The Stallion Read online

  A fleeting self-consciousness made her raise her hand to push back the thickness of her bouncing hair, not quite brown, and not quite black, but as rich in colour as the darkest brandy. Her hands felt cold even though they had been sat in her pockets during their walk.

  She looked at her long fingers. Fine, slim, but very strong when they were inside a riding glove, exercising the most energetic showjumper or three-day eventer. Yet so expert, so exciting when they were caressing the muscles and equipment of a yearning lover, wielding the crop or whip that was so important in the training of either.

  Her blue eyes gleamed as she thought of the member that hand had only lately released. Mark, back there at her own stable yard waiting for her, waiting to see if she would gain what she wanted. He would be petulant, perhaps. If she was successful, he knew he would be losing her. Her time with Mark had been good, but now it was basically over. All the same, she would miss him and that rich, ripe cock that reared so subtly in her hand when she squeezed his balls, or playfully tweaked at the bulbous end and poked her fingernail into the weeping opening. But she had to move on. So far in her life she had not found precisely what she was looking for.

  ‘You’re incorrigible,’ he’d told her. ‘Restless. Nothing’s ever good enough.’

  Was she? That wasn’t the message she was receiving from these volcanic upheavals she was feeling inside. As yet she didn’t fully understand them. She only knew that after today, a day she’d spent sauntering half-naked through a shopping precinct in a large city, she would never be the same again.

  As she watched for Beaumont’s return, Penny shifted her long limbs slightly. Moistness dripped in pearl-like droplets from the dark hair that nestled between her legs. Vaguely, she felt it run like quicksilver down her inner thigh and wished suddenly for a hot tongue to lick it all the way back up to her yawning opening. Once there, the tip of a hot tongue could poke inwards, lick slavishly around the satin pinkness of her vulva before entering and plugging the gap for a brief moment before something more substantial was inserted.

  As she savoured her thoughts, she pivoted slightly on one heel, the soft whiteness of her inner thigh nudging gently against the thick bush of her ticklish pubes.

  A bank clerk ogled her from behind the thickness of his glass screen on which was written FOREIGN EXCHANGE in big green letters. She smiled at him. He blushed and bent his head.

  ‘All done,’ said Alistair at last, sliding his cheque book into the inside pocket of his well-cut tweed jacket. He smiled as he said it. She smiled back. To those around, an ordinary enough passing of pleasantries between two good-looking people. But to her, and, she guessed, to him also, there was an undercurrent of understanding. Instinctively, she knew she had passed the test. His sponsorship was hers, her commitment was his, and her excitement at what was to come overwhelmed both.

  Back at his office – with just the two of them in a room with very high windows and very thick carpets – he became suddenly withdrawn. It was as though he wanted her out of the building as quickly as possible. This was something she did not understand and was not prepared for.

  Slightly peeved by his sudden lack of interest in her, she dressed slowly, turning boldly in front of the full-length windows which stretched from gold and white ceiling to lush, blue carpet. By doing that, she knew she would better catch the light on her breasts and belly.

  But Alistair had picked up a pen, and appeared to be concentrating on the sheaf of papers that came into view once he had opened the brown-leather letter folder on his desk.

  His desk was big and incredibly baroque – the size of a dining table to most people, and a substantial barrier between him and her.

  Only the decorations inlaid in maple and gold leaf within the pattern of the desk testified that he had any interest at all in that process which humans have abandoned themselves to since time immemorial – lovemaking.

  Satyrs with outsize phalli chased blatant nymphs, their buttocks round and presented more for penetration than in fearful flight.

  One nymph, prominently displayed in the centre panel of the huge desk, was accommodating one satyr in her mouth, whilst another she rode, his hands spread like forked twigs over her breasts, nipples gripped vicelike between finger and thumb. Another satyr came from behind, his phallus already half-hidden between the cheeks of her pear-shaped bottom.

  The nymph looked strangely bloated, as though all the fluid that had, and still was, spurting into her was filling her veins, seeping in a frothy mass just beneath her skin.

