La Queue de Cheval

eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. Samhain Publishing, Ltd. 577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520 Macon GA 31201 La Queue de Cheval Copyright © 2008 by Michele De Lully ISBN: 1-60504-080-0 Edited by Laurie Rauch Cover by Anne Cain All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: July 2008 www.samhainpublishing.com

La Queue-de-Cheval Michèle de Lully

Dedication

For S.C.

La Queue-de-Cheval

Chapter One

It was one of those glitzy parties. Not black-tie, but glamorous in a nightclub way, with hundreds of guests. The long, circular driveway was crowded with Jags and Mercedes instead of Rolls. Inside, rich men and pretty girls chased each other to the beat of Top-Forty music and the fragrance of champagne. Angie was making progress with a tall, blond stockbroker, until the pony-girl showed up. The girl was beautiful, thin and svelte with small, perky breasts and luxurious long black hair, but that wasn’t enough to make her the center of attention. Even the audacity of showing up in a skimpy black bikini with thousand-dollar Manolo pumps and threecarat diamond earrings was only worth a few stares. What locked people’s gazes was the halter—fine, black leather straps dangling from the bit in her mouth. And the tail. Two feet long, thick and curly, and as black as jet, it hung from her backside and twitched ever so slightly as she walked. Angie slipped away from her stockbroker, who was staring open-mouthed at the girl. It was hard to blame him, since everyone else was doing the same. She felt bad for the women who were there with steadies or husbands. The jealousy emanating from half the room was palpable, although the men were clueless as usual. Angie wasn’t jealous, though. She was too impressed. It had to take a lot of nerve to go out in public dressed like that.

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As she worked her way closer, a few details became apparent. The girl was following a man around. He was badly dressed, in that too-much-money way that put the wrong jacket with the wrong trousers just because they both came from Armani. The message it sent was, “I have too many expensive suits to keep them all straight.” Angie had to admit it was not an entirely ineffective message. There was more—another man, filling out his modest off-the-rack suit with much more effect. He was handsome enough to attract the attention of the women, if they could stop glaring at the pony-girl. But he hung back, discreetly, following the couple. Security—hired muscle. Why did the good-looking ones always have the lousy jobs? He was also out of place. Guards belonged at parties with movie stars and royalty. She took another look at the man he protected—the VIP all this wealth and power orbited around—but she didn’t recognize him. She recognized the type, though. Born to money, spoiled by it. Arrogant, and even a little cruel; well-educated, world-traveled, jaded into a fashionable cynicism, and yet naïve in curious ways. He was still young and healthy, tanned and fit. He still had a chance to mature, to become a sophisticated gentleman instead of a decadent, used-up old fop. He just needed a good woman to steer him straight. Angie, like every other single woman in the room, went a little giddy at the thought that she might be that woman. He caught her looking at him. And accepted it; took it as his due. Angie was furious with herself, but only for an instant. The man had spent a small fortune tonight, solely for the purpose of being looked at. To not appreciate the display would have been impolite. His gaze raked up and down Angie’s body. Then he flicked a glance at his pony-girl and then back to Angie. And smiled. Angie blushed and melted back into the crowd. How had the man detected her fascination with the pony-girl? Of course he assumed all the men were staring. But his sardonic glance said he had seen Angie staring, too.

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Maybe he was just guessing. Maybe he assumed everyone was impressed with his showpiece. Angie tried out these excuses, but none of them fit comfortably. The man’s eyes were too intelligent for that. She spent the next hour observing them from afar, careful not to let the man see her. The stockbroker served as adequate cover, having come to find her again. Watching the pony-girl had put ideas into his head. Normally she would have appreciated the girl for making the men in the room considerably more pliable, but she had lost interest in the stockbroker. Even the playboy was less intriguing than the pony-girl. Men, she understood; but the girl was something new. Angie wondered what the girl was feeling right now. Walking around dressed like that, broiling in the hungry stares of the men and the minatory glares of the women. Was she excited? Nervous? Ashamed? There was something about her posture, about the submissive way she followed the man. It was hard to recognize because it was so out of place, but eventually Angie understood. The pony-girl was aroused. She had that languid softness that women get when they are ready to yield to a man. And the men around her sensed it, fed off it. Angie finally understood the point of the security guard. He wasn’t there for the man; he was there for the girl. To protect her from the emotions she evoked. Angie felt it herself. Once you got past the jealousy, the pony-girl really was erotically stimulating. To be the center of so much male energy would be exhilarating; to do so safe in the knowledge that two men were protecting you would be liberating. Watching her advertise her sexual availability to anyone and everyone tugged at Angie’s own desires. Whether they could admit it or not, the other women must feel the same. A lot of people were going to get lucky tonight. Sadly, Angie would not be one of them. She could not settle for her bland broker tonight, no matter how earnestly he pressed his case. He was simply too ordinary. She wanted something special now, sparked into wishful dreaming by the magic of the ponygirl.

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Who had just disappeared. Along with her entourage. Angie made a half-hearted excuse and slipped away from the stockbroker. She knew the girl hadn’t left by the front door, so where had she gone? Angie snagged a glass of champagne, slipped one strap off her shoulder and pulled a lock of hair out of place. Acting tipsy, she pretended to search for a restroom. This let her wander the halls of the mansion with a plausible cover. The one servant she encountered was a man, so slipping past him was as easy as a giggle and a wink. Deep inside the house, she finally heard conversation. Male, ribald, but subdued. Wandering in that direction, she found a dining hall. She had approached from the servants’ entrance, not the main doors, so the small group of men at the other end of the room did not notice her. There were six of them, including the playboy and the guard. They were drinking and talking like boys watching a football game. Except what they were watching— Angie didn’t believe it at first. But there it was. The pony-girl was bent face-down over the table, her tail flipped up and resting on her naked back. Behind her stood one of the men, holding her reins in one hand and leaning on the table with the other. And he was thrusting away, his pants around his ankles. Stunned into silence, Angie could only watch as the man finished, emptying himself into the girl. He leaned over her, gasping, until one of the other men slapped him on the back. Then he stepped away, gathering his clothes up as the new man dropped his trousers and took his place. The idea that the girl was just a whore shattered her illusions. This was not sex, but just business. Angie stepped forward, intent on entering the room and ruining the men’s fun with some well-aimed and savage mockery, when she saw the pony-girl’s face. She had lifted her head from the table as the new man entered her. Looking away from the men, hooded by her long black hair, they could not see her face. The rapture she wore was not a mask for them. Eyes closed, mouth held open by the bit, the girl yielded eagerly to the next rider.

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Angie froze, trapped by the ecstatic visage. Like a boomerang, her disgust returned upside-down as desire. The pony-girl must have known this was coming; she had spent the evening out there, exposed and almost naked, while her master selected the men who would line up and fuck her. Breathing suddenly became difficult for Angie. She stepped back into the shadows. So the girl was a slut, not a whore. Angie knew you were supposed to think even less of girls who gave it away for free than professionals who at least could claim they were supporting a family. But this girl was surrounded by attractive men and wearing the most expensive jewelry. And she had incredible taste in shoes. It was very difficult to condemn the girl while Angie was so impressed. And aroused. Part of her wanted to join the girl. To walk out there, bend over the table, lift her skirt, and get her needs fully serviced. Men always quit too soon, anyway. Even when it was good, she knew she could go on longer. With a whole line, the feeling wouldn’t have to stop just because one man reached his limits. But Angie wasn’t wearing Manolo pumps. In the morning, Angie wouldn’t be someone’s valued pet, with a big strong security guard to beat up anyone who insulted her. If Angie joined that orgy, all she would be was a whore too dumb to get paid. It seemed entirely unfair. Watching as the second man finished and stepped away, something else occurred to her. The girl was still wearing her tail. If it wasn’t affixed to the bottom of her bikini, then how was it attached? When the obvious answer occurred to her, it made her twinge inside. Front and back. Between the bit, the tail, and the men’s cocks, the pony-girl was being penetrated in every possible way. In any ordinary setting, Angie would have laughed at such kinkiness. But watching the girl enjoying it, seeing her complete and total submission to the men clustered around her, the imagery took on a new flavor. To be so thoroughly sexualized, to have every part of your body rendered erogenous, to become fully an object of lust and pleasure…

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Angie took another step back into the shadows, leaning up against a wall. Involuntarily, her hand slipped below her waist, pulling up her short skirt to touch herself. Shocked at how wet she was, she couldn’t stop. What if someone found her? What if a wandering servant came upon her? Or what if she made a sound, and the men in the room discovered her masturbating in the corner? Perhaps they would bend her over the table, and she would not be able to protest. Revealed as a licentious trollop, she would be paralyzed by shame and unable to resist as they lined up behind her. And the pony-girl would watch, laughing, twitching her tail in mockery. The images flooded through her head, drowning her. She had to bite her lip to stifle her cry as the orgasm shuddered through her. Astonishing in its intensity, given so little physical stimulation. But it was not entirely satisfying. She still felt empty, still burned to be filled. Most unexpectedly, her backside clenched, even while her conscious mind skittered away from the thought of that luxurious black tail. Turning her attention back to the dining room, she was relieved that they had not in fact seen her. Fantasies were one thing, but the reality would have been merely embarrassing. The men were leaving, finished with their turns. The guard was going out with them. But the girl was still on the table, and the master was waiting with her. When the door closed behind the security guard, the master went to his girl. He talked too softly for Angie to hear, but the girl looked over her shoulder at him, watched as he lowered his trousers and mounted her. Incredibly, even after giving her to all those other men, he still wanted her. Angie’s desire flooded back, stronger than before. But now she felt like voyeur. The audience was gone; the show was over. This was a private act of love, not an erotic spectacle. Blushing, Angie fled back down the corridor. She headed straight for the exit. The party had lost its allure. She had already seen the most excitement it had to offer, and she had not been a part of it. Next weekend she

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could return to her ordinary pursuit of a nice man, a big house, a fancy wedding. Tonight, however, those dreams seemed tame, like cardboard cutouts of real passion. As she stepped out the front door, someone gently tapped her on the shoulder. Instantly she suspected she had been seen, and kept going, ignoring the discreet touch. But he followed and called out to her. “Miss,” he said in a voice that was used to obedience. She had to stop then, and look at him. The security guard. He was impressively thick, in a muscle-bound way, but right now he was trying to be unintimidating. Angie found the contrast surprisingly sexy. “My employer thought you might like to have this. In case you’re interested.” He handed her a business card. Bathshire Stables. For the discriminating gentleman. She wanted to make a snappy retort, throw the card in his face, but he was already gone. Standing there, she tried to drop the card on the ground like a piece of litter. But her fingers disobeyed. The card remained in her hand. With a sigh, she tucked it into her purse. She’d deal with the thing later. Right now, all she wanted was to go home, take a hot shower, and crawl into her silk sheets. And, no doubt, enjoy another review of the night’s events. Just thinking about it made her want to go back in and find the stockbroker. Or the guard. But the guard would turn her down—she could already tell he was the kind of man who took his duties seriously. And the stockbroker would let her down—there was no way he could live up to the fantasies in her head. The cab driver was the only man she could be sure of tonight. For a few quid, he would flirt with her—respectfully—and escort her home, like a gentleman. And if she wanted to see him tomorrow, he was just a phone call away. If only all men were so reliable.

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Chapter Two

Her skirt was too black. And much, much too short. She’d worn it as a kind of homage to the pony-girl. But an accountancy office wasn’t a party, and the staid, formal atmosphere of Boswick, Calvin, & Chesterfield, with wall-paneling that hadn’t changed since the turn of the century, was a living relic of tradition. Being sexy here would only attract the wrong kind of attention. On the other hand, her job was dull, and the memory of glamour made it unbearably dull today. If she wasn’t feeling slightly nervous about what people would think, she wouldn’t be feeling anything at all. Mondays were always the worst. Every Monday was another weekend she hadn’t met Mr. Right; another week she would have to suffer through until she had a chance to escape this life. Mrs. Smythe appeared at Angie’s desk, her broad bulk imposing even though it was wrapped in a ridiculous flower-print that had gone out of fashion before Angie had been born. From the false smile on her face, Angie instantly knew the old battle-ax was about to lay into someone. The lark of underdressing for work suddenly seemed a lot less fun. “Will you come with me, dear?” Mrs. Smythe’s voice burbled unnervingly. Angie automatically tried to tug her skirt longer as she stood up. Following the large woman to her private office, Angie struggled to ignore all the eyes staring at her. Of course they watched when the battle-ax picked out a new victim. No doubt the old hens would

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approve her being told off for her sartorial exuberance. The lads wouldn’t, but she didn’t really care what they thought. She’d eliminated all of them as potential mates within her first hours here. The only men in the firm who made enough money to fulfill her dreams were the senior partners. And they were far too old, dried-up, and married to be interesting. They’d probably disapprove of her skirt as much as Mrs. Smythe did. Utterly unbidden, entirely unwelcome, a naughty image flashed before Angie’s eyes. For a brief instant she saw herself bent over a desk, her skirt pulled up, while the senior staff took turns expressing their opinion of her inappropriate behavior. Mrs. Smythe stood by with a ruler, threatening to administer a thorough swatting if Angie made any objection. In her vision, Angie could see her own face, and it was the face of the ponygirl in rapture. The mirage lasted only two footsteps, but it was intense enough to leave her pulse throbbing and her head dizzy. She had no real desire to entertain the seniors, and no fear that they would ever stoop to such conduct. She absolutely had no interest in the stout Mrs. Smythe contemplating her bare buttocks with a ruler in hand. But the mere act of walking through the office in a skirt two inches shorter than it should be while everyone watched had sparked something deep inside, touched off a hidden flame that smoldered hungrily. She wondered what lascivious fantasies the pony-girl must suffer, until she remembered that, for the pony-girl, they were not merely fantasies. The memory of the sound of the men dropping their trousers, the soft rustle of leather and wool, swam over Angie and drowned out the normal background of office clinkery and chatter. With relief, Angie slipped into the glassed office behind Mrs. Smythe. Being chewed out would be easier to take than these uncontrollable erotic flashes. Astonishing that after two days the pony-girl still had such an effect on her. A man waited in the office, his presence concealed by the bulky Mrs. Smythe until the last instant. When she saw his face, Angie froze, her heart pounding in her mouth, her stomach falling endlessly downward even as blood rushed through her temples.

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The guard from the party. In a sensible blue sweater and a crisp white shirt. She wanted to bolt, to run screaming out the door. Her secret fantasies had been somehow ripped from her mind and projected into the real world for everyone to mock and jeer. She wanted to be ravaged by the muscular body hidden under the camouflage of ordinary office clothing. Paralyzed by unreality, fear, and desire, she managed only to breathe once, ragged and uneven, before Mrs. Smythe spoke. “This is Mr. Greyson. He’ll be joining us as a junior underwriter, so I’m asking you to show him around. This is his first job in the industry, so you’ll have to teach him everything.” Mrs. Smythe’s pronouncement was delivered with a thoroughly selfsatisfied smirk. Mr. Greyson, erotic soldier by night and accountancy assistant by day, looked up at Angie and smiled apologetically. His midnight-blue eyes spoke volumes in a goodhumored shrug that traveled no further than his eyebrows. Translated into words, they said, A bit awkward, I know, but I’m glad to see you again all the same. Angie sat down. The absence of terror left her trembling and weak. He wasn’t here to violate her. The accountancy had not been replaced by an erotic fiend’s torture chamber. She wasn’t even going to be upbraided for her wardrobe. Mrs. Smythe’s vengeance was aimed at the man. The old battle-ax had deliberately put him under the prettiest girl in the office to humiliate him. And wreck his chances of seducing her. Why would Angie want a man she was in charge of? But she did want him. Her heart was still pounding from the initial shock, her blood still throbbed in her throat. And even the stentorian voice of Mrs. Smythe could not diminish his masculinity. He wore his office-appropriate outfit like a bear in a clown suit. Only the naïve or blind could be fooled by that tacked-on disguise. At this instant, if he reached over and tore off her clothes, Angie would submit without a whimper. She sat perfectly still, terrified of provoking him even while she desperately waited for him to pounce. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss…” He held out his hand for an introduction.

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Angie realized that he and Mrs. Smythe weren’t part of her private fantasy world. “Call me Angie,” she said, before Mrs. Smythe could inject her smothering formality. “I’d be happy to help you get started, but I’m sure you’ll catch on easily enough.” She reached and shook, her tiny hand disappearing into his huge paw. His skin was rough and calloused. “I’ll see what I can do,” he agreed. His upper lip twitched, and Angie knew that he knew she was as wet as a dishrag. She struggled furiously not to blush. “Very well,” Mrs. Smythe grumbled. “Now be off with you.” She chased them out with a glare. Obviously the young man wasn’t suffering as much as Mrs. Smythe had hoped. But Angie was burning up inside. She had to get herself under control. She wasn’t going to give in to this man on his first day on the job. She wasn’t going to give in to him at all; it was his boss she was interested in. He was just a placeholder, a token of the life she wanted. Even if he was terribly handsome. “I didn’t catch your name,” she said. “I believe Mrs. Smythe mentioned it.” His mouth stayed in a severe line, but his eyes twinkled. He was enjoying this far too much. “Fine. Do you have a desk yet, Mr. Greyson?” She put as much ice into it as she could. “Yes, I do like the sound of that.” He was grinning at her now. “But let’s not stand on ceremony. You can call me Jack. And no, no one mentioned a desk. I just wandered in and presented myself to the formidable Mrs. Smythe, and now she’s handed me off to you.” He was altogether too familiar for Angie’s comfort. Perhaps a touch of formality was in order, after all. “Then perhaps you should call me Miss Forester, since I’m to be responsible for you.”

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“Certainly, Miss Forester.” He made it sound like a summons from a stern headmaster to a naughty schoolgirl. “Yes, I like the sound of that also.” He was shameless. She had feared the repercussions of a short skirt on the hidebound office culture, even after two years of loyal service, and he was crackling with innuendo in his first fifteen minutes. “Please find yourself a chair, Mr. Greyson. We will have to share my desk for now.” Her frostiness was wasted. His grin said he’d like to share more than a desk with her even as he casually lifted a straight-backed chair with one hand and brought it over. Sitting on the chair the wrong-way around, with its back between his legs, he tipped it forward and whispered. “So, Miss Forester, what exactly do you all do around here?” “We underwrite insurance claims and adjustments, Mr. Greyson.” She tried to keep the upper hand, but every time she called him that, it made her feel like his subordinate. “Sounds like a smashing good time, Miss Forester.” Every time he called her that, she expected him to put her over his knee and swat her. The vision seized her—on his lap, her skirt up, his huge hand swinging down as the entire office watched and tittered. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and let the sounds of the office bring her back to Earth. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her, amused. She wanted to be infuriated, but those dark blue eyes swallowed her outrage without a splash. “Which entry system did you use in your last job?” she asked, grasping at the boring details of work like a sailor snatching for a life-ring. “K7 or Bjorns?” His eyebrows danced, laughing at her. “I mostly used a Denver,” he said. “If I wanted to get inside in a hurry.” She frowned, confused. He took pity on her and offered an explanation, hefting an imaginary axe with his hands. “It’s a tool for breaking down doors.” “You weren’t an underwriter?” she asked. A stupid question, but he was nice and only smiled. “Not as such, no. This is a bit of a career change for me. I used to be a fireman.”

