Abigail had only wanted to skip the dinner at Will's. She loved Will Graham, but he was exhausting sometimes in all his messy apologetic somewhat paternal, mostly fraternal love for her, and she was just really in no mood that night to deal with both him and Hannibal. So she had stopped at Hannibal's office beforehand, where she had tried to convince him to instead take Will to an art exhibit she had seen that she thought Will might like. More polite than just turning down the invite for no reason, she figured.
She had gotten about five seconds into her pitch before Hannibal not only had her figured out, but had called her out on it. She felt strangely embarrassed, and so, unfortunately, grew petulant.
"Aww, c'mon, Daddy," she said, with an exaggerated pout. "Cut me some slack, it's no big deal. It was worth a try."
She knew immediately she had made an incredible mistake. It was no one thing but a combination: the way he raised his eyebrows, the way he worked his jaw slightly, the slight flare in his dark eyes as he leaned on the front of his desk.
"What did you call me?" he said.
"Nothing."
"Let's try again. What did you call me?"
She sighed, folding her arms. "Daddy." Abigail could hear herself the defensiveness in her tone.
"Ah," he said, and for a moment that was all. He turned to sit down on one of the grey leather and chrome chairs in front of his desk that he used for therapy. He leaned back and cocked his head expectantly as he looked at her; there was an amusement in his eyes that terrified her.
He patted his lap. "Sit," was all he said.
Well, she thought, this went terribly wrong.
Something in his gaze, the way he held himself, terrified her. Abigail had gone cold from fear, and, weirdly, she noted, arousal. Her limbs felt strange and heavy. "I'm sorry," she blurted. "You don't have to—"
"I'm afraid I must insist. If you are to identify me as father, I will play father-and that would include taking my little girl on my knee as I speak to her concerning serious matters."
It was so easy to forget he was so dangerous. She approached him slowly, feeling dumb stepping heavily towards his perfectly suited, perfectly coiffed, long-legged wolf of a figure.
As she made to sit on his lap, she calculated that there were two ways she could play this—she could be the penitent, perching on his knee, or she could be the wanton little Lolita and sit square on his lap, pressing her ass into his cock as she looped her arms around his neck.
The way he was looking her over, coldly, speculatively—she decided she didn't want to push her luck. She chose the first option.
Abigail perched on his long legs, looking down at her clammy hands holding each other in her own lap. She was trying to keep all of her weight off of him, but he wouldn't allow it. He shifted his legs and pulled her closer so she was square on his lap.
He took hold of her wrists with his large hand; when she tried to disentangle herself he gripped extremely tightly, to the point of pain.
She wasn't going anywhere.
His other hand rested on the small of her back, where he drew lazy little designs that occasionally drifted up her shirt to her bare skin. She shuddered.
"You're frightened," he said.
"No."
"Your pulse is raised, your breathing has quickened. Unless, of course, you are aroused." Although Abigail was not at Lecter's or Graham's level, she could read people pretty well, and she could read Hannibal Lecter better than most could. Though his words were cool and clipped and commanding as ever, there was a curl of dark amusement in them.
"I…I'm sorry," she said.
"Sorry for?"
Being so turned on? "For—ah—" the way his fingers were tracing, he seemed to be playing her like a string instrument, drawing out white hot need from between her legs. "For calling you Daddy."
"That does not upset me;" he said, "it is only natural that a young woman in your circumstances would confuse relationships as such, especially given the complicated nature of ours. Unlike Will, I do not see myself as your father. But I will step in as a father figure when required. For instance, now, when it is so clear to me you have been lacking proper discipline." His nails dug in as he said discipline, and she gasped.
"Now," he said, pursing his lips. "What are you sorry for?"
She swallowed. "For trying to make you take Will to the exhibit opening so I could miss the dinner."
"It was rude, wasn't it."
"Very rude. I'm sorry."
He tsked. "This is a bad precedent, Abigail. Do you know what Dr. Bloom told me about you before we first spoke? That you had a profound penchant for manipulation. I knew this. But I knew also you were a very bright girl; too bright to try to use it on me."
"I'm sorry. It was a mistake." What could she say to get out of this unscathed? What could she say to get him to stop holding her wrists and rubbing her back so she could get somewhere alone to address the electric pulse between her legs? She couldn't even shift; she was on his lap.
"Yes it was. So now. What's to be done about it?"
