The Adventures of Abigail Pt. 03

This story is based loosely on some real experiences and is mixed with a healthy dose of my kinky and perverse imagination. What is included is a lot of bisexual FF – a little MM, MF. There is punishment, spanking, exhibitionism, wrestling, groups and a little incest. It is primarily a fantasy. Do not try this at home – and always be safe. Also, all of the characters are all over 18 and everything is completely consensual. This story is long and I will post more and more of it as time passes. I am always interested in feedback and suggestions. The musical references in the chapter titles are there to ground the story in musical events. Feel free to listen to them while you read the chapters. I would love to find an artist to draw illustrations. Enjoy.

Soave sia il vento – Cosi fan Tutte

The alarm clock woke me up early. Today was the day. I fly to Caracas. I needed to finish my packing, call my mom and get to the airport for a 6:05 PM flight from Kennedy Airport to Caracas. I should arrive in Caracas sometime around 10:00. My stepsister, Rachel, had made breakfast and helped me pack. She was not happy to see me leave. We held each other a long time and cried when the time came for me to leave. I promised to write. And I was off – drying my tears in the cab, watching her standing on the corner waving, until she was gone.

This was my one chance; the opportunity to perform on a professional level. As it turned out it would be the peak of my professional singing career. After Caracas I would never again perform at that level. During my time in Caracas I came to understand that while I had a pretty voice and was a passable actress, I was not really that good. So many do not understand what it takes to be a professional singer. It takes discipline, which I don't have; it takes training, which I had a lot of; it takes a strong backbone and the ability to process rejection on a regular basis, which I don't do well at all; and it takes abnormal talent and skill, of which I had a little. During this time I was able to come to grips with all of this and accept myself; to set aside the visions of glory and settle into the gifts I do have and accept myself for the way God created me. It is not that I did not fulfill my dreams – it is that my dreams were transformed.

After Caracas I returned to grad school, earned a PhD in musicology and embarked on a teaching career. I married Greg and together we continued the lifestyle and maintained the sexual openness of the commune community. And this is something I would not have been able to do had my immature dreams of operatic fame come true. During the three years I lived in Caracas I came to accept that I loved this openness; that I needed constant closeness and sexual intimacy. I came to understand the sexual power that a woman could have over men and how to use this in a way that was not manipulative and selfish, but giving and gracious. Even though I met no one during this adventure that recognized the pin, that pin and what it stood for became the center of my life, which has continued until today. But I get ahead of myself.....

My flight was scheduled to leave at 6:05 PM. It was the last flight of the day. After I checked my trunk I waited at the gate for the plane to board and munched on an apple and sipped some juice. I had expected the plane to be full, but as I sat there watching the people arrive, there seemed to be not very many who would be on this flight. It was interesting to watch the people. Many of them were speaking Spanish. Many of them had the dark skin of a Latin American mulatto. I noted an overweight man in a suit with his very adorned skinny wife; a group of girls dressed in tight tops and jeans; a small older woman who looked weary and tired. I noted them all, admired their beautiful faces, looked at their bodies all of which were so different from the other. My skin by contrast is very white, porcelain white. I was wearing a long skirt, a loose blouse and a vest. My blonde hair was pulled back and tied and I had a large hat and some sunglasses in my pocket, for the diva look (if I needed it – at night!). I wore panties, and for this occasion I chose to wear a bra, which was a very uncommon occurrence for me. I hardly needed it as my breasts were not large. My bra size is 34 with a b cup with small pink nipples. They are about the size of oranges but at this young age they were still perky, no sagging yet.

Then I noticed a young woman who stood out to me. She was an American, not Latina. She was tall with long dark brown hair. As she stood in line I noticed she was carrying a violin like case. I rummaged through my papers. I had been told that there was one other musician who would be traveling on this flight with me, where could that be..... Oh yes, here it is, Emmy Wilcox, the new principal viola for the orchestra. I waited until she found a seat and I studied her a little more. She was very plain in her features. Not unattractive, but she was someone who did not make much effort to make herself up – no make-up, her long hair in a ponytail. She was tall and skinny. She wore slacks and a blouse, with an open sweater. She looked as though she had no breasts at all. She appeared to me to be rather stiff and formal.