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Of course. That explained everything, from his bulk to the way he stood out in the room, a lion in a den of foxes. “You’ll find this to be a very different environment, Mr. Greyson.” She tried to make it sound threatening. “Oh, I already have. The station never had such beautiful decorations as you…” Then, deliberately late, he added, “have here.” She glared at him, but his insouciance was unsinkable. For a brief instant she considered slapping him. The contemplation of what terrible retribution he might wreak on her made her tremble. Her buttocks clenched, out of dread or anticipation. Or both. “Then let’s start at the beginning.” Cruelly, she flew through the procedures as fast as she could talk, flipping pages and forms without pausing to breathe. Unable to compete with either his physical or personal presence, she sought to defeat him intellectually. The procedures the company used were arcane to the point of absurdity. No piece of beefcake would be able to wade through them in a week, let alone an hour. “So perhaps you could show me how to enter this particular claim, Mr. Greyson,” she said suddenly, turning away from the computer and handing him a disability request scribbled on a coffee-stained form. He was gazing at her appreciatively, as if he had nothing better to do than admire a fine piece of art. “Well, I wouldn’t. I’d tell the bugger to stop malingering and get a job.” “Mr. Greyson!” She managed to sound shocked, even though in this particular case he was almost certainly right. “Miss Forester!” he said under raised eyebrows. “Such an unladylike tone does not become you.” His eyes ruined the act, twinkling with laughter even while his voice rumbled with stentorian authority. Desperately she tried to regain control. “You weren’t paying attention, were you?” “Au contraire, my lovely Miss Forester. I could never fail to be enraptured by your charming presentation.”

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Leaning forward, invading her personal space dangerously, he pawed her keyboard until the computer yielded the correct screen. Then he pecked away at the keys, entering the data. “What do you suppose this word is?” he asked her, holding the scrawled form in front of him. She had to lean in to see, putting her head next to his. The intimacy made her dizzy again. Inhaling deeply, she could smell him. Clean, but musky; no cologne, but simple manliness. “I concur, Miss Forester,” he whispered, even though she hadn’t said anything. When she opened her eyes, the computer was blinking its acceptance. “Very good,” she gasped. “If you would be so kind as to excuse me for a moment.” She stood up, preparing to flee his overwhelming presence, to find some fresh air where she could stop her racing heart and think. And found herself waiting for his permission. He paused, just long enough to show he knew, but not long enough for her to change her mind and assert herself. “Of course, Miss Forester.” And then that winning, innocent smile. It was difficult to walk away, instead of running. Out of the room, in the relative privacy of the main hall, she scampered to the one place she could be alone for a few minutes. In the ladies’, she locked herself into a stall and sat down to collect herself. That lasted about ten seconds. Then she slid her hand up her skirt, tugged aside her panties, and touched herself. Just like she had at the party. It was the curse of the pony-girl. Somehow the guard had become linked in Angie’s mind to that night in the shadows, and now her body reacted to him as if he were a lover. No, it was worse than that. Her body reacted to him as if he were an owner. For the first time in her life, she felt disassociated from her vagina. It reacted to his presence like a slave, wet and willing to submit to his every demand. If he walked in here right now and caught her with her hand up her skirt, feeding her burning hunger without his

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permission, he would bend her over his knee and set her backside on fire. And her body would surrender to him. Everything below her waist would offer itself up for spankings, swattings, and sex. Her mind rebelled. If he came in here now, she would scream, and they would put him in jail. She would not give in to simple lust. He was handsome, yes, but he was an accountant. A junior underwriter. The reason she was touching herself was because he reminded her of his boss, of a world of glamour and sensuality. Not because of him. Suddenly aware of the force with which she was abusing herself, she snatched her hand away. It wasn’t working anyway. Her traitorous vagina would not settle for her soft fingers as long as she could remember the roughness of his hands on her skin. She had to put a stop to this. Drying herself off as best she could, she left the stall. Smoothing her skirt in front of the mirror, she reminded herself that she was in charge. She would go back to her desk and laugh at his feeble attempts to deal with the Byzantine forms she had mastered so long ago. With a measured stride, she re-entered the office. He was still pecking away at the computer, as she had expected. Standing over him made her feel stronger, so she decided not to sit down. Tapping at a field on the computer screen with one finger, she pointed out his first error. “That’s the wrong code. For this type of claim, you have to use B-7.” “No,” he said absently, still typing in an address. “If you do that, they’ll just send it back. Because it’s a hazardous duty claim, you have to use this J-9 thing.” Incredible. He thought his authority over her was so complete he could get away with any bullshit that came into his head. “Let me.” Sitting down, she pulled the keyboard toward her and quickly entered the rest of the data. Then she changed the code back to B-7, and hit the Enter key. The screen displayed a message box. “Would you like to submit now?” Gods yes, her body answered. It was a struggle not to blush. Her hand darted out for the enter key, hoping to press it before he could read the suddenly salacious message.

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She’d seen it a thousand times a day and never thought twice about it. But now everything was different. He caught her, his hand as fast as a snake. Gently he held her wrist, stopping her with implacable strength. She froze, paralyzed by the physical contact. “Mr. Greyson,” said a dry voice from behind them. “Why are you down here?” It was Anthony Worthington, one of the senior partners. Jack turned in his chair. Angie sat immobilized, hoping Anthony would not notice her. It really was a bad day to have worn such a short skirt. “I just sort of wandered in, and this was the first place I found.” Jack answered the senior partner politely enough, but somehow it lacked any real deference. “Your office is upstairs, Mr. Greyson. I’m sorry about the confusion. Mrs. Smythe should read her memos more carefully. In any case, she should know that junior underwriting executive assistants work out of the upstairs office.” Angie wanted to laugh. Apparently it would be Mrs. Smythe who rued the day, and not short-skirted Angie. She wanted to laugh, but she didn’t. Jack’s hand still held her in perfect stasis. “That’s probably my fault,” Jack said. “I might have gotten my title wrong. It’s kind of a mouthful.” How dare he try to let Mrs. Smythe off the hook! The old biddy deserved everything she got. Anthony peered at the computer screen. “Hmmm… Young miss, you seem to have entered the wrong code. You must use J-9 for hazardous duty claims, or they’ll reject the submission.” She sat perfectly still, embarrassed to be corrected in front of Jack, on the very thing she had been so certain she had caught him on. While she was trying think of something to say, Jack spoke up. “My bad, again,” he said. “Miss Forester was just explaining that to me.” He winked at her. Then he stood up and followed Anthony out.

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Angie was unable to move until the door closed behind them. She wasn’t grateful to him for rescuing her. She wasn’t embarrassed at having been wrong. She was shamed by the fact that she had failed him. Made him look bad, in front his peers, as if she were a show horse that had misstepped and forced her owner to apologize for bad breeding. The rest of the day was cold and uneventful. Angie barely noticed it passing. Not until she was in her lonely bed did she come alive again, giving in to her fantasies, imagining herself groveling at his feet. Begging his forgiveness. Lying naked on the floor while he spanked her. And then used her. It’s just a fantasy, she told herself. It doesn’t mean anything, except that I’m bored and lonely, and he’s nice looking and has strong hands. She wasn’t turning into some simpering twit who put up with a man who beat her because she couldn’t get anything better. She was merely indulging in a few strange fantasies, brought on by that ludicrous pony-girl at the party. Her body called her a liar, arching in orgasmic spasms as she climaxed. Exhausted and confused, she buried her head under the pillows and waited for sleep.

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Chapter Three

She didn’t see him for the rest of the week. On Friday, when everyone else rushed for the doors and their freedom, she puttered around her desk, waiting. After ten minutes, she accepted that he wouldn’t come looking for her. Piqued, she decided to go looking for him. But not in the office. He had power over her here, because she could not escape him. She needed to invade his privacy like he had invaded hers. The card was still in her black purse, where it had lain untouched since that exotic party. Holding it in her hand made her nervous, until she looked around the empty room and remembered why she was angry. There wasn’t an address on the card, only a number. She tapped it into her phone. Three rings, and then a woman’s voice, “’ello?” Angie stammered, thrown off her balance. She had been expecting a male voice, rough and sleazy, like the men’s voices at the party. “Hello… My name is Angie.” “Yes?” The woman on the other end wasn’t giving anything away. Not even a name. Angie had to plow ahead on her own. “I was given a card.” A brief pause, just long enough for Angie to think she might have called the wrong number.

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“I will give you an address. If you are serious, you will present yourself tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp.” The voice was elegant, with a light French accent. “Plan to be away for the day. Do not pack anything. Your needs will be provided for.” Angie’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding?” Like she would go away with someone without even knowing her name. “Are you wasting my time?” Underneath the cultured poise was imperiousness. “I mean, I don’t know you. I’m not—” She was interrupted. “You are. You know perfectly well what kind of place you have called. You are either interested or you are not. If you come, do not be late.” Angie wrote down the address, numb with confusion. Before she could say anything else, she was disconnected. She remembered the pony-girl at the party. Especially the earrings and shoes. Yes, she knew what kind of place she had called. A place where rich people lived.

In the morning, she took a train out into the country. Disembarking at a small village station, she discovered company. Two other women, young and very attractive. Angie felt a little stab of competition. One was blonde and very quiet. Her body and hair were both a little too thin for Angie’s taste, and she looked nervous. The other one, with full, bouncy black tresses and an equally impressive bust, smiled and tried to make friends. “Hi. I’m Trina. I guess we’re all here for the same reason.” “I suppose,” Angie said coolly. The blonde bit her lip and said nothing. “Quite a lark,” Trina babbled on. “It’s my first time. I don’t really know what to expect.” It was pretty obviously the first time for all of them, so naturally they were all nervous. But Angie was here to embarrass the annoying Jack Greyson. That gave her a sense of purpose and control.

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She smiled serenely at the other girls, and pointed at the long black limo that pulled into the station parking lot. “I believe that’s our ride.” Angie led the other girls off the platform and towards the car. The limo driver was huge, expensively dressed, and silent. Much like the limo. Real leather on the seats, etched glass ashtrays that were perfectly clean, and deep shag carpeting that looked as fresh as new-fallen snow. The car glided through an imposing gate that closed itself behind them. The blonde girl was too nervous to speak, and Trina had mercifully responded to Angie’s coolness by shutting up. After they pulled to a stop, the driver leapt from his seat and marched smartly around the car to open the door for the women The blonde showed a little life as they climbed the stairs to the huge oak front door. She stared at the magnificence of the mansion, and began to smile. Oddly, no one opened the door for them. Angie looked in vain for a doorbell button or a buzzer. “I guess we have to let ourselves in,” Trina said. Instinctively, Angie glanced above the doorway, expecting to see fiery letters spelling out “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” With a harrumph at her own squeamishness, she pushed on the great brass handle. The door opened easily, making a soft, glassy tinkling to announce their presence. Inside was a great hallway leading to a room flanked with large flowing staircases. In the middle of the room, an elegant, attractive, middle-aged woman waited for them. “I will explain the rules to you exactly once,” the woman said. Angie recognized the voice, the tone of command softened only by the French accent. “What rules?” Trina asked. The woman flicked her eyelashes contemptuously. Angie was deeply impressed. It took a lifetime of practice to convey so much with so little, to so politely and yet effectively put someone in their place.

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“The first rule is to not speak unless spoken to. You will refer to me as Mistress Vanya, when you have need of actually speaking.” Vanya let that sink in, pulling an exotic cigarette from a small jeweled case and lighting it to pass the time. Angie tried not to fidget, wishing Trina would stop embarrassing them all. “What you must know first is that this all for show.” Vanya looked each of them in the eyes piercingly. “If you are looking for complete domination, you must go elsewhere. We play at it here; we do not live it. Of course, our gentleman customers are men, yes, so you may expect the ordinary demands, which I am sure you are quite capable of fulfilling.” “What are you suggesting?” Trina blurted out, but Vanya silenced her with a glance. “The second thing you must know is that this is all completely voluntary. You may leave at any time. Bathshire Stables does not provide a product; it provides a service, to both our gentlemen customers and our female clients. On these grounds, rich men and pretty girls may meet each other under special circumstances, and come to whatever arrangement pleases both parties. You must follow some rules to facilitate those circumstances, but the end result is up to your discretion, taste, and ambition.” Vanya inhaled from her cigarette, and slowly blew out a gentle stream of smoke. It smelled like cloves and perfume. “You will find the rules…onerous at first. This cannot be helped. Again, you may leave at any time, but if you do so, you will not be allowed to return. Understand that our customers, and our staff, are bound by rules also, so your safety is assured.” Angie felt herself starting to blush. Embarrassing Jack under these circumstances might be more difficult than she had expected. More disconcertingly, however, she found herself listening to Vanya’s presentation with interest. “Finally, understand that we are experts. When we ask for something, it is because we know you are prepared for it. You must trust our judgment, and submit to our authority. By doing so, you will be taught to attract the attention of a suitable gentleman, who will then add you to his stable at whatever position of affection and loyalty you have

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earned. This, of course, is your goal, and it is Bathshire Stable’s goal as well. We have a long and proud history, and our reputation is everything to us. I can tell you that we often take in girls by referral. The life you have been seeking is now within your grasp, if you are willing to reach for it.” Angie thought about her long quest, the noisy bars, the pathetic stockbrokers, and the lonely weeks in between. It was time to admit her plan wasn’t really working. Another few years of that and she’d be past her prime, unbearably lonely, and desperate enough to settle for some handsome, strong idiot who made a living with his hands. Like Jack Greyson. Against the memory of his thick hands, the vision of the pony-girl’s earrings glittered in her mind. More than that, the memory of the girl’s audacity, flaunting her beauty and sexuality, enjoying it instead of hiding it. Being valued for it. The power reversed. The act of sex becoming something that put her in control of the men even while she serviced them. Being the source of her man’s glory, instead of merely a reflection of it. Angie wasn’t going to settle for a three-room flat and a handful of noisy brats, living off an underwriter’s salary, washing her own dishes, doing her own laundry, taking holidays at Brighton Beach instead of the Riviera. Angie wasn’t going to let herself be trapped like that. “I’ll do it,” she said, even though Vanya hadn’t asked anything yet. Vanya’s eyelashes barely moved, but Angie thought it was approval. The mistress waved to the left with her free hand. “Disrobe and put your things in these suitcases.” She indicated a row of red leather cases to her side. “They will be returned to you at the end of the day, or whenever you choose to depart.” “What?” the blonde girl finally spoke. Her voice was squeaky high. “I do not repeat myself,” Vanya said, and returned to smoking her cigarette. “You must be insane,” Trina said, with so much outrage that Angie felt it rang false. “I’m not taking off my clothes.”

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“As new ponies, you have not earned the right to wear anything.” Vanya’s tone implied she was being remarkably helpful, and that the girls should be properly appreciative. “Not that you will be alone in nakedness. No pony-girl is allowed to cover herself completely on these grounds. Eventually your master may allow you shoes, stockings, or even a corset. But your sex will always be on display here.” Trina wasn’t appreciative. “You expect us to walk around naked, for strange men to gawk at, and we won’t even get paid for it unless one of them wants to hire us like a whore? Are you out of your mind?” Vanya responded with impeccable coolness. “I find your tone argumentative. Be advised that if you choose to stay, you will be subjected to a level one punishment for insubordination.” “Fuck that!” Trina shouted. “Make that a level two,” Vanya said, unperturbed. Trina stared at Angie and the other girl, openly seeking support. “Can you believe this? Let’s get the hell out of here,” she implored them both. Angie stared the girl down coolly. Walking around naked couldn’t be that bad, if other girls were doing it. It wasn’t like they were in public, where any perv could stare at them. There were only other girls and rich men here. And Angie wasn’t ashamed of her body. She knew she looked good, in or out of clothes. Let Jack Greyson see her naked and then she’d see just how deep his cool ran. With a snort of disgust, Trina shook her head and stormed out of the room. Back through the oak doorway, down the steps to the undoubtedly waiting limo. And out of the running, as far as Angie was concerned. Good riddance, she thought to herself. Vanya tapped her watch, bored already. Angie gathered her courage, and began unbuttoning her blouse. The blonde girl, blushing deep red, pulled her sweater over her head. Together they stripped in silence under Vanya’s disinterested gaze. Stepping out of her panties made Angie go cold inside, but she did it anyway. She wasn’t sure why. Partly to meet a rich man, of course; partly to vex the wretched Jack

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Greyson when she saw him. But there was more to it than that, something deeper that drove her to turn and face Vanya with as much meekness as she could pretend. The memory of the pony-girl still pushed her onward. The erotic quality of that one night still made Angie do things she had never dreamed of. Now Vanya looked them over with professional inspection. The blonde practically wilted under such scrutiny. Angie had to bolster her own self-esteem by noting how tangled and thick the other girl’s pubic hair was. Angie had trimmed herself neatly, like she did every Friday night. Just in case. “Acceptable. You may close your suitcases.” The sound of the latches snapping reverberated through the room with finality. Angie trembled suddenly, shocked at how vulnerable and helpless that simple act made her feel. She could still walk out. She could open the suitcase, throw on her clothes, and storm out, just like Trina had. She didn’t. Summoned by some invisible signal, two maids in severe black-and-white uniforms appeared. They were not at all pretty, which Angie found oddly reassuring. “First you will be bathed and attended to. After that you will be fed a light lunch. Then you will be examined by the veterinarian, and only after that will you be allowed onto the rest of the grounds. You already know the rules. Do as you are told, speak when spoken to, watch and learn.” The maids beckoned, smiling and friendly, and Angie and the other girl followed them, Vanya’s inscrutable gaze watching them go. The spa, like the rest of the estate, was luxurious on a grand scale. The maids scrubbed their backs, arms, and legs, cooing soft, encouraging noises. Angie found the blonde girl’s presence comforting. Being naked wasn’t so bad when you weren’t alone, just as she had expected. It was like going to the beach in a bikini. If you were the only girl there in one, you felt exposed. But if other girls were wearing one, you were fine. And if some of them didn’t wear it so well, you were secretly proud. The blonde girl made Angie feel a little proud.