"I said I was sorry."
"Sorry is insufficient. This is a very, very serious thing, Abigail."
She stole a glance at him then. He looked very solemn.
"I…don't know," she said. Her voice was very small, in the large sumptuous room.
"I'm afraid I do know. I'm afraid you must be punished," he said, and the low growl to his voice made her, officially and humiliatingly, wet. "And if you are indeed my little girl, then I will treat you as such."
She couldn't help but squeal as he pulled her wrists forward, shifting her legs so she fell forward across his lap, the underside of her breasts against his leg, her bottom angled up. She was simultaneously horrified and grateful she was wearing a skirt.
She felt him pull her skirt up deftly, running his hand firmly over her buttocks, between them down to her cunt. She knew he could feel how damp she was; her face flushed hot. His touch was possessive, almost affectionate.
Almost.
When his fingers briefly but finally grazed where she wanted, she couldn't suppress a small hum.
She only protested when he pulled her panties down. He ignored her.
The first spank was glancing, open-palmed. Yet it more than stung—it hurt. She cried out more at the surprise at the pain than the pain itself. Before she could recover, the next slap struck, and the next, and the next. They came slowly, to let the sting spread first, to let her flesh bounce and jiggle in response.
She tried to twist so she could see the blows coming; he had his arm resting firmly on her back preventing her from turning. When she shifted, he pushed her back down roughly.
At first the strikes were careful, calculated, deliberate, the sharp claps of his hand on her flesh and her gasps and moans (she tried to bite them back, but the sensations were too strong) the only sound hanging in the air.
Although she couldn't see the blows, there was a certain regularity. When he broke it and paused, she found herself shifting insistently (and, curiously, not even hating herself for it), wriggling to encourage him to continue.
Soon, their speed and frequency increased to where she almost couldn't distinguish the individual spanks from the hot and searing sting across her buttocks.
Her shirt was hiking up; she could feel the fine material of his suit under her skin. When she twisted to try to see his face, she was struck by how haughty, how unperturbed he managed to look even as he had her over his knee. There was nothing to indicate he was doing anything more strenuous than writing session notes but the fact that his heavy, heavily delineated lips were slightly parted and she could see a glint of tooth.
A particularly heavy blow brought her back into position, and she cried out.
He stopped, running his hand over her unbelievably tender flesh, harder, faster than before, grasping at it gently.
She was panting.
"I am worried," he said, "that this perhaps has not taught you a lesson. You can be a very intractable child."
"It's—I—oh," she said nonsensically, as he trailed a finger down the cleft of her buttocks to where she was hot and soaking.
With one finger, he began to massage her clit. "Have you learned your lesson?"
"Um. Oh. Yes." It was unfair; between the burning pain and the searing thrums of pleasure, she absolutely couldn't concentrate. It was unbearable—it was unbearable, that he could manipulate her so well, her heart and mind and body, and make her love it.
"Are you very sorry," he said, increasing the speed of his manipulation even as he started to penetrate her with his thumb, "that you were such a naughty little girl?"
"Very, very sorry!"
He spanked her again with his free hand, even as the tension between her legs began to build and coil. "And will you now be a very good girl for your daddy?"
"The best. Oh my god, Daddy, the best."
He slapped her a few more times, the contrast between the pain and the pleasure unthinkable, as the pulses of her coming orgasm hummed and throbbed—until—
He pulled back, gently pulling her panties back up, pushing back her skirt.
She cried out in protest; he only chuckled.
"Good," he said, patting her ass as he had initially patted his lap. "I'm glad we've had this little talk. No more petty manipulations. You may get up."
Abigail was still panting. "Wh…what?"
"Get up. We must set off for Will's, now." He helped her twist up, to stand in front of him.
A wild thought ran through her mind of straddling his lap and fucking the smug, strangely sated expression right off his sharp face. She thought better of it. "But—"
"But what? I said I would punish you." He stood, taking a breath, smoothing his suit. "Release is for good little girls only."
At least she caught her jaw dropping, and closed her mouth almost immediately.
He walked forward, smoothing her hair.
"However," he said, leaning in to murmur in her ear even though they were the only two people there. "If you are my very, very good girl at this dinner, perhaps we can see about a reward."
She laughed. It was not always terrible to be outplayed. "I'll be your very best girl," she said. "Ever."
He smiled, as a wolf smiles, and they left for Will's.