  Penny was stunned. Not by the leering satyrs and willing nymphs, but by Beaumont not throwing her on that plush, blue carpet and taking what she was only too willing to give.

  She was deeply disappointed but made an enormous effort not to show it. She had been so sure he had wanted her and she had been wet and ready for him.

  Her disappointment stayed with her all the way back down the wide, sweeping staircase and through the green-and-white decor of the enormous reception hall, which was big enough to take a fair-sized orchestra.

  His behaviour had confused her and given her a slight feeling of insecurity. Didn’t he like her body? She couldn’t believe that. Her body was good, perhaps even beautiful. Men had told her that – many men. And what was the purpose of making her walk through the streets like that? It must have aroused him; in fact, she was sure it had. His eyes betrayed his desire even though she detected no evidence of an erection behind the sharp-cut fly of his trousers.

  Of course, she could have made the first move, yet somehow she had instinctively known it would not have been welcomed.

  Never mind, she told herself as she swept out of the wide front door and between the Palladian columns, white yet sparkling slightly pink in the late autumn sun, time is on my side. I’ll be back, and I’ll be successful.

  Now the wager seemed even more attractive than it had been. Now it wasn’t just a case of acquiring Ariadne’s prize stallion; it was also a case of massaging her own damaged ego.

  On the drive home, she wound the window down. Her face was pink and her mouth dry as she fought to control the mix of arousal and confusion resulting from her experience with Alistair Beaumont.

  She could have pulled over in a lay-by or some grassy incline on the way home, whipped off her knickers and brought off an orgasm all by herself, but she didn’t. She needed a man, and Mark was back at her own stables.

  The pent-up desire, the aching need, would be all the more exhilarating, all the more spurring to their mutual satisfaction. And anyway, she did have something to celebrate.

  2

  ‘YOU HAD TO do what?’ Mark was incredulous; and, although aroused by her statement, more than a little jealous.

  She avoided looking at him. She hated it when he was jealous, but no matter what rules had been laid down at the beginning of their relationship, this was the one emotion he did have difficulty dealing with.

  Mark tried not to show possessiveness, tried not to let his own masculine needs dominate hers. But he was a failure at it. That was why, at times, she just had to lay down the law, remind him that he didn’t own her, would never own her, and that she still had a great many things left to do in her life.

  However, so far she’d mentioned nothing about her wager with Ariadne and the stallion. That, she decided, would only complicate matters. Why should she give him a false impression that her entry into that very exclusive establishment was purely to acquire the stallion?

  She smiled to herself, ran her hands through her hair and openly admired her tawny reflection in the full-length bedroom mirror. She raised her arms, piling her long dark hair up on to her head. Her nipples pouted round and dark towards the mirror and her breasts lifted as if inviting willing hands to feel their softness and test their firmness.

  Tonight she needed a man. Through half-closed eyes, she looked sidelong over her shoulder and took in the effect her confession had had on Mark. Her eyes dropped to the fruitful response which was already pressing ag
ainst the crotch of his jodhpurs. Too much pressure, she supposed, smiling with satisfaction as Mark unzipped.

  ‘You heard me,’ she repeated in her most alluring voice, knowing that its sound and what it was saying would make him want her; make his prick swell painfully against the hard steel of his zip. ‘I walked to the bank with him, clad in little more than my coat. It was arousing,’ she said, lowering her voice until it was little more than a soft purr and as smooth and dark as her hair.

  Lips parted and an incredulous look in his eyes, Mark got up from where he’d been sitting on the pine-ended double bed they’d often shared. He pulled his trousers off. He stood naked, hard, his skin bronzed and hairless, each muscle standing in divisive relief from its brother.

  With unbridled longing, his hot lips nuzzled against the concave space between her neck and shoulder. His blond hair, usually tied back with a thong of black leather, fell forward so its ends brushed lightly across her breast. ‘I heard you.’