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As they were being toweled off, their faces still covered in imported facial mud, a black man came into the room. Angie twitched uncontrollably and tried to cover herself with the towel. Until the man spoke, staring at the blonde girl’s flat, frizzled locks in horror. “Good grief, girlfriend. What have you done to your poor head? Never fear, Ramon is here. I’ll make it all better.” It wasn’t the California accent that made Angie relax. It was the pronounced lisp. Finding a gay hairdresser probably wasn’t difficult, but finding one this unthreateningly effeminate and effusive obviously required an international search. She was less sexually unnerved by him than she had been by Vanya. Half an hour later she understood they hadn’t hired him for his sexual tastes, but for his artistic flair. In no more time than Angie’s thorough manicure and pedicure required, Ramon worked a miracle on the blonde. Her hair was now fuller and layered, still long and straight but ending in a gentle curl. The girl was so busy admiring herself in the mirror that she didn’t even flinch when Ramon knelt in front of her. Angie watched in fascination as he worked another miracle on the girl’s pubic hair, taming her unruly locks into sweet feathery beauty. With pleasure, Angie settled in for her turn. This was the kind of attention she would pay hundreds of dollars for at one of London’s finest salons, assuming she could even get in one in the first place. Well, perhaps not quite this much attention. She blushed when he set to work between her thighs, and yelped with every tweezer-pull. Ramon didn’t stop there. He buffed the skin on their faces with gentle thoroughness. He curled their lashes, painted their nails, and finally applied an exquisitely light dusting of makeup. Ramon didn’t bother to ask what lipstick Angie wanted. He picked a perfectly flattering gloss and applied it expertly. Passively, she sat back and let him prod, poke, and tweak her into perfect beauty. “I’m Lana,” the blonde girl said finally. Still shy, but no longer withdrawn. Angie understood how she felt. Right now it was impossible to be uncomfortable with her

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nudity. Instead, she gloried in it, aware of how utterly beautiful she was. Ramon had drawn them both out, out of their ordinary worlds and mores, and into some exotic place where lounging around naked and beautiful was what girls like them were supposed to do. With a final flourish in front of the full-size mirrors, he bowed to them like they were queens and left with a self-satisfied smile. “Call me Angie,” she answered. Not Miss Forester. She only needed a first name here. When the maids brought them lunch, small watercress sandwiches on silver trays, with a half-glass of crisp white wine, Angie accepted it as her natural due. As the maids brushed their teeth afterwards, Angie felt a momentary twinge of strangeness. But she quelled it, and submitted to the ministrations of the servants. It had become easy now, after hours of such rewarding practice. “Now you must go to the veterinarian,” one of the maids announced. “He is very gentle. All the girls like him.” Padding naked and barefoot through the majestic hallways, passively following the maid, Angie felt herself melt into place. Like the paintings and sculptures tastefully adorning the majestic halls and rooms, Angie had become an objet d’art. A symbol of beauty and value. She had finally found where she belonged.

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Chapter Four

The veterinarian’s office was very curious. The examination bed was covered in real leather, and the medical cabinets were etched glass, but Angie had come to expect that in this house. What stood out was that one entire wall was a mirror, spotlessly clean but reflecting only darkly. The doctor was handsome enough, with light brown skin and a precise subcontinental accent. He was too slender for Angie’s taste. He looked over Angie with professionally reassuring eyes, and patted the bed. “Have a seat, miss.” Angie sat demurely on the edge of the bed, perched on a fluffy white towel. The room was a little colder than the rest of the house, and Angie’s nipples responded to the chill. She covered her breasts with one arm, and the other hand naturally slipped to protect her groin. The doctor caught Angie’s hand, and gently but firmly moved it to rest on the bed. Looking at herself in the mirror, Angie understood. It was a one-way mirror. She offered no resistance while the doctor moved her other arm down, exposing her completely. Demurely, she looked down at the floor. “That’s a good girl,” the doctor murmured, patting her hair reassuringly. “Now open up, and let me see those beautiful teeth.” The doctor tilted Angie’s head up, and touched

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her jaw gently until Angie opened her mouth wide. Then he stepped away, and Angie heard instruments rattling. Angie trembled, feeling desperately vulnerable. She wanted to close her mouth, but the authority of the white lab coat wouldn’t let her. You had to do what doctors said. The doctor returned, standing above her and smiling, armed with a mirror and wearing a headband that glowed brightly. Angie closed her eyes while the doctor inserted the mirror into her mouth. Angie was surprised to taste the doctor’s fingers, unprotected by the usual plastic gloves, as they prodded and pulled at her jaw. The tang of the metal mirror contrasted with the soapy saltiness of the doctor’s firm, supple fingers. The sense of invasion was overwhelming. But her nakedness held her in place, like a chain. She had already chosen submission. She could not unchoose it now. “Very nice,” the doctor said. The approval in his voice washed through Angie, making her warm inside. She could feel the heat of his breath, the doctor’s face only inches away. “Now relax for me, miss.” Two fingers pushed gently on Angie’s tongue. Her tongue pushed back, until Angie got it under control and forced it to lay dormant. Now the fingers probed deeper. Angie had to fight her gag reflex, and the tears that reflexively followed. The doctor’s other hand held the back of Angie’s neck, keeping her back straight and her breasts pushed out for the viewing pleasure of those behind the mirror. Knowing that she was being observed by unknown men robbed Angie of her last resistance. The doctor’s fingers slipped in as far as they could reach, the knuckles on the rest of his hand pressing against Angie’s teeth. Relief flooded through her as the hand went away. Angie opened her eyes, choking slightly. The doctor produced a crystal glass and offered it to her. Angie drank deeply when he tipped it up to her lips. The water was cool and slightly rose-scented. Angie felt herself floating on a rising tide, deep and dark and flooding her senses. “Very nice, miss. Very nice. You’re doing very well.” The doctor patted her hair again, affectionately.

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He stepped over to the counter, his back to Angie. “Now this will be the most difficult part. After this, it all gets easier.” The sound of metal jingling made Angie’s inner thighs twitch. When the doctor turned around, his hands were draped in fine black leather strips, with gleaming silver pieces wrapped in dull black rubber. Angie felt new trembles quake her body as the doctor approached with the bit and bridle. Was she really going to let the man put that on her? Had she sunk that deeply into this fantasy of surrender and abasement? “Shhh…easy, miss.” The doctor’s voice was calming. “Open up.” Angie did as she was told, her eyes riveted to the exotic instrument of domination. The doctor placed the bit in Angie’s mouth, a thick silver loop of metal resting on her tongue. The edges of the bit, where her teeth would rest, were coated in thick black rubber. “Now close. Good girl.” Angie surprised herself, obeying immediately. The doctor fussed at Angie’s face, arranging the straps and threading them through buckles. As the restraints took form, Angie could feel her head being entrapped. Panic began to well up from deep inside. “Easy, pony. Easy.” The doctor sensed her fear and stopped. Gently stroking Angie’s hair, he waited until Angie stopped quivering. Then he resumed, tugging until the bridle was comfortably snug. Angie’s mouth was unable to close now, her teeth resting on rubber while the metal bit pressed on her tongue. Angie admired her reflection in the wall mirror. The image of helplessness she projected could not fail to be erotic. The doctor stood behind Angie, watching with a satisfied smile. He pulled on the left strap, and Angie turned her head with it. Then to the right, and Angie had no choice but to follow. When the doctor pulled both reins at once, Angie tried to bring her head down, and fought a momentary panic as the bit pressed into her mouth.

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Realizing her struggle was futile, she let her head be pulled up, until she was staring at the ceiling, her throat exposed to the mirror. “Good pony. Now stay.” Angie gasped as the doctor reached around her, and cupped one breast. She started to bring her head forward, only to be stopped short by the reins. “Bad pony.” The hand on her breast let go, while the other hand pulled at the reins, forcing Angie’s face back to the ceiling. “I said stay.” Again the doctor’s warm, soft hand reached in front. Angie shook uncontrollably as her right breast was cupped, squeezed, and manipulated. The hand started on the bottom of her breast, lifting and massaging it, working forward until the thumb and index finger met on her erect nipple, pinching it between them. Angie whimpered, but kept her face to the sky. She did not want to be rebuked again. Just wearing the bridle was frightening. Feeling it force her head around made her clench all the way down her spine to her toes. The doctor’s left hand came around, and began to work on Angie’s left breast. Angie squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block the tears that threatened. “Spread your legs a little, pony,” the doctor whispered in her ear. “Give the lads a good show.” Sitting naked in a brightly lit room, lashed into a horse’s bridle, watched by an invisible audience, being fondled by a strange man, exceeded Angie’s imagination. As if she were in a dream, she pulled her knees apart a few inches. Her eyes watered with unexpressed emotion, the tension disorienting and stimulating at the same time. The doctor finished his examination-cum-fondling. He reached over Angie’s shoulder, and caught the reins in his hand. A sharp tug brought Angie’s head forward, and another one brought her off the bed and to her feet. The doctor no longer gave her orders, but controlled her movements by use of the bridle, spinning her around slowly several times.

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He paraded Angie up and down the room, turning her smartly. Angie quickly learned to follow the reins, to anticipate their desires and obey as quickly as possible. Satisfied, the doctor led her to the examination bed again, guiding her as she climbed onto the bed on her hands and knees. The doctor pulled Angie’s head forward, and then looped the reins through a ring on the wall. With an expert hand he tied the reins off, and Angie was trapped. The doctor put his hand on Angie’s left ass cheek, and gave it a squeeze. “We’re just getting started, pony. But trust me. The hardest part is over. Now all you have to do is submit, and you’ll do fine.” The sound of cabinets opening and closing. Angie felt her knees going weak. Lashed like a horse to a hitching post, her backside completely exposed to the doctor, and the watchful mirror running along her profile, she knew that further indignities were coming. And that the unknown audience would be watching her, judging her. Evaluating her. The doctor’s warm hand slipped between Angie’s legs, and she recoiled instinctively. “Now, now, pony. If you do that outside, you’ll undoubtedly earn a switching.” Angie’s buttocks twitched. “But I’m far too soft for that. I know it’s not good to spoil you new ones, but I can’t help myself.” Patiently, the doctor waited until Angie relaxed her hips, lowering herself back into contact with the doctor’s hand. Angie wanted to be repulsed, but she wasn’t. The gentle but firm ministrations were expertly applied. The doctor clearly knew what he was doing. If any of the other men in Angie’s past had possessed such a fine sense of touch, she might not be here right now, on display, responding like this. If any of them had been doctors, she might not be here either. But she had set her sights higher than a doctor, now.

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She could feel herself growing warm, her hips refusing her commands and accepting, even seeking, the exquisite attention. It was no different than the maid’s bathings or the hairdresser’s trimmings. It was her place to be touched, and admired, and pleasured. Angie began to relax, and let her head droop, only to be caught up by the bridle. Instinctively she pulled against it. This retreat drove her firmly into the doctor’s touch. The shock of a finger slipping inside her made Angie flinch forward again, her head bumping into the wall and the bit and bridle jingling. Blushing in embarrassment, Angie forced herself to stop moving. The sensation of being restrained cut through her like a burning knife. Not fear; she could not be afraid here. She had accepted, no, chosen every step of this process. The twisting in her stomach, the tightness in her lungs, the heat between her thighs, was not a product of fear. Angie was bound to the wall by a thin strip of leather, but what held her in place was raging desire. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she could see her hair splashed over her shoulders and face in sensual disarray, her breasts hanging full and shapely with erect nipples, her hips curving up invitingly. The men on the other side of the mirror, the rich, powerful men who could have any woman they wanted, would be admiring her. Perhaps, like men often did, they would discuss her qualities. Perhaps they would bid against each other for the right to hold her reins for the evening. Naked, bound, and fingered, Angie paradoxically felt more powerful than she ever had before. The gloves were off; the veil of civilization had been stripped away. Angie had what men wanted. And she knew how far she could make them go to get it. “A very responsive pony,” the doctor said, his voice pitched as if he were speaking to an audience. “After her first encounter with the bridle, she is wet enough for penetration.” Perverse things to say about her, but Angie found them complimentary. The doctor was making her more valuable. They were partners now in dominating the unseen men, arousing them to heights of passion that would rob them of all sense and restraint and end up with Angie in thousand-dollar shoes and six-carat earrings.

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“Now for the interesting part. Try to relax, pony, and remember I’ve done this a thousand times. I know what I’m doing. I won’t hurt you.” Angie’s hips twitched at the warning, but the doctor’s hand held her in place. A soft hand on her buttocks stroked her reassuringly. It was nice, but a little too affectionate to be comfortable, which was an odd distinction considering the doctor still had one finger inside her. Before she could ponder further on this contrast, another finger, warm and dripping with slick oil, poked at her anus. Involuntarily Angie grunted. It didn’t hurt, but the invasion disoriented her. With the bit in her mouth, one finger in her vagina, and another one in her anus, Angie felt assaulted from all sides. Every part of her body clenched, her hips locking and her teeth grinding into the rubber of the bit, until the vision of the original pony-girl flashed through her memory. Being penetrated in every possible way. That was the moment when Angie knew she was lost. It was not just the men who were driven by physical need, a deep yawning hunger that infused the soul, branding every sensation with wavering lines of heat. Angie’s needs had brought her here, too. She began to sob, lightly, helplessly. There was no fear that the doctor would become concerned and stop—Angie’s body broadcast its total submission in unmistakable wetness and dilation. Now the doctor’s fingers rode in and out of Angie without resistance. “Another one, little pony.” The doctor was whispering again, his voice for Angie alone. His right hand held Angie gently in place as he forced a second finger into her anus. Strong fingers, side by side, moved in and out with their own rhythm. Angie could not escape or deny them. All she could do was follow their lead. Gradually she felt herself relaxing, opening up to the strange massage. Strength flowed out of her hips as she slowly melted. “It’s easier if you come,” whispered the doctor. “Let me make it easier for you.”

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Angie wanted to please. Angie wanted to be pleased. Being on display in this dreamlike world of luxury, being touched by expert hands and exotic new experiences, was fiercely arousing. But it wasn’t quite enough to let her fall into the total surrender of orgasm. She couldn’t let go that much. Not here, not yet. Not often. She’d faked it dozens of times more often than she’d had it for real. The tiniest thing, a stray comment or a misdirected look or momentary lapse of attention, and she would know that the man she was with was not the right one. After that the only solution was alcohol, glass after glass, until she could silence the censor in her head and make herself believe, just for a little while, that she was safe. That she could stop looking and start living. That she could surrender her heart, fall into a deep and consuming love, knowing that she would not fall alone. Knowing that she would never be disappointed again. Angie had been giving in all morning, but it still wasn’t enough. Now her sobs were frustration, as fire between her legs smoldered in painful heat but refused to ignite. “A few more minutes,” the doctor warned her. “But then I’ll have to start, whether you have come or not.” Paradoxically, the warning helped. It reminded her of her status. Of what had brought her here in the first place. Of how she had watched another woman used for pleasure, and wanted to be her. The memory of the party mixed in her mind with the mirrored room, swimming in and out of reality, images and faces and feelings jumbled together. Gasping, she cried out as the climax seized her, wringing her like a rag doll again and again until finally she trembled in exhaustion, so spent that she was grateful for the help of the bridle in keeping her head up. Angie tried to collect herself. The doctor took advantage of her state, removing his fingers and introducing something new. Not so warm, and much larger, although still dripping with the smoothness of oil. It pushed at Angie, demanding more stretch than she had imagined was possible. “Come on, pony, or we’ll have to do it again.”

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Angie felt the brush of something silky on her buttocks. The doctor was trying to put a tail in her. Angie relaxed herself, yielding to the rubbery knob. Only to find it got larger. The worst was yet to come. The knob was the tip of a cone, forcing Angie further and further apart. Angie kept reaching inside herself, finding new ways to open up, and the tail kept demanding more. “Trust me, little pony. You don’t want a smaller one, they’re so hard to keep in. I know you can handle this. I’m never wrong.” Angie bit down on the rubber in her mouth, choking back the urge to squeal. There was no other way to do this. The doctor would have to force it in, and Angie would have to take it. Angie struggled against the reins, trembling, while the doctor pushed. An instant before Angie’s stifled yelps grew into full-blown screams, it was over. Gratefully her muscles clenched together, closing over the base of the cone and unable to object to the small thickness that still held her apart. After a few moments of futilely trying to expel the mass inside her, her backside calmed down and accepted its fate. The doctor gave her tail an experimental tug. Instinctively Angie clenched tighter, keeping the huge cone inside. Anything was better than going through the experience of passing it again. The sound of rushing water in a sink. The doctor was washing up, his examination finished. Angie’s body sagged in relief. A cool, wet sensation between her thighs as the doctor washed her off as well, with a soft cloth. When the doctor took her reins from the hook on the wall and tugged them gently, Angie responded instantly, getting off the bed to her feet. She stood with her head down, afraid to look in the mirror, afraid to see how submissive she had been rendered. Naked and violated, she knew that she could not resist anything now. The light brush of the silky hair against the backs of her thighs rendered her utterly powerless. The doctor—the vet—ran his hands over Angie’s body again, but not medically. He was fondling her, enjoying himself. Enjoying her. And testing her. Making sure she had truly surrendered.

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Angie did not object. She knew if they took her outside and gave her to a dozen dock-workers, she would say nothing while they used her. How could she? As long as she wore that wicked, sensuous tail, she was revealed as a wanton slut. She could not complain no matter what happened to her. She had asked for it, after all. She had accepted the tail. With a pleased slap on the ass, the doctor signaled his approval. “You may go.”

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Chapter Five

Meekly, Angie went to the door and let herself out. The maid waited for her. Casting an appraising eye over Angie, she made a clucking sound. “The doctor’s been naughty again,” she said, trying to restore some order to Angie’s hair. “He’s taken quite the liberties with you. But then, that’s something you’ll have to get used to, dear. Try not to let it get out of hand on your first day. Remember, you can always say no. The men like a bit of spirit in their girls.” Having succeeded at making her presentable again, the maid led Angie to a vast ballroom, one side completely made of glass panels and overlooking an exquisite garden. Men and women in elegant party dress formed small groups, some at tables in the ballroom drinking and chatting, some out on the lawn playing croquet. Scattered throughout the room were beautiful naked girls, wearing bridles and tails. Some were draped around the little groups like pampered dogs, while others wandered the room, carrying silver trays and running errands. Other servants in livery dotted the room, lounging about in a most indecorous manner. After a moment, Angie realized that the loungers were all men. Big, handsome men. Men built on the same scale as Jack Greyson. Their livery marked them as subordinates, but their rakishness marked them as more than servants. Several of them unabashedly admired Angie from across the room.

