Stormy Night Publications Publishers of BDSM and Kink Erotica
As eighteen-year-old Abigail Podret pleasures herself in her family’s summer-house, she cries out the name of Mark LeMarchand, the man she secretly loves. She has
no idea that he stands steps away, ready to do what she most desires: strip her naked, spank her hard, and take her even harder. But as a result of her stern upbringing, Abigail finds herself unable to give herself to Mark no matter how badly she longs for it.
Mark is determined to help Abigail, and with the assistance of wealthy friends he creates the Institute, a place where women agree to have their memory of consent suppressed by hypnosis in order to free them to enjoy their submission fully. When Mark tells Abigail about the Institute, she realizes it may be her only chance at real happiness.
After agreeing to the program, Abigail wakes up at the Institute and meets Master Ian, under whose firm hand she will be taught to please a man in any way he requires. Absolute obedience is expected of her and anything less will result in punishments as shameful as they are effective. But when Abigail inadvertently discovers the truth about The Institute, will she decide to finish her training or will she leave and rush into Mark’s waiting arms?
Author: Emily Tilton
Length: 61,200 words
eBook Price: $4.95
Excerpt
“What’s a… wh-what’s a sub, sir?” Abigail was breathing so fast and unevenly at the terrible, lovely feeling that she could barely get out the words.
“A sub is a submissive, Abigail,” he said patiently, continuing to rub her bottom, where the sting of the belt had seemed to transform into warmth in her pussy. “A submissive is a girl like you, who needs a man like me to dominate her, and make her do the things she can’t admit she wants to do, and do the things to her that she can’t admit she wants him to do.”
Part of Abigail wanted to say, “That has a name?” and fall at Mr. LeMarchand’s feet in gratitude. But in response to that part, and to its almost making her admit that she wanted him to spank her—to dominate her—she found that another part had begun to rise up in opposition, saying “You must not. This is wrong, and he is wrong, and you are not that… thing he said. You are not submissive.”
“No,” she said. “No, that’s wrong.”
Mr. LeMarchand laughed, put his right hand inside the waistband of her panties, and pulled them down to her knees.
“I can see how wet you are, little sub,” he said softly.
“I’m not!”
Then he spanked her, hard, with his open hand. Abigail yelped loud at the agony of having the bruises from the belt reawakened.
“Don’t talk back to me, young lady,” he said. “And don’t lie. You are a little sub whose cunt gets wet when your master tells her how to please him. If you don’t learn to follow my rules, you are going to have to endure a great deal more punishment.”
Abigail moaned at that; she simply couldn’t help it.
“See?” Mr. LeMarchand said. “Don’t try to deny it, Abigail. You are a sub, and it’s time for your master to give your sweet little cunt its very first fucking.”
He wouldn’t, would he? And if he tried, what should she do? Abigail couldn’t even figure out if what Mr. LeMarchand had begun here with her was sex. The scene differed radically from what her friends talked about, as she pretended not to hear, and above all from what they had told her in 5th grade and then again in 9th grade, in health class. In bed at night, Abigail thought about men spanking her, yes. Above all, she thought about this man spanking her. Sometimes she felt she had begun to go insane, so hard did she find it to stop thinking about men spanking her, beating her, and stripping her naked.
But that wasn’t sex, was it? It was just a kind of coincidence that she used the same part to make herself feel good when she thought about Mark LeMarchand spanking her as Jon Southey had wanted to touch and, presumably, to penetrate. Abigail watched between her spread thighs, unable to progress her thoughts further, as her childhood friend’s father unbuckled his belt, unfastened his jeans, and lowered them and his underwear to the floor. She looked at a real, live man’s thing for the very first time.
The sight of it, bobbing there, advancing toward her, made her gasp, and suddenly she realized it was about sex, but it was about a very different kind of sex, or a very different way of looking at sex. When Mr. LeMarchand put his manhood there, and deflowered Abigail, and… fucked Abigail, he would be beating her, too. He had already stripped her. He had already rubbed the places where she had been whipped.
To have him there in her private part, her shameful part that could make her ‘easy’ and immodest and wicked—oh, God, she wanted it so much, but at the same time she didn’t want it—she couldn’t want it.