I picked up my stuff and walked over to where she was sitting. "Hi, I'm Abi Saunders, you must be Emmy." She looked up and smiled – what beautiful eyes and when she smiled her plain face lit up.

She took my extended hand, "Hi, nice to meet you Abi. I guess we are traveling together for the same company."

I sat next to her. "Yes, I am looking forward to it. So you are in the orchestra."

"Yes, it is my first principal appointment. I am excited and not a little nervous about it. You're a singer right?"

"Yep, a member of the young artist company." I said as I sat next to her in the empty seat.

And thus began our friendship, a friendship that has continued for many years. We talked and talked and talked. When we got on the plane it was so empty we were able to get seats together so we could continue talking. I learned that she was a graduate from Julliard, had won many competitions, including a prestigious award for a string quartet she had played with. But the group had broken up over interpersonal conflicts and so she found herself with nothing really to do except a few substitute gigs. So she had started taking auditions and she had won this audition. She seemed to have no personal life at all. No boyfriend. In fact, I got the impression she had never had a boyfriend. She seemed uncomfortable with this topic. I didn't want to press, but I told her I had had a lot of boyfriends and hinted that I had also had a few girlfriends. She did not pick up on that. Instead she changed the subject and started talking about how pretty I was and how it was not surprising I had lots of boyfriends.

"You are also very pretty, and could have boyfriends too if you want them."

"I have no time for men," she replied dismissively.

"I can't help myself." I said softly.

As the trip continued the pilot pointed out when we were flying over Puerto Rico and other Caribbean Islands. I was excited and fascinated. Emmy seemed less so. But I noticed her watching me as I bounced around from one side of the plane to the next in order to look out the windows. Finally I settled in my seat, covered myself with a blanket and closed my eyes.

Suddenly I realized I was no longer on the plane rather, I was in the common room on the commune and there was my mother, Karen, teaching a group of about 7 older teens, mostly boys (5), and the rest girls. I was watching from the rafters. There had been a "secret" passageway up to the upper level and places to slip in from which you could watch what was happening in the common room. I spent a lot of time in there with Rachel and my stepbrother. I had seen some really interesting things from that perch and had some interesting experiences there.

I looked into the faces – I recognize some of my old friends, many of whom I still was in touch. There was Greg and Jake, there was Rachel, there was my stepbrother Bill and several others. I looked at my mother. She was sitting on a stool talking, but I could not hear what she was saying. My mother was a beautiful woman, with beautiful features, sparkling eyes, a small nose (which I inherited), a warm inviting smile and long flowing golden blonde hair. She was wearing her usual long skirt with a loose blouse that hid her ample breasts. (I may have inherited her nose, but I did not inherit her breasts.) Then suddenly I saw my stepfather George come in and interrupt her. He had another couple with him – it was Charlie and Marge. He spoke to the class as my mother sat submissively on the stool. I could not make out what he was saying, but she was blushing and I could hear some words here and there: words like "punishment, equal, rules." Had she broken the rules? She was feisty, she probably had. I knew that all were subject to the rules of the commune – no matter who you were or your age. I had experienced it and watched my friends and other family receive punishment. But I had never seen my mother punished before. Marge stood behind her and gently rubbed her back.

Attention was all focused on her. All were quiet. Slowly Karen stood and she reached up and began to unbutton her blouse. When she got to the last button she pulled the blouse from her skirt, opened it and removed it. She handed it to Marge who folded it neatly. She stood there with her beautiful breasts exposed. The students were all silently watching, as was I. A few gasped audibly when her breasts were uncovered. Then George stepped behind her and unbuttoned the button at the waist of her skirt and let it fall. Then with a quick motion her panties were around her ankles. She stood there for a moment with the skirt pooled at her feet and her panties around her ankles. Otherwise she was naked. She stood with her eyes closed, looking like Venus de Milo. Her beautiful golden triangle now also exposed for all. I watched with rapt excitement. This had not been the first time I had seen her naked or even stripped – but this was the first time I had seen it done with such a large group watching.