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“Pay no mind to the grooms,” the maid whispered, giving Angie her final piece of advice. “They can’t do anything without permission of the gentry. Just remember to please the Lords and Ladies, and you’ll need not fear those rascals.” Angie quivered involuntarily. These were the dock-workers she had feared. They would have their way with her unless she found a protector, a patron among the wealthy clientele taking their leisure on the estate. “There you are.” That imperious French accent set her quivering again. “Very nice.” The maid slipped away, leaving Angie to face Vanya alone. “You understand your job, yes? Do what you are asked, and please everyone.” Vanya grasped Angie’s reins and led her smartly through a double-swinging door. She handed Angie a silver tray of canapés. “Take this, and make yourself useful. Oh, and one more thing.” With a critical eye she reached out without both hands and painfully tweaked Angie’s nipples, forcing them to stand up in protest. “Yes, that is better. Now go on. And do not, under any circumstance, lose your tail.” Vanya draped Angie’s reins over her shoulder, where they were out of the way but artfully displayed. Then she slapped Angie on the ass. “Go on, I said.” Angie went, blushing furiously. Somehow walking into the ballroom with erect nipples was frightfully embarrassing, in a way that walking into it while stark naked and wearing a pony tail wasn’t. She forced herself to wander the room aimlessly, avoiding the hungry smirks of the grooms. As she visited each little group, she began to notice distinctions. Some of the pony-girls had longer, lusher tails than others. That was the first sign of status, and Angie felt a little envy at the bounty of red, gold, and black that made her short, simple brown seem tame. The girls who were attached to the groups, often physically connected by their reins draped over chairs or shoulders, wore a staggering display of jewelry. Some of them even wore clothes, stockings and belts and occasionally corsets or baby-doll gowns of delicate lace, richly colored silk, and deep black leather. But the corsets and gowns all had one thing in common—they left the nipples and groin

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of each girl exposed. There was no question of who was Lady and who was property here. At one table, Angie almost dropped her tray in surprise. One of the most dazzlingly dressed pony-girls stood there, and Angie was gratified to see that she was older than the rest. Knowing that the girls were not discarded after the first blush of youth was oddly comforting. But at close range, Angie was startled to see that the girl was not holding the tray in front of her. It was suspended from a leather belt at her waist, and held level by two lines that ran from the far edge of the tray to rings in the girl’s nipples. The girl’s arms were bound behind her back, laced with bright red ribbon set off against the deep emerald green of her corset. Her breasts were pushed up by the corset, but then cruelly pulled out by the tray. Black leather reins hung negligently over her shoulder, and Angie wondered what kept the girl standing there, hovering behind the elegantly coiffed Lady who sat at the table. Until she saw the thin red ribbon than ran from the Lady’s right hand. One end of the ribbon was tied to a thick gold ring on the Lady’s hand, and the other was bound to a thin gold ring that pierced the girl’s labia. The Lord at the table, a trim silver-haired man with hard eyes, caught her staring. He said nothing, but his knowing wink made Angie furious. As if she would want to be in that girl’s place! The Lady turned to tap her expensive imported cigarette into a porcelain bowl on the girl’s tray. She noticed Angie. “Those look interesting, dear. What are they?” Biting her tongue and dropping her head, Angie tried to answer as neutrally as possible. “Foie gras vol-au-vent, Lady.” “I’ll try one. Although if it’s as awful as last week’s pâté, I’ll want to have the chef horsewhipped.” The other Lady at the table, a well-rounded blonde squeezed into an haute couture dress, laughed. “Marla, you want to horsewhip everyone.”

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“She’s been working on her technique. Would you like her to demonstrate on Jenny?” The Lord was speaking to the blonde Lady, but he was looking at Angie. The pony-girl trembled. “A clever ploy,” Marla answered. “But I’m saving my strength for croquet.” Flicking her cigarette in Angie’s direction, she gave an order. “Leave one on Jenny’s tray. I’ll try it later.” Angie had to move one hand under her own tray, and try to balance it as she used her other hand to transfer a canapé. As delicately as she could, Angie dropped one on the other girl’s tray. Then she backed away, slowly, until the table stopped paying attention to her. Sighing with relief, she turned to flee, and almost collided with a large man in the stylish livery of the grooms. Staring at his powerful body made her furrow her brows in puzzlement. He seemed familiar. Without thinking, she looked up at his face, and stared into the deep blue eyes of Jack Greyson. “No thanks,” he said. “Grooms aren’t supposed to eat the hors d’oeuvres. If they catch you giving me one, they’ll whip you.” She could feel the blush from the top of her hair down to her ankles. This was not how she had meant to find him here. Not fleeing in terror, and certainly not in the act of making a mistake. Then she remembered she was stark naked. Dropping her gaze to the tray, she stared at herself in its reflection. “You work here,” she said, bitingly. It was the most punishing thing she could think of. “Of course I do,” he said amicably. “You already knew that.” She had forgotten. His status at the accountancy had made her forget that he was just a bodyguard, just hired muscle. Somehow she had forgotten that.

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“But you’d better come along now. The race is starting, and attendance is mandatory for all the new girls.” He left her standing there, burning, and went to the table she had just left. “My Lords and Ladies,” she heard him say, “The race is about to start. If you wish to attend, it is being held in the Daffodil Court today.” “Oh,” the chubby blonde Lady cried. Even in the depths of her shame, Angie was annoyed to hear the flirtation in her voice. “Help me up, that’s a dear. I’ve bet a thousand pounds on Lord Valance’s Rosie. How do you favor my odds, Jackie?” “I couldn’t say,” Jack replied suavely. “I’m sure my Lady has a finer eye for ponies than I do.” “You’re so cheeky.” She giggled. Angie caught herself rolling her eyes. If the Lady caught her doing that, it would be…bad. Angie wasn’t exactly sure what would happen, but she was pretty sure she didn’t want it to happen. As the party ambled past Angie, Jack snapped his fingers at her and pointed ahead. As if he could summon her with a flick of his wrist. Suddenly furious, she turned and walked the other way. If it was his job to get her to the race, she’d make sure he failed. Whatever punishment they gave her would be worth causing him trouble. Watching the rest of the crowd straggle out, she came to her senses. If Jack had been assigned to escort her, he would have done it. He was that kind of man. Since he wasn’t physically carrying her over his shoulder, he must not have been given that job. The only person who would suffer from her intransigence was herself. Once again she was in his debt. Putting down her tray, she impulsively grabbed one of the canapés and tried to stuff it in her mouth. As if eating a stupid canapé when he couldn’t would somehow elevate her. Too late she remembered the bridle and bit, and got a face full of pâté and pastry. Only the exodus saved her. No one was paying attention to a lone little pony-girl in the corner. Wiping herself off on a napkin at an abandoned table, she hurried to catch up. The Daffodil Court was an acre of perfectly smooth grass surrounded by thick hedges at least three meters tall. Privacy was an obvious concern here. Beds of daffodils

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lay at the foot of the hedges, but the central area was open field. The crowd surrounded a single, straight course marked off with pennants and ribbon. It was only about twenty meters long. Not much of a race, to Angie’s mind. Until she got close enough to see the track. Every few meters there was an obstacle. At first she thought they were hurdles, like a jumping course for a gymkhana. But they were much too low, being only twenty centimeters or so tall, and consisting of a single, rounded, bright pink pole driven into the ground. When she realized what they where, she closed her eyes and shook her head. She had no more blush left in her. It had all been used up by meeting Jack Greyson. “You must watch this. It is very educational.” Angie knew it was Vanya by the smell of cloves, even before the accent gave her away. Resignedly she opened her eyes, but Vanya was already moving away. “Take your places, ponies,” a deep male voice cried out. A dozen girls stepped up to the line, all wearing high stiletto heels. Their arms were bound behind their backs with ribbons, and of course they wore bridle and tail, but they were otherwise naked. The starter walked down the line, hanging white placards with black numbers around their necks. The placards rested on the girl’s breasts, one getting caught on a nipple and standing out askew until she bent forward to let it swing free. “Judges ready?” Three grooms standing behind the line of girls were wearing gold hats and wielding riding crops, like drill sergeants on parade. Standing to the side of the line, the starter raised a pistol into the air and called out, “Ready, set, mark!” When he fired, Angie jumped at the sharp crack, but the racers were clearly used to it. They rushed forward in a body to the first line of hurdles. There, accompanied by their own squeals and the laughter of the crowd, they knelt over the bright pink dildos, impaling themselves. Some of the girls were better at it than others. One brown-skinned Latin girl sank to the hilt of the dildo without hesitation, bouncing up and down its full length three times. On well-muscled legs she rose up into the air, and advanced to the next hurdle. Angie could see the wetness she left behind gleaming on the pink plastic.

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A slender brunette seemed to be having trouble going all the way down. The judge behind her knelt in the grass, studying her difficulties. When she started to rise, he whacked her on the buttock with his crop. “Fault…missed hurdle.” Whimpering, the girl tried again, forcing herself all the way down to the grass. “One…two…three,” the judge announced. “Clear.” But she was out of the running now, and Angie stopped paying attention to her. The Latin girl was well out ahead. Another girl, with heavy black curls and full breasts, tried to catch up and skipped a hurdle. The judge caught her, sending her back to repeat it. One shapely blonde girl had the opposite problem. She seemed to be lingering over her hurdles. As the girls advanced down the track, they slowed down, rather than sped up, obviously affected by the repeated penetrations. The blonde girl stopped completely at the seventh hurdle, bouncing up and down on the dildo in uncontrollable desperation, while her owner shouted at her from the sidelines and the crowd laughed heartily. Then a cry went up, starting with the spectators but quickly drowned out by the voices of the grooms. A girl was kneeling in the grass, off the dildo, but quivering with shame. It took Angie a moment to understand why. Then she saw what had happened. In rising, the girl had accidentally stepped on her tail. In her haste to win the race, she had moved too quickly, and now her tail lay on the ground, lifeless and still. Grooms clustered around her while the crowd clapped and jeered. A groom raised her head and began stripping off her bridle, while the others played a quick game of rock-paperscissors. The first loser lowered his trousers and knelt in front of the girl, pushing her head into his lap. If a blow-job was what the loser got, Angie wondered what the winners received. She didn’t have long to be curious. The lucky groom was soon bending over the girl from behind, his trousers around his ankles. In one hand he held a small bottle of glistening oil, and with the other he stroked his cock to huge, shining rod. The girl squealed, or tried to, but the sound was muffled by the cock in her mouth.

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“Observe closely,” Vanya called to Angie. The French woman was standing closer to the incident, next to a wide-eyed Lana staring at the scene. Angie took a second look, trying to see what was so special about this gang-bang, other than the half-dozen grooms lining up and waiting their turn. As wet and ready as the girl must have been after all those dildos, Angie wondered why the groom had needed lubrication. Watching in amazement as the groom’s long cock disappeared into the squealing pony-girl’s naked bottom, she understood. “The tails are more than decoration,” Vanya explained. “They are protection. The grooms are allowed to sodomize any pony foolish enough to lose hers. Your petit coin is protected by our rules, but only the tail protects your derriere.” Her own backside clenched in sympathy, hugging her tail with new-found affection. It was cruel, and wicked, and humiliating. But Angie had no sympathy. Part of her sniffed at the girl’s clumsiness, while part of her reveled in the notion that misbehavior had such dire consequences. It made the game so much more exciting. And part of her burned at the notion, the very idea that she might wind up on the grass, surrounded by unrestrained men and unbridled lust. Angie turned her eyes away to watch the rest of the race, trying to put the continuing orgy out of her mind. The Latin girl had won, to much cheering. But the other girls still had to finish. Their owners were walking onto the field, Lords and Ladies with riding crops in hand, to spur their ponies to a better effort. The blonde girl, the one who had preferred her own pleasure to victory, lay quivering in the grass. Her Lord stood above her, shaking his head in disapproval. Angie recognized the man. He was the one from the party. Drawn by a familiar face, she went over to the pair. She recognized the girl now. The blonde hair had fooled her. She should have noticed the perky breasts, the beautiful face screwed up in ecstasy, but in her defense there were so many beautiful naked girls here.

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“Get her up,” the Lord said to Angie. Eager not to share in the girl’s disgrace, Angie bent over and grabbed her reins. Tugging at them, she brought the girl’s head off the ground. She had to pull on her shoulder to help her stand. “Bring her,” he ordered, stalking off. Angie tried to lead the girl, but she stumbled in those impossible heels. Angie had to catch her, and that brought them face-to-face. Angie stared into an expression of dreamy ecstasy. It threatened to be contagious. She stepped back and roughly pulled the girl after her. The girl followed, not resisting, but not cooperating. Angie became annoyed with her. Her Lord was talking with his peers. One of them handed him a riding crop, with assurances that it was stiff enough to do the job. “Over there,” he said to Angie, pointing to a row of wooden posts near the main entrance of the garden. When they arrived at the posts, the Lord selected one of the ones with a hard rubber nub sticking out from the side. He took the reins from Angie and pulled his girl’s head down, forcing her mouth over the protrusion. Again the girl made it difficult with her passive incompetence, and Angie stopped feeling sorry for her. She was only making it worse. The Lord went around to the other side of the post and pulled on the girl’s reins until her nose bumped up against the post. Satisfied, the Lord tied off the reins and moved to stand behind her. The girl started to make little sounds. Stifled by the rubber gag in her mouth, they were small and pitiable. “Hold her tail,” he said. Angie jerked when she realized he was talking to her. Snatching the long golden hair up, she held it over the girl’s back, exposing the girl completely to her master. Angie could tell, even from this angle, that the girl was wet and ready. He responded by swatting her backside with the crop. She grunted and tried to squirm away.

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“Higher, damn it.” He glared at Angie. Almost she saw recognition in his eyes, but then his attention turned back to the naked behind in front of him. Angie pulled up on the golden, silky hair. Now the girl could not squirm away without risking the loss of her tail. Surely she must know what that meant. Surely she wouldn’t put herself through that. The lord struck her again. Angie flinched in sympathy. But not enough to relax her grip on the tail. Angie did not want to incur the Lord’s displeasure. Angie did not want to take the girl’s place. On the third strike the girl screamed, the sound barely squeaking out past the gag. No one paid any attention, least of all the Lord himself. He kept beating her, drawing out long red welts on her clean white flesh. The girl was squirming in earnest now, and Angie was astonished at how strong she was. Angie had to step close, her body pressed up against the girl’s, to hold onto the tail with both hands. Amazingly, the tail did not come out. Angie wondered if it was because the girl’s sphincter was as strong as the rest of her, or if the knob of the tail were of truly gigantic proportions. Either notion was frightening. He beat the girl for a dozen strokes, and then a dozen more. People filed past, laughing and chatting, either ignoring the whipping or calling out encouragement. Angie wondered how long this could go on. The girl’s bottom was now a solid red, the individual strokes so overlaid that she could not tell where one began or ended. Then she noticed something. For the last few strokes, the girl had not squirmed away. Instead, she had pushed up, into the blows. Now she waited, patiently, almost eagerly for the next one. Her master noticed too. Dropping his trousers, he stepped forward. For a terrible moment Angie was afraid she would have to help out, but he already had an erection. Apparently beating his girl excited him as much as it excited her. For the next five minutes Angie stood there, holding the tail, trying to avoid the Lord’s eyes while he stood a hand’s-breadth away and fucked his pony-girl silly. Idly, Angie began tugging on the tail in little sharp jerks, timed with each thrust the Lord made. Underneath them, the pony-girl responded by climaxing, a long and extended

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affair that seemed to continue even after the man stopped moving, exhausted and spent, his hands on her waist, balancing on his now unsteady legs. Angie decided this was the right time to gently lay the tail over the girl’s back and slip away. Nobody thanked her. But then, she didn’t expect to be thanked. She halfexpected to be tied to the post next. If it was by the right man, she wouldn’t even object. It always came down to that. Not just any man, but the right man. Which ruled out this one. No matter how much money he had, he wasn’t the right one for Angie. And he already had his girl. Angie could appreciate their bond, even envy it, without wanting to be part of it. Inside, she found another tray of canapés and went back to work. After an hour, Vanya pulled her aside. “You’ve done very well for your first day, ma chérie. We hope to see you again next weekend. For now, go home and rest.” Angie nodded in agreement, too exhausted to speak. Balancing on the knife-edge between running in terror and throwing herself under the nearest man was incredibly draining. She went back to the doctor’s clinic to remove the tail, but the event was anticlimatic. Her body gave it up without a struggle. Putting on her own clothes felt strange. She realized that she had come to think of the tail as clothing enough, and felt naked without it, no matter what else she wore. The limo took her to the station, and the train took her home. Rocking gently on the rails, she fell asleep to wicked dreams involving riding crops and Jack Greyson. She awoke with start when the train pulled into her stop. As usual, London was grey and drizzly and bleak. It was hard to believe she had not been dreaming the entire time. Bathshire Stables seemed like a memory from someone else’s life.

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Chapter Six

Everything tasted bland. Angie rarely remembered the ordinary days of her week, but these days stood out with their total lack of distinction. The clothes she wore ran together in unnoticeable colors, each day’s outfit the same as the last. None of them were verdant silk corsets sprinkled with gems and bound in scarlet ribbons. The food she ate was tasteless. No watercress and paté here. The men and women around her bored her to tears, their conversations about movies or telly shows or office gossip as dull and heavy as lead dropped on wet dirt. Not a single mention of whippings, races, or wicked gold rings tied off in strings. Just when she thought she would drown in the silence, she felt an electric tingle on her shoulder. Turning around in her chair, she felt her heart pound into life again. Jack Greyson stood there, a box overflowing with paper in his arms. “I was wondering, Miss Forester, if you could give me a hand with these.” He hung his head like an unruly schoolboy asking the pretty girl in the class to do his homework. Angie wanted to sniff and turn away, but anything was better than this grey existence. Even the unbearable Jack Greyson was better. Feeling annoyed and embarrassed was better than feeling nothing. “What seems to be the problem?” Why did her voice sound so high and weak? “I don’t quite know what to make of them.” He put the box down on the edge of her desk, and picked a paper at random off the top. “Like this one. What the devil is supposed

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to go here?” Jabbing his thick finger at a spot on the form, he waved it at her in frustration. “It’s quite simple, Mr. Greyson. This is a stroke-C situation, as you can see from the boxes ticked here and here.” She took the form and began filling it out, grateful for something to distract her attention from his nearness. “Much less complicated than a J-9. How could you know about J-9 but not about this?” “Well. See. There was a fellow, down at the station. Had a bit of bad luck with a backdraft in a chemical plant. We all spent a lot of time helping him with the paperwork.” His confession was not in the least bit contrite. “So you don’t actually know anything about accounting, do you?” She had spoken in a hushed tone, lowering her voice so it would not carry more than a few feet. She hadn’t chosen to do this. It had just happened. “Not as such…no.” Emptying the box would take hours. They couldn’t do it here, in front of everyone. “I’ll come up to your office. You go on back and ring Mrs. Smythe, and tell her you need me to come upstairs for a moment.” He winced, looking for a moment like he was going to object. “All right. But at least let me tell Smythe to let you off your work down here.” It didn’t work like that. If she went upstairs and helped a Junior Executive, she still had to do her quota downstairs. That was part of what kept the girls from spending all day helping junior executives. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t have enough to do, anyway.” The sad fact was that it was true. She was capable of doing twice the work they gave her. But why bother? They’d just give her twice as much all the time. It’s not like she would get a raise or even a compliment out of it. Just more work. He picked up his box, stuffing the loose papers back in. The box looked ridiculous in his hands, like a bear carrying a tea cup.

