s distinct wax seal. He leafed through them and then looked up at Abigail.
“Come on.” He was hurrying from the room, as Abigail hurried after him.
“Where are we going?” she called as she rushed to catch up.
“Back to the parlor.” He turned and took her hand, walking so quickly now that Abigail had to nearly jog.
&nb
sp; Back in the parlor, more family members had gathered. Everyone turned to Simon as he entered the room and called for their attention.
“It seems,” he said, “that my aunt Helen and cousin Susan have been spreading the most scurrilous gossip, and have claimed that my mother’s last words regarding me were ill-favored. However, I have found among her things a letter addressed to me, the seal yet unbroken.”
He turned to the butler. “Peterson,” he said. “You served my mother and father for years. You regularly delivered her correspondence.” He held out the letter. “Is this in her hand?”
The butler looked at it. “Yes, sir. It is.”
“Would you break the seal now, and read it? I would know if my mother was truly angry with me. And I am willing to share her final communication with all of you. If it is as has been alleged, then after I pay my respects I shall return to London with nothing, and will not fight anyone in the family who seeks to lay claim to the fortune I’d have inherited had I gotten her blessing on my marriage, for I would not wish to inherit from a family who would not accept my wife.”
The room had fallen silent, and all eyes were on Peterson as he broke the seal on the letter, unfolded it, and began to read.
“My dearest son,
I hope this note finds you well and not too overworked in gloomy London. I think of you often, of how you toil away with the sick. And while I may not have said so often enough, I am proud of you.
I have received a visit from my sister Helen and her daughter Susan. I did not know they were to London recently to see you. They have returned to inform me that you are marrying. As you can imagine, the two of them are in a state of vexation. Helen has longed to see you joined in marriage with Susan, and as you know, I was not at all opposed to the notion, as I do so long to be a grandmother. Unfortunately, I do not believe that will happen. I have dreamed recently on my death and do not think I have long.
But understand, my dear son, that what I want for your life stands secondary to what you want. And I have told both Helen and Susan this, and have informed them that I will trust your judgment on the selection of a wife and if that selection is not Susan, I will not force your hand as they demand.