Disciplining Little Abby

Disciplining Little Abby

By

Serafine Laveaux

Copyright © 2014 by Stormy Night Publications and Serafine Laveaux

Copyright © 2014 by Stormy Night Publications and Serafine Laveaux

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

www.StormyNightPublications.com

Laveaux, Serafine

Disciplining Little Abby

Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

Images by Bigstock/IngaLinder Bigstock/Khorzhevska

This book is intended for
adults only
. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

The winding driveway leading to her parent’s house was flanked by waving grasses and day lilies just coming into bloom. The riot of color delighted most visitors, but for Abby it only intensified the sense of dread that filled her whenever she headed home. For her, going home meant spending days watching her sisters held up as shining examples of what was possible through hard work and determination, while being not so subtly reminded that if she ever intended to make anything of her life, she’d best get a move on.

Parked ahead in the circular drive was her younger sister’s car, a pink monstrosity of a Cadillac that announced to all her high status in the Mary Kay food chain. The day Julia had revealed her intention to peddle makeup and skincare products, Abby had nearly snorted her soda out her nose, but when her baby sister triumphantly announced her top saleswoman awards month after month, she’d stopped laughing. The pink Cadillac was yet another sign everyone in the family was more successful than she.

She didn’t see Eva’s black Escalade in the drive. Smirking slightly, she eased her battered VW Bug alongside the pink Cadillac, then backed up enough that her older sister wouldn’t be able to pull through or have enough room to park behind them. The old Bug shuddered and wheezed to a grateful stop, and Abby stepped out, flicking the remains of her cigarette to the drive and crushing it beneath her sneaker.

“Mallory Dawn, pick that up at once!”

Shit!
She bent to snatch up the offending butt, her fingers fumbling for the pieces now ground into the graveled drive. Drawing a deep breath, she stood back up and dared a look towards the door and her mother.

Elizabeth Joan Willis was a tall, glamorous woman, who no more tolerated littering at home than she did her middle daughter’s desire to go by anything other than her birth name. To the people at work and to her friends, she was Abby—so named thanks to her idolization of Abby Sciuto on NCIS—but at home she had always and would always be Mallory Dawn.

“Why are you parked like that?” her mother demanded in a suspicious tone. “You know Eva will never be able to park in that space you left.”

“Bug died before I could pull through.” She shrugged as she pulled her duffel bag from the car and slammed the door. “She’ll just have to go around.”

“Honestly, I don’t understand why you drive that thing,” her mother complained as she stepped back to let Abby inside. “I know they pay you peanuts at that job, but surely you could afford something made in the last decade.” She glanced out at the street as if worried the neighbors might already be tsking over the ancient Bug dragging down property values. Without pausing, Abby raced up the stairs to her room, eager to escape before her mother could begin quizzing her on her job, non-existent relationships, and what she planned to do with her life.

The room she’d left behind at eighteen had purple walls and posters of Dimestore Hoods and Compulsion and Goldfinger, a black and purple zebra shag rug, and a black hutch style desk with an assortment of lava lamps along the top. It had been a hard-won battle to decorate it that way. Her mother had something of an obsession with all things neutral and had only admitted defeat after Abby redecorated the entire room during one of her mother’s weekend spa getaways. Even then, if Abby hadn’t installed a lock on the door, she doubted her remodeling would have survived past the following Monday. No doubt her mother would have had a work crew in there fifteen minutes after she’d gone to school. For once, Elizabeth Joan Willis decided to back off and simply bide her time.

Her chance came the day Abby drove off to college. Within hours of her car leaving the drive, the purples and blacks and glitter and lava lamps had vanished, replaced by a dozen shades of neutral. The doors and windows were edged with pristine white trim, and an elegant floral arrangement with orchids so realistic they demanded to be sniffed dominated the top of the carefully polished antique dresser. The room was straight out of a magazine. Literally. Her mother had smugly shown her the photo of it featured in a local style magazine. In Abby’s opinion, it was an utterly boring room and a perfect reflection of Mrs. Elizabeth Joan Willis’s style. Elegant, perfect, and risk-free.

Abby hated every minute spent in it.

Tossing her bag onto the immaculate white bedspread, she quickly retrieved a soft, furry blanket from its depths. Holding it to her face, she let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It was bright red with candy canes and snowmen dancing across it and was a Christmas present from a friend. She took it everywhere with her. On occasion she would catch someone staring curiously at her clutching it. An embarrassed shrug and an explanation of how she was always cold always seemed to satisfy them. The truth was the blanket made her feel safe, and she never went anywhere without it. She even took it to work. It insulated her from the chaos and deadlines and frazzled coworkers.

The second thing she pulled from the bag was a blue, scruffy stuffed dog. She allowed herself a quick hug before carefully tucking him out of sight behind the half dozen decorative pillows her mother insisted every bed in the house had.

“Just for now, Mr. Jingles,” she whispered, patting the stuffed dog on the head before arranging the last pillow to completely conceal him. “Mom would have a bitch kitty if she saw you.”

Every year since she turned six she’d asked for a puppy, but her mother had said no, insisting that dogs were filthy and she would not have one in her home. Feeling pity for his daughter but unwilling to cross his wife, her father had presented her with Mr. Jingles on her twelfth birthday. It had been love at first sight. She’d taken him everywhere with her, for rides on her bike and even to school, despite the teasing her classmates heaped upon her. Unfortunately, one of the neighbors saw Abby carrying on a spirited conversation with Mr. Jingles at the playground. Thinking she was relaying an adorable story, she told Abby’s mother all about it.

