A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel (20 page)

It was a day never to be repeated. As she had moved on from the shoe shop she would move on from Marsham. Richard would sniff out other girls with the same insatiable hungers. Girls are volcanoes, throbbing with life, and inside them, under terrible pressure, is a bubbling lake of frothing jism, a fount of juicy pleasure that can only be soothed in endless orgasms. It just needed the right master or mistress to come along and release the safety valve. Richard had known her needs from the very beginning. He had pulled back the veil on her hidden yearnings. He had revealed her true nature and nature is destiny.

She wanted to reach for his hand but that would have been out of character. She fought the impulse. She shook her curls and wiggled her bum. She was naked. Her breasts tingled and her tail bounced along as she walked. There was a sheen of sweat coating her flesh and, though the crowds had made her as nervous as the magpies when she had first glanced out from the Gate House, now the men and women enjoying her nudity elicited a pleasant dampness between her legs. Could you go into orgasm just by people looking at you? She thought you probably could.

As they crossed the green they passed stalls selling saddles for ponies and saddles for girls; thigh boots and stiletto heels; restraints, strap-ons and toys; there was a hot dog stand, a coconut shy and her heart skipped a beat every time she heard gunshots ring out from the rifle range. Who in their right mind would want to shoot a little duck, living or made of metal?

She had thought briefly of the shoe shop and it seemed as if her musings had the power to bring her imagination to life as Madame Dubarry turned from a stand selling girl-brasses and stopped them in their tracks. It was hard at first to believe her old boss was there at the fair, but she noticed a twinkle in Richard’s blue eyes and, of course, nothing that happened with Richard ever really surprised her.

Madame Dubarry was wearing a red leather catsuit that clung to her curves and revealed her perky white breasts in front and the pale domes of her bottom behind. She was accompanied by Mrs Maddox, a sugarplum fairy in floating chiffon and the infamous kitten heels. The women trained their eyes on her in silence and at first Greta didn’t notice that standing behind Madame Dubarry, tethered by a lead, was Bella, out of school, out of her clothes and learning the art of discipline. Her skin was china white with a newly minted glow and the neat tuft of her pubic hair appeared like the shaded area in a drawing. They didn’t speak, but she could tell by the look Bella gave her that she was enjoying her summer job.

‘Ladies, good morning,’ Richard said.

‘Good day to you, Master Richard,’ said Mrs Maddox.

‘Magnificent, sir,’ said Mrs Dubarry, her eyes running over Greta as if she were about to commit her to canvas.

‘It took some work, I can tell you,’ Mrs Maddox muttered, and she glanced back at Bella as if to size up her bottom for a good beating.

Mr Maddox must have returned his bag to the cottage and was hurrying through the crowds towards them. He was breathless and took his glasses off to mop his brow with a handkerchief.

‘You’ll kill yourself one of these days, William, dashing about,’ cried Mrs Maddox, the great edifice of her chest heaving with agitation as she spoke.

‘Not at all, dear. I haven’t felt better for 40 years.’

Mrs Maddox’s breasts wobbled to a halt as she traced her husband’s gaze to Greta. He was considering his handicraft, inspecting her chestnut hair, her pretty tail, her green eyes matching the ribbons in her hair.

‘You’ve done a marvellous job, as always, my dear. We’re all very proud of her.’

‘Yes, we are,’ he said.

Mrs Maddox took a sugar cube from her pocket. As she slipped the cube between Greta’s lips, she ran her fingers between the cheeks of her bottom. ‘I do declare she’s wet,’ she said in a stage whisper and Bella fluttered her long eyelashes.

Greta had hated Mrs Maddox after the beating but now she knew it had been for her own good. If life at Marsham was a play, the beating had been the end of the first act. The last act was about to begin.

The women wished Richard luck. He inclined his head in his gentlemanly way and they continued their journey, out of the square to the path that led to the fields.

There were four girls racing that day. They were just ahead of her and, as she watched them climb the hill, the task Richard had set her was suddenly daunting. These girls were at their peak, toned, groomed and formidable, the embodiment of perfection: Simba, the Lion, tall and black with powerful legs and pink ribbons woven through her dreadlocks. The Valkyrie, trotting along beside her Viking master, tassels dancing from her ringed nipples, her blonde mane falling to her bottom. Then there was Amber, the beautiful girl who had impressed her so much when she had seen her in the video; she was even more beautiful in real life.