Without prompting she slowly raised her arms as if in a trace and Charlie took the ends of a rope that was hanging from the ceiling and wrapped it around her wrists. And there she stood naked and tied with her hands above her head. George took his hands and ran them over her body. He squeezed and lifted her breasts, pinched her nipples and then pushed his hand between her legs as she spread to accommodate him. By now Marge had picked up the skirt and panties and she too, along with Charlie were caressing her naked body. My mother had her eyes closed and the expression of her face looked like she was filled with rapture.

SMACK! I jumped. Without warning George had spanked her on one cheek. SMACK! - on the other. Karen jumped and whimpered. The others in the room jumped in reaction as well. Marge ran her hands over Karen's ass. SMACK! SMACK! Marge had spanked her twice. Then Charlie: SMACK! SMACK! In between spanks 3 sets of hands caressed and explored every inch of her body. Then the ritual was repeated – 2 spanks again from each of the adults. I could not see whether Karen had started to cry, but she was whimpering and moaning louder with every spank. Slowly he turned her around for all assembled to see the red handprints on her ass. There was a murmur. George spoke and all of the young men and women in the class stood and came forward. I was riveted. Each one in turn would have a few seconds to administer 2 spanks and then to caress her body.

The first young man to step up was Paul. He was someone who I knew to be a very kind and considerate person. SMACK! SMACK! He spanked Karen's ass and then he turned her back around as he caressed her breasts. All the while Marge stood by gently caressing Karen's ass to dull the pain. As Karen was turned back around in all her nakedness I looked again into her face and was shocked to see that it was no longer Karen. It was me! I was naked! Stripped and displayed to all who were there, watching and caressing my body. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! I felt the spanks, I felt the tingle between my legs, I felt the sting on the skin that turned to warmth, which spread throughout my loins. I could not help myself, I was moaning.. I felt the ropes around my wrists. I felt hands on my breasts moving downward. I opened my eyes. It was Greg. He was looking into my eyes as his hand moved between my legs and he pushed his fingers between my labia. I spread wide. Wider. He found my clit and pushed and rubbed her. Wider! Then two fingers poised to enter........ he pushed them inside.... Deep.... I screamed in pleasure.....

"Abi, Abi, wake up!" It was Emmy.

I opened my eyes. I was on the plane.

"We will be there in about 30 minutes. Are you ok?"

I looked around. I was still covered by the blanket and then I realized my hand was under my skirt and my fingers were pushed inside. I blushed and slowly extracted my hand and lowered my skirt as best I could to not attract attention. I was thankful that I had covered myself with the blanket. I hoped that Emmy did not notice. My fingers were wet. I was wet. I could feel the lovely mess between my legs. "Not the right time," I thought as I subtlety wiped my fingers and hand on the blanket.

"Yes, sorry. I had a strange dream."

"It sounded like it." She smiled. I blushed.

"I need to run to the restroom." Emmy stood to allow me to slip out. I pushed the blanket into my seat and climbed out and headed to the restroom. I looked around and saw others watching me. "They all know," I thought. Then I giggled and went to open the restroom door in the galley. It was OCCUPIED. "I hope not for long, otherwise I will drip all over the cabin," I thought. I turned back towards the cabin and noticed that Emmy had the blanket I had placed into the seat in her hands. What was she doing with it? She was rubbing it on her face and... it looked like... .she was smelling it. I could not really see. But yes she was smelling the blanket. Then I saw her take her fingers and rub them over the blanket and put them to her lips. I was surprised. "Not as pure as I was led to believe." I thought.