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The days of the week had passed without her noticing them, but the five minutes she had to wait for Mrs. Smythe to come out of her office, glaring and unhappy, to send Angie upstairs, was interminable. Riding the elevator to the second floor left her as giddy as a schoolgirl skipping class. She’d never been to the executive level before. The surge and fall of her emotions amplified the rising and sinking of the elevator. The second floor was remarkably different from the first. These corridors were meticulously polished hardwood, with office doors of ornate gold trim and frosted glass. The sheer elegance of it all was as radiant as Bathshire Stables. Walking through the silent corridors felt like a dream, the same heavy, throbbing quality that the memories of last weekend had taken on in her mind. She began to entertain the terrifying idea that she might turn into Jack’s office only to find a line of grinning men waiting to take their turns on her. When she came to his door, she opened it meekly, quietly, as if to slip in unnoticed. But she did open it, instead of running away. Half-expecting him to be dressed in livery and wielding a riding crop, she was briefly disoriented to see him leaning over his desk, poring over columns of figures. “Hello, Mr. Greyson.” He quirked an eyebrow at her formality, but returned it. “Very good, Miss Forester. I think we’re supposed to start with these. They’re quite pink and loud and someone suggested they might be important.” A stack of overdue notices occupied the left corner of his desk, lording it over the plain white sheets scattered across the desktop. “Very well, Mr. Greyson.” She had to go around the desk now, and lean over his shoulder. Her position was precarious. One wrong move and she would collide with his massive frame. With her breasts straining forward, and the curve of her legs making a natural guide, any contact would be in a frightfully sensitive place for her. His shoulder, elbow, or even hand could, with the most innocent excuse, make the most intimate

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contact. At any second. All he had to do was startle, or turn quickly, or lean back in his chair. Angie realized she was holding her breath, waiting for it to happen. She shook herself back into mobility. A wisp of hair slipped over her ear and brushed against the side of his face. Hurriedly she snatched it away and shoved it back into place. “Miss Forester, if you’d like a moment to regain control of your coiffure…” The words were strictly proper, but the light in his eyes was as salacious as Spanish salsa. “My apologies, Mr. Greyson. It won’t happen again.” She’d be damned if she gave him the satisfaction. His gaze wandered lower, and she instinctively put her hand over her décolletage. Blushing, she remembered he had already seen everything she had to offer. “I like you better with your clothes off.” His words hung in the dry office air like the echo of a brass band in a library. Had he really just said that? Doing her best Mrs. Smythe imitation, she poured disappointment and ice-cold politeness into her voice. “I’m sorry, Mr. Greyson, I didn’t quite catch that.” Any ordinary man would have crumpled under the implicit threat of a sexual harassment charge. Jack Greyson was apparently not an ordinary man. “Just a compliment, Miss Forester,” he said with the perfect illusion of innocence, all proper business again. “But we should get started on this lot, don’t you think?” She leaned forward again and seized stack of papers. Only after that did she realize that she had obeyed his command without hesitation. If he ordered her to undress and dance naked on his desk, her tongue would lash him with scorn while her hands obeyed, unbuttoning her blouse, unhooking her spaghetti-thin black brassiere, sliding the zipper down the side of her skirt so that it fell to the floor, and pulling her panties off after it. “An imposing lot, isn’t it.” His tone was sympathetic, as if the papers in her hand were the problem. She had frozen, transfixed by the erotic images in her head. Waiting

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for him to command her like the Lord had commanded his pony. “Let me help,” he said, and took the stack from her limp grasp. His rough fingers brushed against the edge of her hands like fire. Touch me again. Thankfully, she had only thought it, not said it. Every inch of her flesh burned to be touched, firmly grasped, cruelly squeezed for his pleasure and entertainment. Tell me to take my clothes off. The voice in her head would not shut up, so she spoke over it. “We should start with the oldest ones.” We should start by touching my naked body everywhere. Complete madness. Her hand was shaking as she rifled through the papers he held. “This one is two weeks old. It has to be done now.” I have to be fucked now. “Put your hands here—I mean, put your initials here, and here, and here.” She jabbed at the paper, unnerved by her slip. Slip your hands under my skirt. The echo threatened to overwhelm her, so she focused her gaze on the paper. She could see his thick, powerful hands wrapped around the absurdly thin pen as he dashed off incomprehensible scrawls where she indicated. The strength in his hands was palpable. She could not stop imagining them under her clothes, groping at will, prodding demandingly at her tender openings, like living things with a will and a hunger all their own. “And then what?” He seemed genuinely curious, as if the mysteries of insurance forms were a frustrating but intriguing artifact, like a Rubik’s cube or one of those silly metal 3D puzzles. And then fuck me until I can’t walk. Jesus. Had she said that out loud? “And then sign here, and enter the collating code there.” And then enter me, here, there, anywhere you like.

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It was like a full-blown porno tape in her head. The grunts and squeals and dirty language just wouldn’t shut up. “Right. Hang on…what’s a colliding code?” The image of his solid frame colliding with her again and again. She started to correct him, but could not trust herself to say the word again. “You have to cross-reference it with the master index chart. I can do that.” Anything to get her mind off sex. “You just initial and sign them.” Obediently, he began scribbling on the papers, and she had to concede that he wasn’t going to violate her right then and there. Plunging into the deadly dullness of accountancy, she quieted the lust in her head to a dull roar, and managed to make it through the next three hours without collapsing in a quivering heap. When the last form had been signed, stamped, and delivered to the outbox on the right side of his desk, lying sullenly with all the other defeated papers, he finally slipped out of character. Only for an instant, but it made her tremble in a way that none of her fiery visions had. “Thanks, Angie… I was really in over my head.” He spoke with genuine appreciation. As if she were a friend, instead of a secretary or a party-girl or a naked woman with a ponytail. “You’re welcome… Mr. Greyson.” Why had she said that? Why couldn’t she call him Jack? What perverse nature had rejected his simple friendship, responded to his openness with formality? If she had hoped he would be crushed or hurt by her coldness, she was disappointed. “I’ll try to keep it under control from now on,” he said with a wink. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to be hurt. She wasn’t sure of anything right now, except that she needed to get out of his confounding presence. “If I may be excused, Mr. Greyson?” “Of course, Miss Forester.” He stood up, walked with her to the door, and opened it for her. Why did he have to be so nice? It wasn’t helping at all.

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As she walked down the hall, she glanced back to see him standing in his doorway, watching her. With perfect stillness, she waited for the elevator doors to close. As soon as they did, her hand flew under her skirt and stroked her aching labia, rubbing furiously, as if she could undo hours of desire with violence. The sensation only made it worse. That night, alone in her bed, she turned her vibrator to its highest setting and buried it between her legs. It wasn’t enough. Thinking of Jack, with his thick hands and bulging arms and broad shoulders, wasn’t enough. Without admitting to herself what she was doing, she rolled onto her stomach, slid the vibrator out, and began to work it into her backside. After a moment’s hesitation, it fit all the way in, while visions of ponytails and whipping posts whirled in her head. The throbbing motion of the vibrator made it seem much larger, filling her in ways she had never imagined. Her other hand massaged from the front, touching her sweet spot with uncommon force. When three fingers slipped inside her, a wholly unprecedented act of wantonness, she bit into the pillow to stifle the screams of her orgasm. The muffling of the feather-stuffed pillows allowed her to pretend that she hadn’t been screaming, “Jack! Jack! Jack!” over and over again. Tomorrow she would go to Bathshire Stables, find a rich man, and never have to think of the insufferable, unbearable, irresistible Jack Greyson again.

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Chapter Seven

Angie was nervous and uncertain throughout on the train, in the limo, through the great doors and into to the hall. Trembling visibly, she disrobed in the first room and dropped her clothes into the suitcase. She had to wrap her arms around herself defensively to stop herself from fleeing, crying, or possibly fainting. But as soon as Vanya snapped the bridle around her head, as soon as the metal bit pressed down on her tongue, her body sagged in total submission. Her brain still raced furiously, but as Vanya tightened the leather straps around her head, she felt her arms drop from their protective embrace and hang loosely at her sides. Vanya pulled her wrists behind her and laced them together with soft leather. Now Angie was naked and helpless, her breasts and thighs exposed and undefended. Still standing behind her, Vanya dropped a hand below Angie’s waist and stroked her experimentally between her legs. Angie tried to complain, but the taste of silver in her mouth paralyzed her tongue. It didn’t matter, anyway, because her body betrayed her by not flinching from the woman’s touch. Angie’s body knew that she was now an object to be admired and used, regardless of what her head might think. “A fast learner.” Vanya’s tone was appreciative. “If you do well tonight, next time we will put you up for auction.” Angie gurgled a questioning noise.

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“That is the whole point, ma chérie. The auction. A pretty and compliant girl like you can hope to fetch two or even three hundred thousand pounds. Bathshire Stables will take half of it, and put the other half in escrow for you, with a nice rate of interest. After your year of service, you can take your money and go.” Vanya stepped around Angie, to bring her face close to Angie’s. The strong smell of clove and smoke made Angie dizzy. “Of course,” Vanya purred, “we both know you won’t go. You won’t even stay with the same master. You will return to Bathshire, in the hopes of raising your fee. And no doubt you will. You are capable of the most exquisite submission, and the Lords will fight to own you.” To prove her point, Vanya cruelly pinched a nipple between her finger and thumb. As she squeezed harder, Angie’s whimpers turned into gasps of pain, but she did not pull away. Her body trembled, but refused to retreat. Vanya abandoned her to the maid, who led her through the hall by her bridle. Submitting to the bathing and beautifying was even more arousing now that she was bound and helpless. Ramon clucked and plucked, and when it came time to feed her, the maid undid her bit but not her arms. Angie had to accept being hand-fed like a helpless child. The doctor gave her a through examination, and selected a longer, lusher tail. Angie discovered the price was a larger knob. This time the doctor stroked her only long enough to arouse, but not to climax. Consequently, the insertion went somewhat more difficultly, accompanied by many shrieking grunts, and Angie was quivering with exhaustion by the end. The maid showed no mercy, and led her immediately out to the ballroom. They hung a tray around her neck, under her breasts, but fortunately not supported by them. Once again she wandered the great room, offering her wares to the clientele, but in a somewhat more degraded state. The men could tell, and their appraising looks were direct, without restraint. Sometimes their appraisals were more than looks. When she paused in front of one well-dressed rake, he reached past the glasses of wine on her tray and squeezed her left breast.

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“Quite firm,” he said. “Very nice.” His hand pushed her chin up, and to the left and right, so that he could examine her face. “Excellent lines.” Grabbing her jaw, he pulled her mouth open and glanced at her teeth. Ridiculous and humiliating, but that was the point. Walking around behind her, he pinched her buttocks several times. Then he stopped and grunted in disappointment. “Not shoed yet?” “No, my Lord, she is not fully broken in,” Vanya said. Angie marveled at the French woman’s ability to appear as if from nowhere. “But soon. This is only her second week, and you can see what progress she has made.” “Bah,” he grumbled. “A lash and the will to use it will break a pony quicker.” “At Bathshire Stables,” Vanya said sternly, “we believe the lash is a tool of discipline, not training. We trust you’ve had little reason to use it on your latest purchases.” “True enough,” he admitted. “Too true, in fact. Sell me one raw, Vanya. I’ll pay double.” He smiled wickedly at Angie. “Sell me this one, and I’ll pay triple.” Angie trembled, the glasses on her tray splashing and clinking. Being groped by the man had not been unpleasant, as she had feared. Rather, after an hour of parading herself on display, it had been quite comforting to have warm, strong hands on her. But the gleam in his eye now was unnerving. “That wouldn’t be fair to the others, my Lord. She’s not even been ridden yet.” “All the better,” he grunted, but in defeat. Taking a glass from her tray, he wandered off. Angie tried to stop quivering. Vanya leaned over, like she was going to whisper something comforting in her ear. “A wonderful start, pony. Lord Valder may drive the bidding furiously. Of course, there is the danger he might win it, but that is an acceptable risk.” The French woman glided off before Angie could ask what being ridden meant. The ordinary sense of word, implying a simple fucking, didn’t seem likely to be sufficient for Bathshire Stables.

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When she went back to the kitchen to have her tray refreshed, the barman took it off her instead. Looping her reins around a post, he left her standing there without an explanation. Angie realized she wasn’t likely to get many explanations anymore. Eventually a groom came and collected her. Following him, she could admire the way he filled out his tight black trousers and broad-shouldered jacket. After hours on her feet, the idea of lying down on a bed and letting this well-muscled man ride her was not unappealing. Instead, he led her outside, where a two-wheeled racing gig waited. Four girls were hitched to the cart, and from their matching corsets and shoes, Angie knew they belonged to the same master, no doubt the elegantly dressed man standing next to the cart. He was chatting with the omnipresent Vanya. Angie wondered what her role in this was, until she realized there were two more women behind the cart. They weren’t wearing anything other than their bridles and armbindings. Angie recognized Lana. She tried to smile a greeting to the other girl, but Lana seemed to be preoccupied with something. “It is most gracious of you to volunteer your time, my Lord.” Vanya was being surprisingly obsequious. It made Angie nervous. “My pleasure, Vanya. Bathshire has always been a source of joy to me. I’m happy to help in your training regime.” The groom led Angie behind Lana. Vanya approached her from the front of the blonde girl. In her hands was a bright, silver clip, gleaming with heart-stopping implications. For the first time Angie recoiled. Futilely, for the manly bulk of the groom was right behind her, and he brought her to an instant stop. “It’s all right, pony,” Vanya murmured comfortingly. “It is your first time. But do not do it again.” With that she attached the clip firmly to Angie’s right nipple. She gave it a tug to test its strength while Angie whimpered. Vanya removed the biting clip, a brief moment of respite. But only to reposition it now that Angie’s nipple was fully erect. Walking around behind Angie, Vanya sent the

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groom on his way. From Angie’s left side, Vanya reached around to the front of Lana, and produced another silver clip. Angie realized the clips were at the end of fine silver chains. No wonder Lana seemed preoccupied; she was already clipped to the girl in front of her. Vanya stroked Angie’s left breast until the nipple stood up. The pleasurable sensation was brutally spiked by the knowledge of what would happen as soon as Angie responded to it. But that didn’t stop her treacherous nipple from exposing itself to danger. When the second clip bit down, Angie’s eyes began to water. Blinking to clear them, she realized Vanya was kneeling in front of her. Horrified at what was about to happen, she stepped backwards—and was pulled up short by the silver chains. Lana sobbed in pain, and Angie almost joined her. Vanya looked up at her with a murderous glance, so frightening in its import that Angie stood perfectly still while the French woman pawed and pinched at her until she could attach the terrible clip directly to her clitoral hood. The sensation was inescapable, like the touch of a man too strong to resist. Pain, yes, but also stimulation with every breath, tremor, and quiver of her legs. Standing up, she addressed the girls in her imperious accent. “Lord Wellingbroke has kindly offered to take you out for a run. Your task is simple. Follow along, with an absolute minimum of whining, whimpering, or other distracting noise. Should you displease the Lord, he will not hesitate to stop and apply the lash. Should you come back without all of your clips attached, I will apply the lash, and you will beg to be given back to Lord Wellingbroke before I am through.” Angie could barely understand the words through the sea of fire that burned at three delicate points on her body. If she had not been bound, she would have snatched at the clips instantly, the consequences be damned. However, the idea of tearing away from the girl in front of her, knowing that the clips would bite at both of them, was too much to contemplate. Angie began to dance from foot to foot, trying to distract herself from the pain.

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“Eager to be off! Very well, we shall.” Lord Wellingbroke cracked his whip over his ponies, and the cart moved forward smoothly. The girls in front were well practiced, and marched in step; the girls behind stumbled along as best they could. Angie found herself constantly running into Lana’s back, despite the lancing sting it sent through her protruding nipples, out of a crushing fear of being left behind. Lana was doing the same to the girl in front of her. Angie realized how utterly precarious this was. If the girls should trip over each other, they would all go down in a heap. This would almost certainly dislodge the clips. Angie understood Bathshire Stables well enough to know what would come next. A lashing, to the absolute edge that she could take, and then Vanya would simply attach the clips again and make her do it all over until she got it right. Angie forced herself to fall behind half a step. The chain was generously long, perhaps half a meter. Angie understood just how merciful that was when they passed another cart leading a similarly bound train of girls. Their chain appeared to allow only a few centimeters of gap, and consequently the girls had to be in perfect step. Angie caught a glimpse of the driver’s annoyed face as he was left behind. She knew those girls had earned a whipping for going so slowly. She didn’t feel any sympathy, though. They were wearing shoes. They should have known better. Soon Angie forgot about everything other than the bouncing buttocks of the girl in front of her. Lord Wellingbroke had left the nice, soft grass, and gone onto a dirt track. The road was bumpy, with ups and downs and unexpected turns. Angie’s feet burned with every step on the rough ground, to the point where shoes began to seem like the ultimate luxury. Steep, black heels that would mark her as a valuable filly instead of a mere raw recruit. She wanted those shoes—the comfort, the protection, the status they offered. She wanted them badly enough to do anything for them right now. Naked, bound, gagged, chained by her most delicate parts to another girl, and paraded on display for the viewing pleasure of random men, all she could think about at that moment was how much she wanted those shoes.

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On some deep level, she understood this was the point. She had crossed the line. Her status as an object of pleasure had become second nature to her. Her world had been reduced to simple pleasures, shoes and pretty jewelry. Someone else would take responsibility for sexuality. Someone else would decide when and where she should submit. All she had left to do was to enjoy it. A twitch of the chain sparked fire through her. Lana had stumbled. This part was not enjoyable. This was just pain and humiliation. The only way to avoid it would be to show them what a good pony she was, to be docile and submissive until they accepted her complete surrender. With every aching step she resolved to go deeper, to yield further, until Vanya saw how obedient she was, and rewarded her with pretty shoes and kind words. And a kind master. Vanya knew all of the men here. She knew who would treat Angie the best. The French woman’s approval began to seem more important than anything else Angie could imagine. As if her final realization were some kind of signal, the terrible ordeal came to an end. Once again in soft grass, the cart slowed and stopped. The girls in front were panting; the train behind were whimpering. Lord Wellingbroke stepped from the cart and personally inspected each of the girl’s chains, poking at them with his riding crop to make sure they were still attached. Angie, seized by a sudden fear that Vanya was watching, kept her head down and tried not to flinch when her turn came. Satisfied, Wellingbroke walked away. In his absence, a stream of grooms appeared. A handsome black man, his dark skin and black suit making the white trim of his livery and teeth glow like incandescent bulbs, smiled broadly at Angie. When he reached forward and gently unclipped her nipples, she almost melted into him out of gratitude. The relief was so intense that when he knelt at her groin, she felt herself push her hips forward, offering herself to his succoring touch. When the clip came off, it actually hurt more. Angie bit into the rubber-clad steel in her mouth to stifle her cry of surprise.