  The sweetness of apple shampoo mixed with fresh sweat in his hair filled her nostrils and loins with desire.

  Eyes closed and mouth open, her hips began to move in a slow rhythm, swaying back and forth and from side to side, her buttocks sliding against his rising hardness and the crispness of his pubic curls.

  His chest was warm and firm against her shoulder-blades. The slight roughness of his hands caressed her skin as they travelled round her body and cupped her breasts. His lips suckled at her shoulder.

  In the mirror she could see his eyes sliding down over the reflection of her body. He would not resist her, not like Alistair Beaumont.

  Remembering Beaumont made her want to frown, but she controlled the need to do that. Being reminded of failure was not welcome. Penny, like Ariadne, didn’t like failure. It haunted her dreams and threatened her own confidence.

  Tonight, she decided, she would rage with desire, devour Mark as he had never been devoured before; and he would have her in every way he could have her. She was resolute about that, very resolute.

  Purring with desire, her eyes too travelled over her own body. She enjoyed the view, loving the unison between sight and senses as her hips undulated in gentle waves. In response to both, she parted her legs slightly, and her nipples rose, blushing with the dark-pink heat of deep-seated need.

  I look good, she told herself, and her smile was more for her reflection than for him. I look really good, she repeated in her mind. Her eyes saw what men saw: lean ribs and waist-line dividing neat, round breasts from slim hips. A nest of hair, dark as midnight, bridged the top of her thighs like a thick wedge of soft moss that entices touch.

  With a whispering progress, his hands slid from her breasts to her stomach, then arrowed in a deep ‘V’. She sighed with pleasure as his fingers tangled in the satin softness of her pubic hair and dipped tentatively into the rising pool of fluid.

  Very gradually, a plush pinkness of velvet peered from amid the cluster of hair. She groaned and opened her legs a little more, tilting her hips so both he and she could see her clitoris swell like the head of a tiny flower.

  ‘I want you,’ he murmured, his words drowned in the rapidity of his own breathing.

  ‘I want you to want me,’ she breathed back at him. ‘I want you to want me so much, you beg me to touch you, to suck you, to take you in.’

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ he stuttered, hearing her, but apprehension stunting his words and making his penis swell more and batter against the base of her spine.

  ‘Don’t you think my little bud is pretty?’ she asked him, toying with his thickening cock as it continued to beat its own tattoo against her firm behind. She tilted her hips some more, then put one foot up on a pink cushioned stool so he could see everything.

  ‘Very pretty,’ he murmured. ‘Incredibly pretty.’

  As if in a bid to capture the shy creature that blossomed so secretively, his finger ran through the mass of dark hair, then touched the rising tip of pinkness. It responded, twitching slightly. He withdrew, only to alight again with all the softness of a landing butterfly or a wandering moth.

  She gasped her pleasure as one finger travelled along her welcoming slit, his other fingers rolling back the hot flesh of her labia. Each petal of her sex was outlined, its moist wetness drowning the progress of his finger before he buried it in her opening furrow.

  Her muscles clenched against it, trapping it within her, drawing it further in.

  Behind her, his breathing increased as her buttocks pressed back against him. With wicked determination, she rubbed them against his probing weapon; hot, pulsating as it fleetingly explored the cleft in her buttocks from its beginning at the base of her spine to its wider point near her anus and the sparse hairs along her perineum. Upwards through the division in her bottom; downwards, through her cleft; then upwards again in dizzying succession.

  No longer able to contain her delight and her ardour, she turned to face him. Her pubic mound began to beat a slow rhythm against his velvet-sheathed hardness as her hips moved backwards and forwards.

  ‘Was it that delicious?’ he asked between strangled breaths. ‘Walking through a crowded street with your pretty little bosoms bouncing around loose in your coat and no knickers?’

  ‘And the breeze in my hair,’ she mused, smiling mischievously up at him. ‘My pubic hair!’

  In obvious response, his fingers tangled in her pubic hair.