Greta remembered Gustav’s doubts about her that day when he checked her teeth and Richard must have read her mind. He slowed his pace and drew closer to whisper. ‘You just have to go inside,’ he said and tapped her temple with his finger. ‘All the answers are in there.’

But where are all the questions?

I
T’S NOT EASY
being a pony girl. And it’s not for everyone. You have to become the character, immerse yourself in the part, commit every fibre of your being into the qualities and behaviour the role demands. It is a long climb up a dark stairway and you go a step at a time fighting floods of little doubts as you reach for perfection. Confidence is an invisible suit of clothes laid out at the top of the stairway and once the naked girl slips into the magic suit she can do anything, be anything, perform any role.

Were these thoughts running through her mind as she wandered along behind Richard? Well, sort of. They were thoughts that had occurred to her sporadically through the weeks of her training and she wondered, too, where it was all leading. Today. The big day. Of course. But what then?

What then?

She pushed the thoughts out of her mind. They say in show business it’s not what you’ve done but what you are doing. It’s not what you are going to do, but what you are doing now. She flicked her mane and bobbed her tail. She was impatient to get going but knew there would be another delay when she saw Gustav up ahead, chatting to the Texans, holding court, booming in his big voice.

Richard came to a halt, reticent and boyish as he swept back his hair with his palm. Greta remained respectfully in her place behind him as they pushed out their hands with the aggressive formality men display when they meet. Richard shook them in turn. Gustav studied her briefly before looking back at his brother.

‘Good morning,’ Richard said brightly. ‘Lovely day for it.’

‘Lovely day for lifting wallets,’ Gustav replied, and the Texans laughed.

One of the Texans was extremely tiny, especially for a Texan. He was dressed as a jockey in black silk with shiny boots and a little cap. He had a big grin and bad teeth. ‘Didn’t know you had so much sunshine in this country,’ he said in a squeaky voice.

‘You’d be surprised what we have in this country,’ said Gustav. He turned to Richard and added. ‘May the best man win.’

‘May the best
girl
win,’ Richard replied.

‘I am in no doubt about that,’ said Gustav with a little laugh. He tapped his breast pocket and Greta wasn’t sure whether he was tapping his heart or the wallet he was certain he was in no risk of having lifted.

‘You know, Lord Marsham, we say in Texas, pride comes before a fall.’

Gustav dropped his hands into his pockets and looked down at the short Texan. ‘We say in England, Mr Kane, confidence is what confidence does.’

‘That’s a new one on me,’ said the jockey.

The other Texan, the tall one, said nothing. He had been sizing up Greta as the others spoke, his gaze swivelling up the hill to Simba, his steed. She was loping along, her eyes shifting left and right like a lion in the forest. The Americans had every reason to feel confident. Simba was six-and-a-half feet with broad shoulders and the long stride of a Maasai warrior. She was black as ebony, as the Valkyrie was ivory white, like yin and yang, like piano keys, the girls the same size, toned and determined. Amber, too, was tall, as tall as a tree, her eyes glassy with resolve and self-knowledge.

Poor liddle Pegasus.
She felt her heart pounding in her chest and was suddenly bored with listening. Loud voices made her skittish. She wanted to run, run over the fields, run as far and as fast as she could.

The Viking was wandering back down the hill towards them and joined the men. He shook hands with Richard and the Americans, then lowered his shoulders fractionally as he greeted Gustav. Gustav had the same penetrating blue eyes as Richard but was older by several years and his aura she could now define by the little word
lord
in front of his name. It did strange things to people. It made women curtsy and grown men go weak at the knees. It didn’t affect her. She was playing the pony and nothing more was demanded of her than she play it to the full.

Richard turned and shooed her away.

‘Off you go, Pegasus,’ he said, using her pony name. It was time to get into character.

She trotted up the incline passing the crowds making their away from the green to the grandstand. People who had already taken their seats took note of her gait and made marks on their betting cards. The other girls were ahead of her and the punters had done the same as they cantered by, judging their strengths and weaknesses, their form. It was only for fun but money would change hands that day and everyone wants to be a winner.