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The groom pulled on her shoulder, guiding her to the ground. On her knees, the soles of her feet ached with relief. He laid her on her back, stretched her out, and then did the most wondrous thing Angie ever could have imagined. With strong, hard hands, he expertly massaged her feet. She felt her entire body relax into the soft grass, robbed completely of strength and will. After a moment, when the fire in her feet dimmed to simple exhaustion, the groom moved to her side. With those same powerful hands, he brought relief to her breasts, gently massaging her nipples into warmth and caressing the globes of her flesh like an entranced lover. Angie lay on her back, gurgling incoherently, not daring to hope for more. When his hand went between her legs, she had to close her eyes. The world spun crazily above her, and it made her dizzy. Her legs spread of their own accord to expose herself. Her hips, too tired to push up into his touch, relaxed into warm, soft butter. As he worked the pain out of her clitoris, touching it firmly yet gently, erasing the memory of the cruel clip, she felt herself drip with wetness. Ride me now, she begged, but silently, in her head. It wasn’t her place to ask. They knew what was best for her. She had to wait for them to give it to her. But right now, she was really sure that letting this thick, hard black man mount her was what was absolutely necessary for her. Afterwards, if they wanted to let all the other grooms take turns, that would be okay, too. She still had her tail in. She would be protected from the savage abuse she had witnessed last week. If Vanya thought it was best that she be ridden by half-a-dozen of these muscle-bound young men, then Angie was ready and willing to serve. But only if they started right now, and only if that beautiful black man was first. The image from the party came back to her. Now she was in the same position, in the place she had secretly longed for. Now it was her turn to be fucked repeatedly until some rich and powerful man took notice of her and took her home to be his pet. She would earn her proper place by her ability to please, to take cock after cock after cock while everyone stood around admiring her and waiting their turn to ride the pretty pony—

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Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of Vanya’s voice. Some kind of question. Angie’s brain slowly pieced it together from memory, the fog of her fantasy reluctantly receding. “How is she doing?” The groom answered. “She is quite ready, Madame Vanya.” His voice was deep, with a strange foreign burr. Angie quavered in tune to it. Yes, she was ready. Quite ready. Unbidden, the image of Jack’s broad shoulders and twinkling eyes swam before her. Vanya knelt over her, and experimentally inserted two fingers inside Angie. Much to Angie’s surprise, she didn’t care. Anything inside felt good. If she had to submit to Vanya’s pokings and proddings, that was fine. Once the woman saw how wet she was, she would tell the black groom to fuck her. And then Jack. And then all the other grooms. And then Jack, again. “Indeed she is.” Vanya’s fingers came out gleaming. Angie lay on her back and waited. She was about to be gang-banged by men whose names she did not even know, and she couldn’t bear how long it was taking to happen. “Take her down to the stable.” Vanya’s terrible words gradually sank in. When Angie finally understood she wasn’t going to be fucked right this instant, her eyes welled up in tears of frustration. The groom had to help her stand. Her legs were weak and trembling. All the pain and humiliation she had endured had been wasted. Vanya didn’t think she was ready to be ridden. She wasn’t good enough yet. Angie limped a few steps, her feet remembering why they feared the ground. She stumbled blindly, unable to see through the tears. The groom took pity on her, and scooped her up in his arms. It was an undignified position. With his arms under her shoulders and knees, her groin was exposed to the people they passed. She could feel her tail dangling down, and a frightening impulse seized her. If she let if fall out, she would get cock. Lots and lots of cock. The grooms would be allowed to have her. Vanya wouldn’t be able to stop them.

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She tried to relax her backside, but the memory of the girl in the race stopped her. That girl had been violated anally and orally, her bit stripped from her mouth by the eager grooms. But she hadn’t been properly fucked. Angie realized that was on purpose. The all-consuming hunger in her groin could not be fulfilled by anything in her power. They would not let her fill her aching cunt until they chose to. The best that she could hope for was that this groom would break the rules, that he would take her aside in the woods and fuck her now. Surely she was worth the risk of his job, or a whipping, or whatever punishment he might suffer. She looked up him, beaming her desire through her eyes. I’m yours, she stared at him. Use me now. Take me into the woods and fuck me, and afterwards I’ll kiss your hand in gratitude. I won’t tell anyone, I promise. He glanced down at her once, and then kept his eyes glued forward. She knew he had gotten the message. He was sweating from the brow, and not because the exertion of carrying her. She rode too lightly in his arms for that. When she slipped a little in his grasp, she felt the bulge in his trousers against her buttock. She pushed herself into it, riding up and down it with every step. His breathing became labored and ragged. Any minute now he would be unable to resist her. Any second she would get what she deserved. He dropped her legs, holding onto her shoulders until she could stand. For a wonderful instant she thought he was going to fuck her, but then she realized they had arrived. They were at the stables.

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Chapter Eight

The groom looped her reins over a post, and walked stiffly away. Angie wistfully watched him go, hardly noticing when another groom left Lana standing next to her, lashed to the same post. When she did look at the blonde girl, she saw the same dilated pupils and shining eyes that she knew she had. Lana was as desperate as Angie was. Idly she wondered if they would make her and Lana do things to each other. Men liked watching that. Angie knew that as long as that black groom was watching, she’d do whatever they told her to. She was more worried that they would whip her, like the girl at the post last week. Angie knew she didn’t deserve to be whipped like that. But she also knew it was up to them. All she could do was wait and hope they would finally let that fine black groom make love to her. Just thinking about it sent a trickle of wetness down her inner thigh. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed, and realized she was surrounded by a crowd. Grooms and ponies, Lords and Ladies, had all come to watch. The new girls were going to be ridden for the first time, and apparently this was good public entertainment. Angie tried to blush, but failed. Who was she kidding? The thought of being taken in front of all these strangers only made the lesson clearer—she was no longer in control of her own fate. She belonged to Bathshire Stables. They would transfer her to whomever they pleased, and she would serve that master as loyally as she now served Bathshire. Her value would be in no small part set by how well she now performed.

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She began to hope they would make her do things with Lana. Perverse things. She wanted a chance to show off how obedient she could be. She wanted to be valuable. A groom approached her, black leather straps in his hand, and she trembled in anticipation. If she was to be whipped, it wouldn’t be for long. Soon they would see how ready she was, how eagerly she leaned into the next blow, and then they would reward her. Her stomach flipped when she remembered that she had never been whipped; it was the other girl she had been thinking of. Angie had no idea how she would react to being whipped. “Calm down, little filly, it’s just a riding bit.” The groom’s American accent was friendly, but she still felt jittery. Everything made her feel jittery right now. As he eased her current bridle off, she started to panic. All she was wearing was her bridle, her arm bindings, and her tail. To lose any little bit of that was like stripping naked in Piccadilly Square. The groom understood. He held the new bit up to her mouth, so she could swap it out quickly. His hand shielded her naked mouth from the crowd while they made the switch. It was comforting, and gallant, like a gentleman taking off his jacket to shield a lady while she changed her dress. But of course, at Bathshire Stables, every experience was a new depth of humiliation. As he worked the bit into her mouth, she realized it was very different than the previous one. Instead of a rod, this bit had a large, shiny, rubber ring, and he was setting it against her teeth. When she resisted, he massaged her jaw until it opened fully. Then he adjusted the ring again. Her mouth was held open, as wide as possible. Whoever got to ride her would not be restricted to vaginal penetration. Angie clinched her buttocks reflexively. Surely she would get to keep her tail. Only the doctor was allowed to take it out. She hadn’t misbehaved. They couldn’t do that to her, could they? The groom fondled her breast. She waited for him to do something to it, like attach clips or leads or bind it up in straps, until she realized he was just enjoying himself. She

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was glad that he wanted to touch her. Maybe he would ride her first. Maybe he would ride her from behind while the black man made use of her new bit. She couldn’t believe she’d just thought of that. The perversity of her situation started to creep into her consciousness, skulking around the fringes of her awareness. It was surprisingly arousing, but something felt like it was missing. Like she was forgetting something important. The groom smiled at her and left. Behind him stood Vanya. The French woman gathered up Angie and Lana’s bridles, and led them away from the post, into the center of yard. Angie took comfort in her presence. On the other side of the yard, a line of grooms were stripping to the waist, tossing their shirts and jackets aside. Angie looked at the sea of broad shoulders, deep chests, and thick arms and forgot about fear. Her eyes sought out the darkness of her fine black groom, or the lithe chest that she knew was under that American accent, but what she found first galvanized her into paralysis. Jack Greyson. “Do you like what you see?” Vanya purred. Angie broke her gaze away from Jack’s face. Her heart was racing insanely, and she was afraid she would faint. Lana stared at the line of men hungrily. Angie could see her eyes were drawn to one man in particular—the black groom. Angie could see why. The bulge she had left in his trousers was still noticeably present. “Listen, ponies,” Vanya said in a public voice, pitched so that the audience could hear. “Today is a special day. Today is the last day you get to choose the man who rides you.” She swept her hand across the line of men. “Here you have a selection of our finest grooms. Kneel before the one you choose, and show us how well you can serve. Choose well—the next time you open your legs, it will be at your master’s command.” Angie looked up again, but it was hopeless. Jack drew her like a magnet, a vortex of desire that she could not escape. She drifted to him, oblivious to the crowd, the other men, Lana, Vanya, even the trimmed grass beneath her feet. While Jack stared at her, unblinking, his face an unreadable mask, Angie knelt at his feet. She looked up, her

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mouth held open by the bit, her breasts pushed forward by arms bound behind her back, and waited, trembling, for what she had been wanting since he had first touched her on the shoulder outside the club two weeks ago. He did not smile as he undid his trousers. He was too intent for that, his eyes searching her face as if he were seeking clues to the mysteries of life. When his pants slipped below his knees, he reached forward and caught at her reins, one hand on either side of her head. His cock was already swollen and half-erect. When she leaned forward to take it in her mouth, it stiffened. It was unnaturally thick. She hoped it would fit through the ring in her mouth. The head of his cock now rested on her tongue. She licked at it, trying to draw it with her tongue. Eagerly she pushed forward, begging for more. She was caught up short by her bridle, trapped in his firm grasp. Whimpering in frustration, she struggled against him. He easily held her in place, waiting until she stopped fighting. His cock continued to harden in her mouth while he did so. When at last she surrendered control, he pulled her in a little. She suckled, trying to draw his cock in further, but she couldn’t form a seal around it because of the stupid ring. She had to wait until he gave her more. Pushing her head back, he began to smoothly rock her back and forth, entering slightly deeper with each thrust. She strained to make her mouth and throat compliant. The worst thing that could happen was if she gagged, because then he would pull away. She didn’t want that. She wanted him to push in all the way, to slide down until the ring pressed against his balls and held him off. She had never deep-throated a man before, and certainly not a man of this girth, but the presence of the ring emboldened her. It provided a sense of control and limitation that let her surrender, knowing that at the final moment she could not surrender too far. He began to press at her limits. She tried to communicate her eagerness through her eyes, the only part of her body left under her control. She felt his hips twitch. Finally she

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was beginning to break his iron discipline. Any moment now and he would lose control, begin to brutally thrust and plunge into her mouth, and the only thing that would save her would be the rubber ring. His cock was stiff now, like a piece of iron, and on each lunge she felt it press into her throat. Each time she felt the gag reflex start, she bit down on the ring and it stopped. Eagerly she waited for him to explode in her mouth. She wanted to taste him, to luxuriate in the flavor of his semen in her mouth, to feel it drool out and splash on her breasts, like her saliva did now. Swallowing was hard with the ring. That was okay; swallowing was never her favorite part. Splatter and splash was better. She could tell from the looks on men’s faces that they liked it better. And Angie always wanted to do the prettiest thing. He disappointed her, stopping his thrusts and holding her perfectly still with his cock halfway in her mouth. Shuddering like a spring under fearsome tension, his cock dribbled a mere taste into her mouth. His eyes closed finally, as he fought to bring himself back under control. When he opened them, he drew his cock out of her mouth, and pulled her to her feet. She had to scramble to keep her legs under her, or he would have lifted her off the ground. Once she was standing, he released her reins, and turned her around to face the crowd. Holding onto her bound wrists, he pressed on her shoulder until she bent forward. Then he entered her. The thickness of his cock should have been painful, at first, but she was unbelievably wet. He felt natural inside of her, like something that had been missing and finally came home. She started to fall forward, too focused on the wonderful feeling between her thighs to keep her balance. He caught her, locking his hands underneath her waist, folding her in half at the belly. When he stood up straight, he lifted her feet off the ground. She hung there, helplessly, while he fucked her. The sensation of dangling was disorienting. Her only points of contact with the world were his hands on her hips and his cock inside her. When she looked down, she could see it slamming in and out of her, her wetness running down her thighs, the grass and the admiring crowd titling crazily as she

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swayed upside-down in his hands. She wanted to grab her ankles to steady herself, but her arms were bound. All she could do was hang there while he fucked her. And climax. Not the usual short, sharp affair, but a long, drawn-out, floating dream. The blood rushing to her head made her lose all sense of time and direction. When she finally noticed the white cream dripping out of her, onto the brilliant green grass, she didn’t understand at first. Only when he released her did she realize he had finished. Lying in a heap on the grass like a dropped doll, she watched him out of the side of her face. Dimly she heard the cheering of the crowd, but her attention was fixed wholly on his face. His eyelids fluttered and she could see the whites of his eyes for a few minutes, until he recovered from la petite mort. When he opened his eyes and looked down at her, his face still aflame with desire, she finally found the strength to move. Inching forward on the clean, manicured lawn, she pushed her face to where a few white drops glistened on blades of green. Watching his face, she flicked out her tongue and licked the grass. This was her private performance, for him alone. No one else was close enough to see the quick and delicate act. After she was done, he looked away, at the ground behind her, and she understood this was his way of keeping her secret. He could do nothing else, with the eyes of the crowd upon them. A guttural howl came from her left. Lana was bowed out in front of the black groom like a foresail, supported by his grasp of her bound wrists. She stood on the toes of his boots, his long black cock slamming in and out of her, her tail waving wildly. He gasped loudly, responding to her howling climax, and slowly sank to his knees, riding the blonde girl all the way to the ground. After many labored breaths, he stood up, leaving her in a pile on the ground as well. Angie wondered if the rest of the grooms would fuck them now. She couldn’t decide if she cared or not. Jack had left her drained and fulfilled. Nothing that happened now seemed very important.

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The other grooms surrounded the two lucky men, slapping them on the back and laughing. The group of men wandered away, pulling on shirts and jackets amid ribald banter. Only Vanya came to the girls lying in the grass. “Very well done,” she purred in her close voice, the one she used when she wanted to speak privately. “Very well indeed. You have earned a warm bath and good rest. And, not incidentally, established yourselves as prize possessions.” Angie nodded distractedly, thoroughly exhausted from all the events of the day. In her tiredness, the long run in chains, the hours on the serving floor, even the doctor’s room seemed unreal and distant. The only experience that stood out sharply, indelibly etched into her mind, was the hardness of Jack’s cock piercing her through the middle. And the taste of it, still on her lips, which were wrapped around the unyielding rubber ring. Vanya helped the girls to their knees, the most tender Angie had ever seen her. The American groom traded out their bits again, and Angie’s jaw relaxed gratefully. The plain bit seemed comforting now. Docilely following Vanya through the yard, Angie recognized a face in the crowd. Done up in bit and halter, with blue ribbons woven into her hair to match her sparkling blue corset, Angie had to struggle to put a name to the face. Trina. The girl who had left on Angie’s first day, trying to get Lana and Angie to follow. Looking at Angie with a self-satisfied smirk, wearing the trappings of an established pony. So her outrage had been just an act. She’d been planted among the new girls to separate the curious from the serious. The knowledge that Bathshire Stables had gone to such efforts to drive her away, and failed, made Angie feel special. It also made her feel safe. They had thought of everything. This was where she belonged. This is where she was wanted. Vanya led her and Lana deep into the building. She stayed with them while the doctor removed their tails, and sat next to the huge porcelain bathtubs while maids scrubbed every inch of their grateful skin. Luxuriating in the warm bath, Angie imagined

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all six tubs full of pretty young women being primped and pampered. What a beautiful vision. And now she was a part of it. “You have earned your shoes,” Vanya told them both. “We will wait a few weeks more yet before the auction. We wish to build some tension, but not for too long. We do not want them to forget your lovely performance. Such an obvious climax on your first public riding—every Lord will want that for his stable.” Vanya also had stern instructions. “You must not have sex again, until you are sold. It will only diminish your value. No matter how sweetly any Lord plies you, you must remind him of the rules. The more you make them pay to have you, the more they will value you. Soon they will pay anything to make you kneel at their feet and bend to their will.” “Mistress Vanya, what about—I mean…outside…” Lana seemed to have trouble putting the sentence together. Angie sympathized. It was hard to think of outside while soaking in rose-scented water. Vanya pressed her lips together, in that flat shape that indicated amusement for her. “I do not recommend it. Not only will it diminish your own projection of desire, but you will find it…disappointing.” Angie was too sleepy to try to guess what secret lay under that French accent. She had no desire left. She was happy to wait until they gave her to Jack again. The warm glow carried her through the rest of the night, the train ride home, and all the way into next week.

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Chapter Nine

She didn’t even touch herself. Not once for the whole week. The memory of Jack inside her was too precious to disturb. She floated through the week on a cloud of expectation, knowing that soon she would be back in tail and bridle, and full of Jack. The idea that Jack was just an elevator ride away didn’t really occur to her until Friday, when he called her upstairs to his office. In her mind, it wasn’t the same Jack. Sitting behind his desk in a grey suit, he didn’t look like the Jack she had been dreaming of, the shirtless man-beast who had fucked her senseless in front of a crowd of people. He looked like an ordinary man, although extraordinarily wide and quite handsome. He looked like the kind of man girls married and raised families with. “Miss Forester…” His voice trailed off. His voice merged the two Jacks in her head until she could no longer tell the difference between them. Angie stood there, waiting for him to tell her what to do. She knew that if he told her to collate and staple four hundred claim forms, she would. She also knew that if he told her to get down on her knees and suck his cock, she would do it as unhesitatingly as the former. She had been conditioned to obedience at the hands of Bathshire Stables. Probably Vanya had told him to check up on her. Maybe even to test her willingness to obey. Jack looked uncomfortable, like he was trying to figure out what he wanted to say. Angie kept her gaze demurely on the floor, waiting for his command. Hundreds of

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perversities and humiliations ran through her head, most of them leading to her sitting in Jack’s lap, impaled on his thick cock. Or bent over his desk, skirt over her hips, and stuffed full of cock. Or on her back on his desk, holding her ankles, a pencil in her mouth to bite down on and stifle her squeals as he pounded her with his huge, thick cock. It really was thick. She remembered that quite clearly. She hoped he would let her masturbate first, to warm up to it. Then, her heart skipping a beat, she kind of hoped he wouldn’t. “Angie…” he tried again. “Yes, Mr. Greyson, sir?” She put all of her willingness to obey into that simple sentence. She might as well have said, Yes, I would like to swallow your huge cock, sir. “Come here. Have a seat.” Trying not to skip in her excitement, she walked over and plopped herself in his lap just as he was trying to stand. “I didn’t mean…” He seemed a little flustered. Angie felt impatience rising. Why didn’t he get on with it? They were finally alone. Vanya couldn’t stop him, and surely he knew Angie would never dare to object. He could take her now, just like the black groom could have taken her in the forest. But better, because he was Jack. Better, because his strong hands and steely gaze and big, thick cock were all Jack, Jack, Jack. She could feel the warmth of his groin soaking into her bottom. Delirious with desire, she took a risk. “Permission to touch myself, sir?” It came out even deeper and huskier than she had intended. Close proximity to Jack seemed to impair her ability to talk. “What? No!” He stood up, spilling her to the floor. She was too stunned to respond. “That’s not why I called you up here, Angie.” Why else would he have called her up? Didn’t he understand she had been waiting for this for days? For every minute since he had dropped her to the grass, she had been waiting for him to pick her up again.