Harold in Italy – Program Symphony for Viola and Orchestra – Berlioz

We arrived at the Caracas Airport a little before 10:00 PM. By the time we had picked up our luggage gotten through customs it was closer to 10:30. The airport is located on the coast right on the water of the Caribbean. But we could really not see anything in the darkness. When we had left New York it was cool, a typical late March day. But one of my most enduring memories of Caracas is stepping outside the airport the very first time and being hit with the hot humidity of the Caribbean coast. Just the little effort of walking to the curb, a matter of only a couple step, left both Emmy and I soaking wet in our sweat.

We, of course, were not carrying our own luggage. We were two young and pretty American girls. Latin men were everywhere, and were very anxious to lend a helping hand. Emmy would have refused the help, but I overrode her and told her to let the guys help us. As we arrived at the curb a truck and a car drove up and two men got out. I recognized the one from the audition. He had been the young man at the desk. Apparently he had also been present at orchestra auditions too as Emmy recognized him as well. His name was Carlos. He was a nice young man. I found out later he was gay and died of AIDS a few years after I had returned to the states. The other man was an older man named Pedro. Pedro was driving the truck and he did not speak English. He took our baggage and loaded it in the truck. Carols invited Emmy and I to ride in the car – a little Fiat. We climbed in and started our journey to the city.

Carols explained that while he knew that both of us had places arranged to live, at least temporarily, it was too late to deliver us to those apartments. And that for tonight we would stay in one of the apartments that the company regularly rents downtown near the opera house to put up out of town principal artists. The opera currently in performance wasCosi fan Tutte. That only required one out of town singer – Fiordiligi. So they had a couple empty apartments. We could choose to stay in separate places if we wanted, but we both agreed that we preferred to stay together. Carlos was very polite, deferential and kind. Throughout everything I was to experience in the next two and a half seasons he was always there with wisdom and kindness. He was also one of the only men I met during this entire experience that never tried to get under my skirt.

The trip to the city was a bit less than an hour. It was an amazing trip in several ways. First, I had never seen such traffic. It wasn't just the number of cars on the road. It was the speed at which they were traveling. I do not think that Carlos drove under 70mph the entire trip. I tried to look at the speedometer, but it was in kilometers and I couldn't figure it out. All I knew for sure was that we were traveling really fast and more than once did Emmy and I gasp in fear and hold each other's hands. And that was just the car traffic, the motorcycles were even worse. They were constantly zooming past us, weaving in and out of traffic. Hardly any of the men driving the motorcycles wore helmets either. But not only that, some of them – perhaps one out of every three – had a passenger who was a young woman. These women were dressed in tight clothes and looked like they were holding on to the drivers for dear life. They usually were not wearing helmets either.

The city of Caracas is built in the valley between two mountains. As the highway begins to go into the mountains there are a series of tunnels that cut through the mountains. As we traveled through what turned out to be the last of these tunnels we finally emerged onto a stretch of highway that was surrounded by lights. And the closer to Caracas we traveled the more there were. Little specs of light – thousands of them – covered the mountain side for miles until finally we drove into the city and the little lights were replaced with the florescent signs of the downtown Caracas. These little lights intrigued Emmy and me. We asked Carlos what they were. "Barrios." He replied. "What are barrios?" we asked. And perhaps this was the only time I can remember that he actually did not answer a question he just chucked and said, "you'll find out tomorrow."

And we did. The barrios are the slums. There are thousands of little homes made of brick and corrugated steel built up the sides of the mountains of the city. These barrios completely surround the city. Some are rougher than others, but they are places of poverty and disease. We were later warned not to travel up into the barrios. To this day the poverty of this place still overwhelms me, especially in contrast to the flaunted wealth among another group of the city's population. As an opera singer I would spend my time with the wealthy: the wealthy who had more money than they knew what to do with. These were people who were members of the industrial class or the political class and who who had benefited from the country's oil wealth. It was the wealthy who could afford opera and orchestras; it was these wealthy, as I would find out, who could afford expensive parties and decadent and perverse amusements. And many of those of us who came to this country to make their mark, found the temptation of the gold and power hard to resist. Some of us had no qualms about doing anything to please our wealthy masters and mistresses – and I mean anything.