  Although his white teeth flashed in a smile, she knew there was something else he wanted to ask.

  She offered no relief to the curiosity he was obviously feeling. Withholding such information gave her a feeling of power. He was holding her, pressing his body tight against hers, and all the time wanting to know every detail of her interview with Alistair Beaumont.

  Gradually she sank downwards, arms and hands held high above her before she ran them from his shoulders and down over his chest.

  At last, her face was level with his pride and joy. How strong it looked, how richly purple the velvet-soft flesh; how vibrant and full of the force of life. The staff of life, she mused, the giver of all good things.

  It pulsated with metronome perfection, its tip lightly touching her cheek, her nose, then her lips.

  ‘So soft,’ she cooed. ‘So strong, yet so soft.’

  As if in response to her soothing words, his cock-head glistened with the first pearl drop of sexual secretion. Tentatively, her tongue flicked, once, then twice, and the drop was gone, salty sweet on the tip of her tongue. His penis reared each time.

  Both hands travelled over the sculpted perfection of his firm thighs – the sort of muscles that are so well formed and very hard in a man that rides horses for a living.

  She could smell the warmth there, her breath disturbing the crisp hair that circled his cock and covered his balls in a sweet, dewy down so that it tickled her chin, her nose, her mouth, as her tongue licked tantalisingly over his cock. Above her, he moaned.

  As one hand fondled the peachy softness that hung like ripe fruit between his legs, the other grasped the rising stem. It reared with delight as her fingers wrapped protectively around it. How hot it was. How soft, how strong!

  For a moment her eyes marvelled at the contours of veins, ducts and arteries beneath the blushing purple redness. Then her mouth kissed its head, her tongue probing the opening and taking more of the salty pearl drops. Then her lips divided and sucked the first juice of his erection.

  Up and down her head moved in constant rhythm, her lips sliding downwards, retreating, opening slightly wider before travelling back towards the base. As her head moved, so did her hands. One curved around the engorged muscle, her fingertips resting on the duct that would carry his release. Her other hand gently stroked the hanging testicles, tracing the outer softness and probing the inner hardness.

  Sucking, kissing, she felt as if she wanted to eat it yet, at the same time, her own needs were rising; her own wetness was forming around the quivering centre of her sex.

  Mark tangled his finge
rs in her hair and began to move her head up and down his shaft to suit himself. When his hand released her, she kissed the rearing head one more time before she got to her feet and followed him to the blue-and-white-striped chaise-longue.

  He lay back on it, his legs dropping to the ground on either side. His shoulders filled the width of the seat. At the narrowest point of his body, his penis stood to attention, strong, proud and ready for action. Briefly, he stroked it.

  As she studied his erection, her own hands busied themselves. One slid between her legs, anxiously rubbing at her demanding clitoris. The other rubbed at her breasts, gently manipulating first one nipple, then the other between one finger and her thumb. It was nice, but not enough. She knew what she wanted and, from familiarity, knew he did, too.

  Even before the words were out, she guessed what he was going to say.

  ‘I’m ready,’ he said. ‘Ride me.’

  She smiled, her eyes bright and wide as she took in the beauty of the firm mount that awaited her. His dick was stiff and upright, standing proud from the prostrate body to which it belonged.

  Just as if she were mounting a horse, she swung her leg across him. For a moment she paused, suspended above him, the head of his throbbing cock just reaching her and its tip touching lightly against her humid portal.

  With one hand, she reached beneath her. Lightly, her fingers stroked the crown of his penis. How strong it was, how full of power standing so proud from its forest of pubic hair. It was hot, hard and full of blood and jerked appreciatively with each touch, each light caress. Pleasure purred from her throat as she rubbed it back and forth along the length of her dividing lips. They were wet and slippery with secretions that would coat his member like a silver sheath.

  The friction of its journey from clitoris to vulva increased her breathing. She closed her eyes, relishing the experience of being over and above this man, and using his own body to satisfy her desires.