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“This isn’t part of the game, Angie.” That stung her to the core. “It’s not a game!” she snapped. It was her dream come true, the validation of her entire life. It wasn’t a game. “Yes,” he said, “it is. All of it. The girl who walked out the first day was a plant.” “I know that,” she said sullenly. “I’m not stupid.” “And the girl at the racetrack. She did that on purpose. The grooms were chosen out beforehand, by her master. Did you know that?” She hadn’t. But it did make sense, a kind of Bathshire sense. Not that it mattered. “Their cocks were real. They really sodomized her.” And the Lord and his dark-haired beauty at the mansion were real. Those men really fucked her, and she really enjoyed it. She didn’t say that, however. What she said was, “And the money is real.” “Money? Is that all it comes down to?” His disgust made Angie angry. What the hell was his problem? “What are you complaining about?” she shot back. “You got paid to fuck me. You seemed to enjoy it well enough.” “Christ, Angie! That’s the bleeding point!” Jack’s frustration inflamed his face. Still sitting on the floor, Angie couldn’t quite figure out what he was talking about. But whatever it was, it was making her very angry. “Why did you even come up here?” he asked. “You called me.” “Is that all? Is that the only reason?” Angie stared back at him. He was making no sense. “I thought you might… I thought Vanya had told you to test me. To fuck me. I wanted you to fuck me. That’s why I came up here. So you could fuck me.” Just saying the word so many times made her hot again. She tugged suggestively on her skirt. She still wanted him to fuck her.

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“Don’t you get it?” He wasn’t angry anymore, or at least, not angry at her. He was sad and upset at something. “Angie, they won’t let me touch you anymore. They’ll sell you to some rich man, and once he sees the way I look at you, I’ll be fired. I’ll be gone, and I’ll never be allowed to see you again.” Why was he ruining everything? “Then don’t look at me like that.” Wasn’t that the obvious solution? He shook his head at her, temporarily stunned into silence. “I can’t help it, Angie. I’m in love with you.” “Shut up!” The force of her anger shocked her, but she could not control it. “Don’t say that. Don’t say those stupid fucking words to me. Stop it! Stop ruining everything.” “It’s too late.” He looked miserable, like a puppy out in the rain. Her heart wrenched with pity, with the need to comfort him, even while her stomach burned in fury. He was smashing all of her dreams, in ways she couldn’t even understand yet. But she felt it. She felt that horrible free-fall of doom, when the floor opens underneath you and there’s no bottom in sight. “I already turned in my resignation. I can’t work here anymore. I only had this job because of my Bathshire connections, and I can’t work there anymore. I won’t go there every weekend, knowing you’re there, knowing I can’t have you. I’m going back to the firehouse.” The flood of tears was as unexpected as the anger behind them. “Is that why you called me up here? To cast me aside?” He blushed, red and weary. “I wanted…to ask you out. On a date. A real date, a proper date. Like ordinary people.” Finally her cool returned, settling over her like a blanket of ice. Picking herself up off the floor, she sneered at him. “I don’t want a date. I’ve had all the damn dates I can stand. I’m sick to death of pretending, and hoping, and waiting for a man. I want to go to Bathshire Stables and get fucked silly and become rich. I want to be owned by somebody who wants me enough to…to…to own me.” She tugged her skirt back down to its proper length, and delicately walked to the door. She could not help but be conscious of the way her hips swayed, of how her high

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heels made each step an act of enticement. Even walking away from him she could not stop herself from wanting to be seen by him. At the door, she stopped and looked back. He was watching her, his face set like stone. He was used to danger, she remembered. He was used to pain and loss, watching fire consume the dreams of people he could not help. But she was not used to it. Watching her dreams burst into flames was too much for her. “You can pick me up at eight. Harrowstone Hall, apartment 4G.” She scuttled out of the door and down the hall before her mouth could betray her again. Before her legs carried her back to him of their own will. Before her arms tore off her clothes, before her mindless lust spilled out of her in glistening wetness, begging him to take her. Her body had become the enemy. Even her eyes could only remember his shirtless chest. Only her mind could keep its focus on the pony-girl’s glittering diamond earrings, with their promise of eternal luxury and elegance. In the elevator, she invented rationalizations. There was no harm in having a life outside of Bathshire, at least for now. She’d gone on lots of dates that ended with her fucking someone, so what was wrong with going a date with someone she’d fucked? He was a font of knowledge about Bathshire and its ways. He could give her advice on who to avoid and how to please. He was handsome and fun and completely smitten with her. Just thinking of his cock inside her made her wet and tingly. She stopped herself. Scratch that last one. No use going there. At her desk she buried herself in mind-numbing paperwork until the end of the day. On the tube-ride home, she occupied herself with planning what to wear. Like all those weekends before she’d heard of Bathshire, when she had carefully maximized her attractiveness, going as close to slutty as possible to catch men’s eyes, but not so far that she lost their respect. In her apartment she spent the hours bathing, grooming, and trying on clothes until she was bored with the process. That took her until seven-thirty. Then she had half an hour to do nothing but wait. Nervousness crept over her, uncomfortable and wholly unanticipated. It was just a date

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with a bloke. They’d go out to dinner, and he’d talk about himself and how much money he made, and then, maybe, if she were in the mood, she’d let him fuck her. Just like every other date. So why did she jump when the doorbell rang? Why did she even notice that it was exactly three minutes after eight? She buzzed him into the downstairs hallway. She could hear his heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, creaking on the wooden floor outside, until finally he stood outside her door. She realized she had stopped breathing. He knocked, and the dull, ordinary sound released her. Opening the door, she put on a practiced smile. “Hello,” she said. He was holding something. At first she expected flowers, but when he didn’t hand it to her, she took a second look and realized it was a paper bag with handles, like they gave out at fancy shops. Had he brought her clothing? An odd choice, but honestly, much more interesting than flowers. His gaze raked up and down her. She knew what she looked like—the sheer silk blouse, open one too many buttons, tucked into a black mini-skirt that exposed more leg than one expected. She didn’t look like a tramp; she looked like an innocent girl trying to look nice but accidentally revealing more than she should. It was one of her better effects. “You’ll need a longer skirt,” he said. She stared at him. Many things went through her mind, not the least of which was the effrontery of a man telling his date how to dress. Besides, she knew she looked stunning. If that was too much for him to handle, that was his problem. What she said was none of that. “Very well. It will be just a moment, then.” Stepping back, she let him into the room and left him to close the door himself. She stalked off to her bedroom. At first she was tempted to put on something frumpy, to punish him for his rudeness, but she didn’t actually own anything like that. Eventually

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she settled on a knee-length bit of velvet with a flare at the bottom. It would make a wonderful swish when she walked. Returning to the main room, she arched her eyebrows and did a little spin. “Is this acceptable?” She put as much snarkiness as she dared into it. On the early part of a date, you could get away with a lot. “Yes,” he grunted. “Now take off your underwear.” She froze, shocked and frightened. No man could talk like that to her, not on a first date. Not even if they’d already fucked. Her immediate sense of fear began to cook over into a fine outrage. As she worked herself up to a good screaming fit that would end with him running in shame, or God forbid, being arrested, he reached into the bag and pulled out an object. A ponytail. Jet-black, finely shaped, with a full bounce and a gentle curve. The horsehair flowed sensuously from a thick, black rubber plug that made her sphincter twitch with need. “They’re not the only people in the world who make ponytails, you know.” His tone was normal, just good old conversational Jack. It should have ruined the moment, dispelled the shivery menace and dark sexuality that pulsed in her veins with every beat of her heart. But it didn’t. It just felt comforting. Unable to look away from the ponytail, she slowly pulled up her skirt to reach her panties. Demurely keeping herself covered, she tugged them down her hips and let them drop to her ankles, where they lay in a heap of fine lace. The embroidery embarrassed her, because it meant she had chosen them for their looks, not for their comfort. Chosen them to be seen, not to be worn. She always dressed like that for a date, just in case. But it was never comfortable for your date to know you’d prepared for sex. They tended to take liberties after that. “Come here.” He waved at his lap. Angie stepped out of the wisp of cloth and went to him. He took her hand and guided her down, until she lay on her belly across his knees. The position of helplessness terrified her, but the warmth of his body enticed her with comfort and safety.

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“Pull up your skirt.” He reached into the bag again and extracted a bottle of oil. Knowing what had to come next, she reached back and exposed herself. Her naked buttocks thrust up into the air felt cool and shivery. The tension between shame and desire threatened to make her cry. “First, a little warming-up. You took far too long choosing a new skirt. That calls for a spanking, don’t you think?” “No, I—” She didn’t get to finish her made-up excuse. He swatted her. “Being argumentative. That calls for twice as much.” After that she could only bite her lip and try not to squeal. Any further resistance would be met with more punishment, and she’d already misbehaved enough. A part of her mind dimly wondered what, exactly, she’d done, but every time his rough, strong hand landed on her cheeks, the rest of her mind didn’t care. Mercifully he stopped after less than a dozen spanks. Her buttocks were warm now, tingling and alive. “Are you ready to be a good pony?” “Yes, sir,” she whispered. “I want to be a good pony.” She felt a warm, slippery wetness on her backside and stifled a gasp. Then something soft but firm prodded at her, rendered slick from the oil. In seconds it was warm from her body heat. After a few strokes, once she had gotten used to its touch, it found her entrance and peeked inside. She had to gasp then, audibly. She thought about begging him to go slowly, but her trust in him was already too complete. A dozen strokes, with only an inch of penetration, until she finally relaxed in his lap. She hadn’t even realized how tense she had been until she draped over his legs like a blanket, seeking solace in their heat and strength. “Now comes the hard part, pony.” Slowly, inexorably, he pushed the plug deeper inside her. There was no friction, thanks to the oil, but her muscles still resisted the invasion. She didn’t want them to. She ordered them to relax. Concentrating fiercely, she sent command after command to her

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backside to surrender. It fought back of its own accord, until the plug backed off and retreated. She just had time to catch her breath before it returned. It was painful, more painful than the doctor at Bathshire. She didn’t understand why, until some deep part of her realized that she wanted it to be. “Push harder,” she whispered. And then grunted as he did, the plug filling her, spreading her against her will. Her backside tried to force it out, but Jack’s strength was implacable. Slowly the plug advanced, pinning her to his knees, as every muscle in her body clenched. “Push!” she cried. She wanted this so badly. She wanted to be defeated. Her traitorous body that had so frequently tried to give itself to Jack, betrayed her again, fighting against him. But Jack was stronger. Before she lost control and screamed, it was over. The plug slipped past its wide point, her anus clamping down on the narrow stub with stunning relief. Angie’s body spasmed in sympathy. She might have climaxed; it was hard to tell. Everything seemed different now. Sight, sound, touch, all of her senses seemed amplified and distorted. “Very good,” he said, like a mountain speaking above her. He stroked her buttocks comfortingly while she brought her gasping breath under control. When he stood her up off his lap, she understood. She thought she had surrendered before, when she had disrobed and knelt at his command. But that had only been a shadow of submission. Wearing his tail, marked as his possession, she was completely robbed of will. He could do as he wanted with her right now. He could give her any command, use her body in any way, beat or fuck her at his whim, and she would beg for more. He kissed her, on the lips, sweetly. Not like Master Jack, but like Ordinary Jack. The contrast reverberated through her body. “Do you like Italian?” he asked.

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“As long as it’s Northern,” she replied, in perfectly ordinary tones, a perfectly ordinary conversation on a perfectly ordinary date. As she walked to the door, the tail brushed against her legs. The feeling was unbelievably normal. She couldn’t even remember what it was like to walk without a tail, to not have its silky caress against the backs of her thighs at every step. Sitting in his car was a new experience. She’d never sat on a tail before. It wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as it sounded. The plug was relatively unobtrusive. However, she did find that it kept her buttocks tensed to support herself, rather than lazily plopping down into the seat. That was a good thing. Like high heels, it forced her body into a more attractive shape. His car was not what she’d become used to. After a continuous parade of Lexuses and Mercedes, she had forgotten what ordinary cars were like. Those cars smelled of leather and newness. Jack’s car smelled like home, an ordinary sort of everyday smell. The restaurant wasn’t any better. No crystal glasses here, no obsequious waiters treading silently on thick shag carpet, and the menus actually had the prices printed right on them. And it didn’t matter. Angie enjoyed herself. They talked and laughed. He flirted with her, telling her how pretty she was. He looked at her every chance he got. He ate up her stories about the dreadful Mrs. Smythe. It was like going out with a group of friends, except there was only one of them and her skin tingled every time he touched her. It was the strangest date of Angie’s entire life. Outside in the deserted parking lot, standing by his car, she kissed him. He put his arms around her and pulled her close, where she could lean into his hard, broad body. She felt a strange glow form deep inside her, suffusing every inch of her being, radiating from her skin. She put her lips to his ear and whispered. “I’ve been a good pony. Don’t make me wait.” His eyes were dark and wide in the night, looming over a lustful grin. “You can put your knees on the toes of my shoes,” he said.

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Eagerly she slid down his body, until she knelt in front of him, hidden from view by the car. His leather shoes were soft under her skin, a point of contact that bound her to him even as she leaned back to work. Quickly she undid his trousers and fished inside them for her prize. When she brought his half-erect cock out to play, she leaned in again and took it deep into her mouth. It stiffened quickly, but it was okay. Without the iron ring, it was an easy fit, and it wasn’t so long that she had trouble breathing. She would have stayed there, sucking happily, feeling its ridges and contours on her tongue, sliding in and out of her lips, forever. Time, or the fact that they were in a public parking lot, simply didn’t matter anymore. He interrupted her trance, pulling her to her feet. Perhaps someone had seen them. But she realized she didn’t care. Staring into his face, she waited for him to tell her what to do next. “Pull up your skirt.” She tried to strike the right balance between eagerness and modesty. Tugging up the front of her skirt, she exposed herself to him. He grabbed her by both buttocks, picking her up easily off the ground and setting her on the hood of his car. Now the plug made itself known. When she spread her legs to accommodate him, she could no longer hold herself up. The plug pushed against her backside, its broad cone penetrating her more deeply. Then his cock slid inside her, and she forgot everything else. She couldn’t wrap her legs around him; that would be too obvious. She had to let them dangle, as if she were merely sitting on a car in front of her boyfriend. She had to hold her head up and look at him, no matter how much she wanted to fling it back and scream in ecstasy. He put his hands on her hips, holding her in place like a vise, and began to fuck her. With every thrust she rose up off the car hood, and the plug squeezed back into its normal position. When he drew back, she sank down, pierced again by the plug. The doubled sensation of penetration overwhelmed her. Holding onto his arms, she climaxed, long and continuously, while he worked off his lust, pumping her like a fire-hose.

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She bit her tongue to stop her squeals. If someone saw them, Jack might very well let them take a turn. It would be an appropriate punishment for a naughty pony. The thought made her climax again, gurgling incoherently. Leaning against him, basking in his heat, she finally noticed that he had stopped moving. She didn’t care. Just being next to him was exhilarating. She nuzzled in his hair, kissing his ear, until he grinned ruefully. “I’m afraid that’s all for now. It’s time to put your toy away.” Whimpering in disappointment, she trembled while he withdrew. Dropping to her knees again, she could not resist taking it back into her mouth, licking it clean. He was still dribbling cum, but there was another flavor, a new one. Herself. The wickedness of it made her grin. She tucked him back inside his briefs and did up his trousers. Then she looked up, seeking his approval, and glorying in it. On the way home, she unobtrusively slipped her hand under her skirt. Incredibly, she was still wet. Instead of fondling her clitoris like she had intended, she put in a finger. It was nothing compared to his thickness, but it reminded her of how he had filled her so completely. By relaxing and tightening her buttocks, she could rise and sink on the plug. She got halfway to orgasm before he noticed. “Naughty girl,” he said, slapping her knee playfully. Blushing, she withdrew her hand. Her middle finger glistened in the passing streetlights. With nothing better to do with it, she put it in her mouth. “Very naughty.” In the flash of passing streetlights, his grin was like a beacon. Angie took off her seat-belt, and laid her head in his lap. The bulge against her cheek was comforting, like an old friend. Walking up to her apartment, she kept finding ways to touch him there, letting her hand brush lightly across the front of his trousers. It was a wanton playfulness she had never let herself experience before. Always sexuality had to be controlled, lest the man take…liberties. But she had already given everything to Jack. There was nothing left for her to protect.

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Inside, with the door closed behind them, he finally responded. Pulling her in by her arms, he kissed her lips, her face, her throat. She let him, arching her head back while he feasted on her. One arm slipped around her waist, to hold her in place. The other hand fumbled at her blouse until the button sprang free. He tugged her blouse under her right breast, where the pull of the fabric lifted her. He pulled down the cup of her bra with his thick, hard fingers, took her nipple in his mouth, and suckled at her. She imagined feeding him, as he had fed her through his cock, and moaned uncontrollably. His strong hand gripped and squeezed at her breast. She felt herself going limp, leaning into his supporting arm, waiting for him to drop her to the floor, push her legs apart, and take her again. Instead, he dropped his free arm under her knees, and lifted her off the ground. Like the black groom had. Remembering how badly she had wanted that groom, she blushed in shame. The memory still burned, as hot in desire as ever. If the groom were to spring out of the closet and take her now, she would scream in ecstasy, climaxing with every thrust. As long as Jack was there, watching, enjoying, approving. As long as Jack would take her afterwards, stretching her out with his incredible thickness. As long as it was what Jack wanted. He carried her into the bedroom, her naked breast poking up, her tail pulling her skirt down from behind. The exposed, wet parts of her flesh cooled in the air, a delicious contrast to the heat of his touch. When he dumped her on her bed, she whimpered at the pain of losing contact, even for an instant. As he tugged at his trousers, he stared down at her. She could feel the lust burning in his gaze. “You were a naughty girl in the car.” “Yes, sir,” she whispered. She had no idea what came next. Not knowing made the vertigo greater. Anything could happen. And she wanted it to. Anything, anything at all. “Do you want to be a good girl?” “Yes, master.” She savored the word. It tasted good in her mouth, like the combined flavor of his cum and her own wetness.

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He was inflamed by her complete submission. In impatience, she heard his trousers rip as he tore them from his body. “Roll over. And pull up your skirt.” Obediently, she complied. Now her bottom was sticking up in the air, her tail sweeping down across the backs of her thighs. The sensation of her skirt bunched up against her waist, the cloth of her blouse covering one breast but not the other, only heightened her sense of exposure. “Do you want to be a special pony? Do you want to do something no other girl has ever dared to do for me?” His voice was constricted, like the growl of a raging bear muffled by a collar that chained it against the wall. “Yes, master,” she said, not knowing what he meant. Not caring. He climbed onto the bed with her, kneeling over her. She felt his hand on her bottom. Then a tug on her tail. At first she resisted him, thinking he was testing her. Then she understood. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to surrender. The plug squeezed through her, but it always came out so much easier than it went in. When it was gone, she felt empty inside. She wanted to be filled again. She wanted to please him. “I choose you,” she whispered. Like the bad girl at the race, she chose the one who would punish her for giving up her tail. She chose Jack. He grunted, squeezing both her cheeks in his strong hands. “Don’t move, pony.” Then he was gone, springing off the bed and stalking out of the room. Angie didn’t understand, but she waited, trusting him. Almost immediately he returned, climbing onto the bed again. It sank under his weight, the mattress unprepared for so much manliness. Angie sympathized with the mattress. She smelled the sweet-scented oil as it warmed in his hands. When she felt it splashing against her anus, running down the front of her groin in rivulets, she quivered in anticipation.