Before the big race there was a pony show, fire-eaters and a dancing dwarf with a bear who played the harmonica; perhaps it was the other way round? There were prizes for the most illustrious tattoos and outrageous costumes; there were feats of weight-lifting using clitoral and penal spikes, mud-wrestling and a wet T-shirt contest because even with so many bare breasts on display people want to see more. Breasts are adorable. Addictive. Hypnotic. Greta’s were all tingly and when she gave them a squeeze the people in the crowd put their hands together in a round of applause.

A tent had been erected behind the grandstand and when she trotted through the flap the other girls were limbering up. Simba was down on her haunches stretching one long ebony leg, pumping up the muscles. The Valkyrie was touching her toes, up and down, up and down, taking swift shallow breaths, filling her brain with oxygen. Amber was as still as a statue, palms together above her head as if in prayer to some sky god, graceful and otherworldly.

She’s the one to beat!

As the words ran through Greta’s mind, Amber opened her eyes and they shone through the blinders like coals in a furnace. Greta tried to smile, not easy with the bit between her teeth, but Amber’s eyes pressed shut again and she slipped back into the ether. She’s a
Method
actress, Greta thought: she’s thinking herself into winning.

Four traps made of fibreglass stood glimmering in the shadows, one black, glossy as oiled flesh, the name Simba in white on a narrow plate below the seat. The golden chariot sparkled like champagne, Amber across the back in black. The Valkyrie was spelled out in yellow on scarlet red, the colours of the flames in Valhalla. Finally, the furthest from her, stood the neon green trap with Pegasus glinting in gold between two wheels with shiny silver spokes.

While Greta was doing a few toe presses, the riders ambled in with set jaws and thin lips. All the hand-shaking and bragging had come to an end. This was serious business.

Richard took her hand and led her to the trap. She really would have liked a good hard slap on her bare bottom but her bottom remained firm, perky and unpunished. Richard was in deep thought. Before attaching her to the harness he turned her towards him. He took hold of her hipbones as if they were handles on a lawnmower and stared into her eyes through the blinders.

‘You remember what I said?’

She nodded.

He tapped her temple and she felt panicky. This was important to him. It was more important to Richard than it was to her. He leaned forward, sucked her bottom lip and, when he let go, he was staring into her eyes.

‘Don’t race. Pace yourself,’ he said, and slapped her bottom, a gentle slap but it was better than nothing.

She backed into the ponytrap. He connected the rings on the shafts to her wristbands and the reins to her bridle. She could hear announcements over the speakers, a muffled voice that became clearer as they rolled out of the dark tent into an August sun so bright and blinding it was like a spotlight in the theatre. Gustav was in the lead with Amber; he was Lord Marsham, after all. The Texan named Mr Kane followed, the tiny man bobbing in his seat behind Simba, the lion so big she could have devoured him in one gulp. Greta was ready to go and should have been next, but the Valkyrie nudged her out of the way and the Viking squeezed through the gap.

‘Whoa there,’ said Richard. ‘Take it easy.’

She followed behind and hoped the order in which they left the tent wasn’t an omen.

As the traps rumbled into the midst of the crowd the people came to their feet clapping and cheering. She was so proud to be there, so grateful, and felt sure that in all the world there could have been few sights more charming than four naked girls trotting along the way nature had secretly planned.

To race any other way would have made no sense. Clothes, after all, are merely an option. Girls are at their best naked: nature’s best design shown to best affect. As their legs stretch their bottoms roll like the motions of a clock keeping universal time, their breasts dance this way and that way, free as little birds, their shoulders glide like the wings of angels and their tails flow luxuriously behind them. She was in no doubt that it was a sight once seen would never be forgotten and to be there, to be a part of it, was as humbling as it was exhilarating. To be a pony girl requires obedience and discipline. But most of all, it needs the confidence required to be a great performer.

There was a crowd opposite the grandstand on the freshly laid grass; the grass that she had laboured over. People waved flags and wet T-shirts; the fire-eater breathed out a jet of flame; cameras were flashing, videos whirred. The sun was high and her skin was bathed in a sheen of sweat. The names of the ponies blared from the speakers. She followed the other three traps as they trotted through the cheering ranks, their voices growing in volume with each announcement. They turned in neat circles beyond the grandstand and the people roared with approval as they trotted back again.

