Abbey's Weekend	Back to Q	Back to main page

Collected by Djian

Abby's Weekend
By Charm Brights

(c) 2002 Charmbrights Ltd. All rights reserved.

The author has asserted the moral rights under sections 77 and 78 of the
Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the main characters in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance
between Abby or Nigel or any other character in this story and real
people, living or dead, is wholly a matter of Nature imitating Art.

Il Cortile is, in the author's humble opinion the finest Italian
restaurant in the world.

Those who have read Abbey's Weekend can go to
the second segment Tuesday Afternoon which is a sequel.

Weekend Away?

Abby closed her PC down and pushed her chair away from the desk. It
had been a foul day with nothing going right, clients not there when she
rang them, her PC had frozen TWICE, the boss had ignored her; what a horror
of a day, typical Monday. Well, on the way home she would drop into the
Golden Sovereign and have a drink with some of the other brokers she knew.
The "GS" was the latest in place to be seen if you sold bonds and stocks,
as she did, and she knew many of her friends would be there.

As she walked in, several of her friends waved and she made her way to
the bar, sitting on one of the stools and surveying the scene. In one
cornerwere some of her bosses and those she decided to ignore. On the far
side of the bar was a group of about eight or ten people, most of whom were
'her crowd', so she told Alfredo, the barman, to bring her a bottle of
Chardonnay and wandered over to join them. Someone was celebrating something,
because a glass of Champagne was pressed into her hand just as Alfredo arrived
with her Chardonnay.

"What's the occasion?" she asked Emily, one of the girls with whom she
was quite friendly.

"Mark's celebrating splitting up from Felicity," came the reply.

Abby thought for a moment then remembered Mark, a rich young
man-about-town, perhaps a year or two older than her own 25, who never seemed to do
much work but always had lots of money. She couldn't remember meeting
Felicity as such, but Mark had a succession of girls on his arm, some of whom
were rumoured to be call girls from escort agencies.

Just then a voice asked, "Isn't my champers good enough then? Buying
your own Chardonnay in preference is a bit off."

She turned and there was Mark himself, a smile belying the peevish tone
of voice; evidently he was only teasing.

"Oh, do have some," she invited him, "I ordered it before I joined your
little harem."

There were, she had noticed, only girls in the group, except for Mark.

"I was just telling the girls that I'm off to Brussels for a weekend on
Thursday, but now Felicity's gone I have nobody to take," he raised his
voice a little, "The offer is still there, girls. Thursday to Brussels, good food,
good booze, lots of both, opera, art, whatever you fancy.
Back on Wednesday. Of course, being as I'm very hard up I can only afford
one bed which the two of us would have to share, but it is in a suite at
the Gastropole. Any takers?"

Turning back to Abby he added, "They all prefer to work, or I smell, or
something. I'll have to take an Escort Agency girl I suppose,
otherwise the weekend will be a real drag."

Suddenly Abby heard herself say, "I'll come, if you like."

That was how it started, and it had been an almost unmitigated
disaster.

***

Sitting waiting for the train home to be called she contemplated the
events of the past four days. She had not enjoyed much of it, except the food
which had been excellent. Mark had obviously wanted something she had
not known how to give him, willing though she was. Finally she decided
that it was Mark's fault for not telling her what she was supposed to do. It
was all very well saying that she was there for his pleasure and not hers,
but he had never really said what he wanted.

Various other passengers came into the waiting area, and one caught her eye.
He was obviously British; he was blond. She remembered his upper-class
accent and the way he had really turned her on when she had prostituted
herself for Mark's amusement, and got her the sack from rue Aerschot
windows by making her scream with ecstasy as she came within seconds of his
big, bold, circumcised prick sinking into her. She felt her pussy dampening
at the memory. Would he speak?

Either he cut her dead, or perhaps didn't notice her as he went past
and turned into what called itself the European Free Shop, although there
was no duty free on the Eurostar and their prices were far from cheap. Just
then the train was called and Abby pushed her trolley up the little ramp and
then on to the escalator to the platform. Finding Coach Twelve was not
difficult as they had little signs along the platform with the number of the
coach beside each open door. Luggage aboard, she settled in her seat just in
time to see her blond demi-god enter through the same door. Well, in the
almost empty half-coach that was Twelve, he could hardly fail to see her.
Perhaps he wouldn't speak someone whom, after all, he had only met as a
low-class prostitute.

As he went past her seat, he stopped and said, "I'm sure we've met, but
I can't exactly place you. Have we met?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Abby, "but you may prefer to forget it."

"Oh, no," he replied, "I really liked you, but I thought you might not
be willing to talk to customers when you are off duty, so to speak."

The train started to move and so she indicated the seat opposite her.

"Do join me, if you don't mind," she said, "Are you going back home as
well?"

Reaching over the table, he offered his hand and volunteered, "I'm
Nigel, by the way."

Shaking his hand, Abby replied, "I'm Abigail, but my friends call me Abby."

"Yes, my little stay in Belgium is over and it's back to the London
office tomorrow," Nigel said.

"Mmm, mine was only a weekend and now it's over, and it's back to the
City for me as well, the day after tomorrow."

"Do you work in the City?" he asked.

"Yes. I'm in bond sales," she replied.

"But I thought ..." he started, and then thought better of it.

"It's a long story," Abby said, as the steward came round with the
Champagne.

"Well, we've got well over two hours, if you want to tell me," offered Nigel.

So over an excellent lunch the she told him the whole story as the
countryside of Belgium and then France flashed past at nearly two
hundred miles per hour. As they entered the tunnel she remembered the bit she
had left out, so she told him about the Moles' Club.

"Moles' Club?" he looked puzzled.

"You know, like the Mile High Club but in a tunnel in the train loo,
but I expect a regular traveller like you has been a member for ages?"

"Oh, no. I couldn't," said Nigel with obvious distaste, "Not in the
loo on a train."

There was silence for some seconds then he asked, "But I suppose you
wouldn't care to have dinner with me? I know a nice little restaurant
near my flat where I would be delighted to entertain you this evening."

"That sounds nice," said Abby, "I'll have plenty of time to go home to
bathe and change first."

"If you've all you need with you in those bags, then you could change
at my place," he offered.

"Fine," she murmured, and Nigel leant forward across the table and
kissed her full on the lips.

As the train drew into Waterloo and Nigel prepared to take her luggage
down, Abby reflected that he had at least kissed her, something Mark had not
done, even once, during the weekend he had paid for. As they got in the taxi
Nigel gave his own address and Abby sat back wondering where this might
lead?

If anyone's interested, I could tell you where it leads to ...

Those who have read Abbey's Weekend can go to
the second segment Tuesday Afternoon which is a sequel.

The real hard BDSM is in my seven novels (so far) which are available (for money)
on www.bdsmbooks.com, where I have my own library.

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