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Then a hot, hard rod pressed against her, sliding up and down between her cheeks. She could feel the hair on his legs as they pressed up against the back of her thighs. Words were no longer useful. She commanded her body to surrender, to yield, and hoped that this time it would obey. When he first entered her, she was surprised at how easy it was. There was no resistance. He wasn’t wider than the thickest part of the plug. But he didn’t get narrower, like the plug did. The further he penetrated her, the more terrible the sensation grew. She was being split apart, and at the end of it there would be no relaxing around a narrow stub. There would only be thick cock, all the way in, to such an impossible depth. Grunting in pain, she stuffed a pillow into her mouth. The bit would be helpful right now. Her mouth missed its unyielding hardness. “Do you want me to stop?” Even through the burning lust, his tone managed to convey tenderness and concern. No, she did not want him to stop. Pain and pleasure were indistinguishable now. All that mattered was surrendering to him. “More,” she whispered. He obliged. She cried out, but not in pain. He was all the way inside her now, and the feeling was unbearable. It was like the plug, only multiplied by the length of his cock. His cock was deep inside a part of her body that had never been broached before. That had never been full of Jack before. She shoved her right hand down between her legs, reaching for her aching clitoris. He caught her hand, pulled it away, set it aside. “This one is for me, pony.” Sobbing, she nodded her head in acceptance. And then she lay there, her hips thrust into the air, while he rode her. Reduced to an object for his pleasure, abused in unnatural ways, punished and loved and worshipped, his staggeringly thick cock sliding in and out of her. It met no resistance. The weekends of wearing a tail had trained her to this. The

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weeks of desiring Jack, of wanting to have him in a way no one else had, had prepared her for this. She hovered on the edge of climax, but did not come. He had not allowed it. When he bucked into her, pulling her waist to his hips with both hands, quivering in tension as he emptied himself inside her, she almost cried again. She didn’t want it to stop. He fell heavily next to her, his chest slicked with sweat, his eyes half-closed with languidity. She nuzzled up against him, a kitten in the arms of a grizzly bear. Kissing at his face, his throat, his shoulders, she showered him with affection. “Come for me,” he whispered, like a man on the edge of unconsciousness. He put his arm around her, though, and held her close. With her right hand she touched herself, finally giving release to the fire. The thoroughness with which she had been used, the depth of her surrender to him, the heights of his pleasure in her, burned through her mind. In moments she masturbated to a shattering climax, moaning into his chest in agonizing release. Lying beside him, half-draped over his broad frame, was like sleeping on burning embers. The heat suffused her, drawing her consciousness into it. The sound of his breath, the rise and fall of his chest, were lullabies; his arm around her was a blanket. Exhausted, satiated, and in her proper place, she passed into sleep.

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Chapter Ten

In the morning, he was gone. He left her a note. When he quit the firehouse, he had given up his seniority. Now that he was back, he would be working there weekends again, for several years at least. He signed the note, “Love, Jack.” She crumpled it in her fist. Then she smoothed it out on the counter-top. Annoyed with herself, she threw it in the trash can, and then had to struggle not to pluck it out again. Without conscious thought, without letting herself acknowledge what she was doing, she got ready for her trip to Bathshire. On the train out of London, she couldn’t avoid the question anymore. Jack was nice, she told herself. No, he was beautiful. But he was just Jack. Plain old Jack Greyson. He would marry some nice girl with big breasts and wide hips, and have kids and dogs running around the house for the rest of his life. His wife, whoever she was, would sit at home while he risked his life in burning buildings, never knowing if he would come home again. She would spend her time clipping coupons and looking for sales. She would never wear Manolo pumps, and after a few years she would stop looking at them in the fashion magazines. Angie, on the other hand, would soon be the property of a very rich man. She would spend her days being pampered by servants, and her nights being fucked by various men for the viewing pleasure of her master and his friends. Occasionally he would take her

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himself, and reward her good performance with gold and diamonds. Every day would be like last night with Jack. Her entire existence would be submission to a man, a strong man, the kind of man other men served. She would have pretty things and luxuries and orgasms until the end of her days. Or at least until she was too old to bring a decent price anymore. And then she would have enough money to hire herself a dozen Jacks, and make them fuck her on demand. When the doctor put in her tail, she thought of Jack, and it slipped in easily. When Vanya brought her shoes, she thought of Jack, and demurely hung her head in submissive appreciation. When Vanya tweaked her nipples to make them stand up, she thought of Jack, and her nipples swelled in response. Walking around the floor, putting herself on display, she thought of Jack fucking her in front of all these people, and how it had been the best orgasm of her life, right up until Jack had fucked her for the second time. In her dreamy, distant state, she was oblivious to the leers of the men around her. Vanya was exquisitely pleased, so much so that she had Angie’s arm-bindings removed. “An excellent showing, girl. I don’t know how you can look so ready to fuck without even noticing the men, but it is brilliant. Your auction will be fierce. Already it begins— you have been given a present. True, it is from Lord Valdar, which is perhaps frightening to you. He seeks to mark you as his own, and discourage other bidders. But it would be an insult to refuse, so you shall not. And Valdar might not be so bad. If you survive a year in his stable, and are still capable of projecting such open sensuality, many, many Lords will bid to own you. To break what he could not would be a challenge they could not resist. You will be very well compensated.” Vanya smiled mercilessly at Angie while she displayed a pair of glittering diamond earrings, a carat each at the least. “But let us be honest with each other. Your compensation will be in the breaking. A strong-willed girl like you needs a strong man. I see it in your spirit. Since last week you have flowered. Few girls respond to their first public riding so vitally.” Perhaps few girls are ridden by Jack Greyson, she thought. But she didn’t say anything. She could not speak his name out loud; it would break the spell. While Vanya

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pinned the earrings on, Angie stared at the floor and tried to stop thinking about Jack Greyson. “Madame,” a groom said, his voice low and troubled. “There is a problem.” “Where?” Vanya asked. She tapped Angie’s backside, dismissing her, but the groom coughed. “It involves her, Madame.” Angie felt the wave of sudden coldness. “Show me,” Vanya snapped, and the groom marched off. Vanya strode behind him, somehow looking stately even though Angie almost had to skip to keep up. They went through the house and out a side door Angie had not known existed. Outside, a cluster of grooms stood around, looking angry and confused. They were holding someone prisoner, it seemed. Angie didn’t need to see his face to know who it was. She looked away while Vanya conferred with the grooms in angry tones. Then she turned on Angie. “Do you know why this man would trespass on our property? Or why he would think it worth breaking and entering to speak to you?” the French woman demanded. Now Angie had no choice. She had to look at him. She knew that when she did, it would all end. Everything would end. Turning towards him, she raised her gaze up from the ground, into his desperate eyes. “To ask me to marry him,” Angie said. For once, the French woman was rendered absolutely speechless. In the silence, Angie sealed her fate. “And I’m going to say yes.” Jack’s eyes flashed, bright and hard. He seemed to fill out, becoming more solid. The men holding him unconsciously relaxed their grip and moved an inch away, as if instinctually retreating from a powerful animal. Jack’s face split in a massive grin, and Angie was afraid he was about to start whooping like an Indian.

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“Stupid girl!” Vanya was angrier than Angie had ever seen her. Coming from the icily controlled woman, it was terrifying. “You could have had everything. You could have been rich. Instead, you chose…l’amour. Fool!” The French woman struggled with herself, her face quaking and reconfiguring itself into violent emotions. Angie stared in amazement, but it only lasted an instant. Then Vanya was back, the old one, the original ice queen. “Take this pony inside and discharge her. Throw this lout off the property.” She stalked off, but the mood had changed. The other grooms were no longer angry. If anything, they seemed pleased. “Score, dude,” she heard one of them say to Jack. The American, obviously. But Jack didn’t respond to the groom. Instead, he mouthed words at her, over and over, exaggerating the pronunciation so she could read his lips as they tugged him away from her. Marry me. And, I love you Angie walked back into Bathshire house for the last time. The staff treated her differently this time. Standoffish, of course, but not mean. Not cold. It was as if she had won a lottery they had not even known had been playable. She was no longer one of them, but they did not pity her for it. She surrendered her tail without complaint. The shoes made her sniffle; they were truly beautiful, and she would never wear another pair like that on a fireman’s salary. Dressed in her ordinary clothes, she walked alone to the front door. Vanya was waiting for her. Angie suddenly realized there was something she had forgotten to give up. Wordlessly, she took off her earrings, extended them to the glaring French woman. “I had such high hopes for you,” Vanya said. She reached out to touch Angie’s hand, folding Angie’s fingers around the earrings. “I suppose, in a way, I still do. Keep those, child. Bathshire Stables is not without generosity. You gave us what you had to give, and we appreciate it. Consider those your…wedding present. Now go and do not return. I could not bear to see you fail your dreams twice.”

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Confused by the woman’s enigmatic words and rapidly shifting moods, Angie stumbled down the stairs to the waiting car. The driver was markedly less formal than he had been on previous occasions. Angie felt his frank and cheeky inspection rake over her, and distinctly heard him mutter, “A right lucky bastard, our Jack,” as he closed the door. Jack was waiting at the train station. She ran to him, threw herself in his arms. He wouldn’t stop grinning. “I never realized how hard it is to break into a building that isn’t on fire. I never had a reason to. Until now.” She caught his hand and pulled it to her chest. Into his upturned palm she dropped the earrings, glittering with magic. Their sparkle represented something more valuable to her now than glamour. In their clear crystal depths she saw the house that she and Jack could buy. In the tinkle of their stone and metal she heard the laughter of the children they would have. In their cold hard edges she felt the strength of his touch down the years, warm and loving and unyielding. The earrings would vanish, lost to whatever jewelry store offered the most for them, but the life she and Jack would make would be theirs forever. “You’re a right lucky bastard. Did you know that?” she said. And then she kissed him.

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About the Author

To learn more about Michèle de Lully, please visit www.micheledelully.com. Send an email to Michèle at [email protected].

Look for these titles by Michèle de Lully

Now Available: La Bonne La Ceinture

Sandra Castilla is about to discover her true self…if she can survive that long.

Slave Heart © 2007 Nage Archer Sandra Castilla had never taken a chance in her life until she dreamt of her sister’s murder. Driven by forces she couldn’t begin to understand, Sandra finds herself thousands of miles from home, about to infiltrate a dark BDSM cult known as the Taleans. Loved by one man and hopelessly attracted to another, Sandra is plunged into a hidden world where the first wrong move could be her last. A powerful romantic suspense that will keep you on the edge of your seat to the very last page. Winner of the Enda Award for the Year’s Best Erotic Read, a gold star from Just Erotic Romance Reviews and a reviewer’s Choice Award from Road to Romance, join Sandra Castilla on an unforgettable journey of self discovery.

Enjoy the following excerpt for Slave Heart: Two hours later, and a bottle of Chianti behind us, we sat in Jorge’s living room. His mood had improved somewhat, but I knew he was still concerned. I could feel it, and it touched me. “You know the funny thing?” he asked. “Tell me.” “I’ve never used a violet wand in my life. I was sort of looking forward to it.” He started giggling. We were on our second bottle and hadn’t stopped to eat. “You could have.” He grew momentarily serious. “No, I couldn’t.” Then he broke out laughing and I joined him. “Do you know what I’m going to do when you leave?” “What’s that?” “I’m going to call a girl, I’m going to have her come over here, and I’m going to fuck her six ways to Sunday.”

He laughed again, but this time, I didn’t join him. I think I knew then he’d fallen in love with me. I was torn between anger and sympathy. He had no right. I’d told him what I was going to do. Then I realized I was probably drunk and had no right to be angry at anyone, particularly Jorge. I leaned forward so my lips were beside his ear. “Who are you going to call?” Perhaps part of me was jealous, though I had no reason to be. I had no claim on him. “I don’t know. I might have borrowed Tonya, but after tonight, I don’t think Em will be very generous.” “Borrow Tonya? Have you had sex with her before?” “No, but I could have on more than one occasion. Em has offered.” “What does Tonya think?” He looked surprised. “Tonya does what her Master tells her to. She’s a good girl.” “Why Emilio though? I don’t understand.” And I didn’t. The guy wasn’t worth his weight in dung. “It’s not something you choose, Sandy. When you meet the right master, you’ll know it immediately. You can try to talk yourself out of it, you can fool yourself, but once you meet the One, there’s no turning back.” I had come across this concept on various web pages and found it fascinating. “Is there only One?” Jorge picked up the bottle and took a swig, ignoring the half-full glass on the coffee table beside it. Of course, some would see it as half-empty. “Who knows? Once you’ve found your One, that’s it. If there’s another One, you’ve already stopped looking, so how can anyone know?” “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a very clever man?” “I think I heard that once. I don’t remember where.” It was my turn to laugh. Almost without realizing it, I nipped his ear. He jerked his head away and turned to face me. I could see the anger in his eyes. “Don’t do that!” “Why not?” I was no longer scared of him. At that moment, there wasn’t a man in the world I trusted more. “Because I don’t want to sleep with you.”

I found myself growing angry. “And why is that?” He didn’t answer, but his eyes grew distant, and I immediately felt sorry. Of course he didn’t want to sleep with me. He was already falling for me. Yet I was drunk and horny and this might well be the very last time I would be able to do what I wanted. The thought surprised me. Did I truly want Jorge, or did I just not want another woman to have him? No, that didn’t make sense. Oh what the hell. He’d moved away, and I lunged at him, planting my lips firmly on his. I thought he was going to fight, but he didn’t. His arms were around me, and he was crying and laughing at the same time. I might have been doing the same. We kissed for a long time before his lips finally parted, as if he were finally accepting the inevitable. I don’t know when it became inevitable, but I’d known it would all along. He had complete power over me. I was supposed to obey him. Why wouldn’t he make use of me? Perhaps that was why I did what I did. His restraint was an insult to my femininity. At that realization, I kissed him more passionately than I’d ever kissed a man, devouring him as if he were a condemned woman’s last meal. In retrospect, it wasn’t far from the truth. Any thoughts he had of resistance vanished, and he returned my passion, stroking my tongue with his in a way I’d never before experienced. We were two desperate people in a world of desperate people, taking what pleasure we could for the short time we had the opportunity. Before I knew what was happening, he was unbuttoning my blouse. He had a bit of trouble, until he jerked on the two sides, sending a shower of plastic buttons into the air. I was already in the process of unhooking my bra. In short order, pants and underwear were shed. I was naked first, save for the rubber band around my neck. Jorge joined me a moment later. Our lips had barely separated during the entire process and our tongues continued dancing as if that were their sole destiny. My entire body flushed with excitement. For some reason, I thought of Scott, the last man I’d made love to, though it was a pale thing compared to this carnal coupling. It was the difference between civilized humans making love and savage animals mating. Now that I’d shed the veneer of civilization, I doubted I could ever again return to its embrace.

I screamed when he pushed me away, and screamed again when he dropped his head between my legs and parted my lips with his tongue. From that point on, the screaming never stopped. I clenched my legs around his head, which likely muffled what he heard, though he didn’t need to hear me, for the way I arched my back and writhed against him told the story in far greater detail. His tongue was powerful, lusty, relentless, exploring my body as no man ever had, probing and snaking its way inside me, then sliding back out to engulf my clit. I can’t imagine how many times I came, but he drank everything I gave him and kept licking, sucking and nibbling until I couldn’t take it anymore. My hands clawed at his curly brown hair, attempting to pull his head closer. My throat was raw from screaming. I drew huge lungfuls of air and still couldn’t catch my breath. Finally, I squeezed my legs together as hard as I could, putting literal pressure on him to turn his tongue from its torturous invasion.

A darkly erotic tale of two hearts—one frozen, one lost at sea—and the leather belt that binds them together.

La Ceinture © 2007 Michèle de Lully It’s just a plain, ordinary strap of black leather, but not everything is as it seems. La Ceinture casts an erotic spell over two lonely people—a sailor estranged from the sea and a young woman in a tower of isolation. Bound by the belt, can they find their true desires?

Enjoy the following excerpt for La Ceinture: All that week, she avoided him. No phone calls, no nights at Jackie’s. She told herself that she could not afford to be involved with a man so willing to use force, so perverse and domineering. During the day, this lie served her well, but at night, with her hand between her thighs, the memory of things he had done to her drove her into brittle climaxes that left her aching with emptiness. On Thursday, he came to her, on neutral ground. Just as she was about to leave for the day, he came to her counter, armed with a single rose and a puppy-dog smile. “I’ve missed you.” His simplicity disarmed her, and automatically she retreated into lies. “I’ve been busy.” But he was not there to argue. “Okay.” He laid the rose on her counter. Then he walked away, like it was easy, like everything was normal. She could call him or not, find him at Jackie’s or never return. It was her choice, her decision. There would be no games, no politics, no guilt laid, no duty claimed. He had said what he wanted, given away all his leverage without negotiating, surrendered his power to honesty. In doing so, he had robbed her of any other response than her own honesty. The feeling was unbearable, and in frustration she snatched at the rose. A thorn bit into her, drawing a bead of blood. Instinctively, she put the finger in her mouth, cursing

silently. But as she stood there, the tang of iron, the smell of blood, the red bloom of the rose all rushed at her, and she had a blinding vision of the stem of the flower dragging across her inner thighs, the thorns tearing at her and blood springing out in their tracks. The soft blossom crushed in her hand as she flayed herself and he watched approvingly, accepting her sacrificial offering. The smell of rose and musk. She had to put a hand out to steady herself, her knees almost buckling with sudden weakness. Mumbling excuses to an uninterested colleague, she retreated to the bathroom, and in the privacy of the stall, brought herself to two separate orgasms, the first one barely ending before she had to start again. I’m sick, she thought. He has infected me with his darkness. That got her home, and through the evening. But in her bed, on the edge of sleep, the echoes of truth could finally be heard, and she remembered how he had sought out knowledge of the darkness only after meeting her. In the morning, she resolved to end it with him, finally and completely. She would go to Jackie’s tonight, return his rose on his own ground, and free herself from this strange snare he had cast. Or she had laid. The blame wasn’t as important as escaping while she still could. When it came time to go, however, she left the rose in its vase on her dresser. She did not dare to have it with her, the nightmare erotic visions it induced too dangerous to risk. And again, all her plans were wrecked by his simple honesty, this time in the huge smile that beamed from his face when she came to his table. She fell into the conversation of the group as if she had never left, her brief absence hardly even remarked on. The easy familiarity carried her through the night, all the way into his room and out of her clothes. Only when she was standing naked next to his bed, watching him drop his trousers, did she remember her resolve. Defensively, she stepped away. He hesitated, almost as if he was confused, but the belt buckle was still in his hand. The pants slid off it, curling at his feet, the belt remaining with him instead of joining his clothes on the floor, and his mouth made a sly grin from confidence and lust.

“Still playing hard to get?” He winked and unconsciously slapped the doubled-over belt against the palm of his other hand. “Maybe.” She was too paralyzed by the sight and sound of the leather to think straight. When he came for her, she stepped away again. “Hey.” He flicked the belt out at her, extending his reach to touch her on the belly. She made a tiny squeal at the contact, and hopped onto the bed. “That’s better,” he growled, but when he tried to join her, she scooted across the bed to the other side. Leaning forward, he lashed out with the belt again, and it slapped against her retreating backside. Now she squealed in earnest and stepped off the bed, rubbing the spot. He crouched on the bed, his eyes narrowed, staring her down like a predatory cat. Demurely avoiding his gaze, she was surprised to discover her other hand slipping in front and gently rubbing herself.

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