Was she surprised to see Dirty Bill standing at the starting line with a starting pistol shoved in the pocket of his yellow waistcoat?

She put the thought out of her mind and concentrated. She was leaning forward, toes on the line, hands tight on the rubber grips, her lungs working like well-oiled bellows as she took deep breaths, in through her nose and out through her open lips. Her breasts juddered with the beat of her heart and she would have given them a squeeze for good luck but her wrists were manacled to the fibreglass trap.

‘Whoa there. Whoa there,’ Richard was saying, his voice like a mantra, calming her, controlling her. He felt as light as a feather in the seat behind her, a mere shadow of the man who had fucked her mercilessly on the floor of his apartment before she had even told him her name. How did he know it was just what she’d always wanted?

No time to ponder. The Valkyrie was beside her, teeth gritted, her blue eyes cold as icecaps. The Viking was standing in his footrests. He was lashing the air with his bullwhip and the people cried for more every time the leather sang out. They were playing to the crowd and the Valkyrie got the biggest roar of approval when she opened her legs wide and hosed out a long stream of golden pee.

A giant egg-timer had been set up at the end of the grandstand and when the last grain of sand fell into the vacuum, Dirty Bill raised the starting pistol above his head and the birds in the trees took flight when he fired in the air.

They were off. Off like the wind and people ran along beside them as the girls jogged along the straight. The course was wide at the starting point and the four traps remained abreast as they started to go down the hill: she had learned not to gather speed on the declines or the trap runs away with itself. A sharp bite from the metal bit in her mouth reminded her to pace herself, save her energies for going up the rise on the other side. The traps ran on bicycle wheels, but brakes were not part of the design.

As they hit the lowest part of the decline the girls gathered speed and the people running with them gave up the chase. The far side of the valley was steeper. The race was on. The Valkyrie ran Pegasus off to one side, the second time she’d done that, and the Viking’s whip stroked the Valkyrie’s back as she began the tough climb upwards beside Simba. Amber was on the far side, farthest from her, and took the incline at a different angle: Gustav knew these hills and knew what he was doing.

Simba and the Valkyrie stayed breast to breast all the way up the hill and, as they reached the crown, they gathered pace on the long meadow leading to the coast road. Greta had taken the hill without difficulty but the two big ponies gained ground on the flat. The Viking loved his bullwhip and she could hear its lashes crackling through the air. Mr Kane was standing in the stirrups and the sound of the lash must have been hypnotic because he joined in, beating Simba’s muscular shoulders until she found an extra spurt and shot ahead.

The Viking wasn’t to be out done. He laid a few punishing stripes across the Valkyrie’s back and when she caught up to Simba, the two drivers got in such a frenzy the lashes from their whips went every which way including each other. It was a scene from
Ben-Hur
, the men standing in their stirrups, legs spread, whipping the ponies, whipping each other, the girls frothing at the mouth as they gathered speed.

The path that led down to the shingle beach was up ahead. There was only room for one trap on that path. The Viking and the Texan were fighting to take the initiative. Their whips flayed the air and as the entry to the path came into view, they turned again on each other. The whips sang out once, twice, three times, then went silent as the leather tongues enwrapped each other in an embrace.

As they tugged them apart, they dragged on the reins, the bits cut into Simba’s cheek on the right, the Valkyrie’s on the left, and the girls were spitting blood until the whips unwound, the steeds running off the hillside to allow Pegasus to slip through the gap first with Amber close behind her.

Richard kept her on a tight rein; she had lots more in her and didn’t know why he was holding her back. Before she had reached the end of the path, the other two were back in pursuit and on the shingle, Amber glided by like a hare racing a tortoise.

‘Easy now. Easy now,’ Richard was saying.

The shingle was biting her feet. Sweat ran off her body. Her jaunty tail and her mane in green ribbons were shiny as silk flying behind her. Her legs felt strong. Her back felt strong. The sea air was an elixir she drew into her lungs. She felt as if inside her there was an egg and from that egg some strange mysterious force was breaking through the shell. She kept her eyes on Gustav’s broad back above the seat of the golden chariot and closed the gap with Amber as they turned towards the stone lighthouse.