Rather than being amused, Elizabeth Joan was mortified. After the well-intentioned neighbor had left, she’d ordered the dog thrown out at once. Abby’s tears and pleas and promises to never talk to her toys again all fell on deaf ears. Her father tried to intervene, arguing that she was just a child and would eventually grow out of it, but her mother’s mind was made up. Abby went to bed that night with a broken heart, convinced she would never see Mr. Jingles again. However, in a surprising show of defiance, her father snuck out late that night and retrieved him from the dumpster. He’d made Abby pinky swear to never, ever let Mom know Mr. Jingles was still alive, and she’d kept that promise for twenty years.

Her mother called up the stairs to tell her dinner would start in five minutes. She took a moment to refresh her makeup, grinning as she applied extra eyeliner. More than one battle had been fought during high school over her love affair with black eyeliner, and though she had since given up the look, Abby couldn’t help but revert to her old style whenever she came home. Just knowing how much it infuriated her mother was reward enough. Satisfied with the result, she tossed the eyeliner onto the dresser instead of in her purse where it belonged (another sure way to annoy her mother) and headed downstairs for dinner.

Dinner was everything she’d come to expect at home. Her mother ran a successful catering business and always arranged for her catering manager to wrangle dinner for the monthly get-together. Creamy white and sweetly scented magnolias adorned the dining room table, graciously set with gold rimmed china and intricately scrolled silverware that had been handed down from her great grandmother. There were sliced heirloom tomatoes in various shades artfully arranged with fresh mozzarella and basil leaves and drizzled with dark balsamic vinegar. Mouthwateringly aromatic, rosemary sprinkled chicken breasts were piled neatly on one serving platter, which was flanked by a dish of freshly steamed asparagus sprinkled with lemon zest and sea salt. It was beautiful and perfect, and Abby found she had never wanted a piece of pizza more than at that very moment.

“Nice eyes!” her youngest sister, Julia, giggled as she rushed past Abby to snag the seat furthest from the end their mother always claimed. “You’ve been taking makeup lessons from Taylor Momsen, I see.”

Abby stuck her tongue out and grinned. “Coming from someone who sells the bulk of her makeup to the nursing home, I’m going to take that as a compliment!” Although Julia had just turned thirty a few weeks prior, Abby always felt like they both returned to ten and twelve whenever they were together, and she loved her little sister for it.

Eva, however, was another matter. Even when they were kids, Eva was always the shining star of the family, a mirror image of their mother, with blonde hair and a perfect golden tan, but with ambition and brains to go with it. Now a successful realtor specializing in commercial properties, her older sister had risen rapidly in the ranks of real estate and was the go-to girl in Dallas for anyone looking to flip high ticket commercial properties.

Abby’s black hair, fair skin, and short stature came straight from her daddy, and though no one had ever implied she wasn’t pretty, she often felt as if her mother blamed her for not inheriting the right set of genes. Being around Eva made her feel about two feet tall, and it didn’t help that Miss Perfection never miss an opportunity to point out Abby’s many shortcomings.

“So, Mallory,” Eva said as she daintily speared a slice of tomato, “I notice your parking skills haven’t improved since last month.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, keeping her eyes trained on her plate while trying to hide the smile that threatened to betray her lack of sincerity. “Bug died right as I pulled into the drive.”

“Oh, I’m sure it did,” Eva snorted. “Funny how it never dies anywhere else.”

“I don’t understand what it is with you and that car,” her mother said wearily. “If that magazine won’t pay you enough to afford a decent vehicle, then why do you insist on staying there?”

“It’s a newspaper not a magazine,” she huffed, “and they do pay me enough, but unlike all of you, I’m not obsessed with having some huge, gas-gobbling ode to consumerism—”

“Mother, please don’t get her started,” Eva groaned. “I want to enjoy my dinner, not hear a bunch of idealistic crap about how my Escalade will lead to the end of Western civilization.”

“Language, Eva,” their mother warned.

“It’s okay, Mom, she’s just defensive because the USS Valdez out there barely gets four gallons to the mile,” Abby smirked.

“At least I can afford to
buy
gas without digging through the sofa cushions!” Eva snapped, and Abby was pleased to note her older sister’s normally flawless complexion was growing splotchy. “Not that I’d ever expect you to understand what it means to work your tail off and get ahead.”

“I bet you know all about putting that tail of yours to work,” Abby snickered rudely. She was gratified to see Eva’s complexion go from flushed to volcanic.

“Enough!” Her mother’s eyes flashed dangerously, and Abby quickly swallowed her smile. “Mallory Dawn, that was rude and filthy, and you will apologize at once.” She fixed Abby with a cold, steely glare until finally she mumbled an apology.

“First of all, my name is Elizabeth Joan, not Mother or Mom. That was fine when you were little girls, but having grown women call me that makes me feel positively geriatric and it ends now. Secondly, Mallory, if you think we believe that car always dies of its own accord in the same spot every month, you seriously underestimate us.”

“It did die!” she protested weakly, but her mother wasn’t buying the lie.

“Once a month I ask you to come here and have dinner with us and enjoy each other’s company, and yet once a month, Mallory, you seem to delight in spoiling everything.”

“Oh sure, blame me for everything!” she snapped. “God forbid you put any blame on your mini-me over there!”

“Mallory Dawn, you watch your mouth with me,” her mother admonished. “My word, every time it’s the same thing! The minute you pull into the drive you go out of your way to ruin everyone’s time with your childish behavior. I simply do not understand what is wrong with you.”