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.
‘Easy now. Easy now,’ Richard kept saying.
He had faith in her. She had to maintain faith in him. The equilibrium he had needed to guide her and allow her to become all she could be without frightening her away was as finely balanced as a watch-spring. It is something primitive, primordial, intuitive, like a gift for line or an ear for music. She had thought of herself once as a musical instrument. Richard had played her like a virtuoso on a Stradivarius.
She was the best she could be. But was it good enough?
Amber was gaining ground on her again and Simba was already snapping at her heels. She tore through the gate between the brambles and almost immediately Simba eased by on the hill that led to the knoll of trees above the amphitheatre. The Valkyrie drew alongside and she could see the pink weals etched on her white back.
Is that what she needed, a good beating?
She imagined the taste of leather on her soft flesh and kept pace with the Valkyrie all the way up the hill. The Viking drove the red chariot straight into the trees behind the jockey, behind Lord Marsham. Richard peeled off to the left and, like a yachtsman tacking into the wind, leaned out at an angle as the right wheel on the trap left the ground. They curved precariously around the crest of the hill, the trap teetering on the edge of calamity, and emerged ahead of the pack as they plunged down the meadow where she had fought and defeated the billy goat.
Pegasus reached the bowl of the amphitheatre first and on the steep climb up to the row of big oaks, Simba and the Valkyrie pulled ahead again, sweat pouring off them like mini-monsoons, their riders thrashing at their bottoms, the sound like hands clapping as one whip followed immediately after the other.
She had ridden Thunder up this hill many times and the chestnut pony always kept pace with the mare as if her very life had depended on it. She gritted her teeth and did the same. She made her legs into pistons. The stitches like a snake in her gut uncoiled and the green chariot behind her suddenly felt lighter as she stayed right behind the two leaders all the way up the hill.
‘Steady now. Steady now.’
They charged through the trees. She caught her first glimpse of Marsham Hall, the white columns sparkling, the long narrow windows mirrors of midday sunshine. They were half way. Amber glided by her and she was last again as they raced down the long meadow.
She ran through cowpats that splattered her legs, through shallow pools churned up from the leading traps and felt refreshed as the mud rained over her body, her thighs, her breasts, her cheeks.
Simba and the Valkyrie were neck and neck. Richard had driven her on a curving angle over flat grassland and she had a good view of the stretch of rutted land ahead of them. The little Texan was sitting back, hanging on to the reins. Simba was leaping like a panther over the gullies, but suddenly the wheels on the black trap hit a high ridge and Mr Kane went flying through the air. Like a riderless horse in a race, Simba ran on, but then wheeled round and went back for her jockey.
The Valkyrie galloped ahead, the Viking’s long blonde hair dancing behind him. Amber stayed close and, as they went through the gate leading to the courtyard, Pegasus curled in behind the other two. A group of people was on the steps at Marsham Hall and they shouted their encouragement as the traps skirted the house and raced to the narrow track that led back to the village.
With its mature trees and overhanging branches, the track was a passage between two worlds, one slick and glossy, the other ripe with the smell of flesh and leather, and the people who lived in that slick modern world would never be aware that the other world existed. Sweat poured down her back and into her bottom. Her breasts bounced, beating time. The foliage slapped her cheeks and the ground underfoot was slippery with old leaves. She could see cars racing by on the country road, all going far too fast for anyone to glimpse the other world, the unforgettable site of three naked girls harnessed to ponytraps running through the undergrowth like fawns in a tapestry.
The trees thinned out as the track turned towards Marsham. The Valkyrie had pulled ahead in the tunnel, but as they left the shade of the trees, she seemed to lose her balance on the curve and Amber drew level, the two sets of wheels almost touching before the golden chariot slipped ahead.
Pegasus felt the reins rise and fall with a slap on her back. She took a firm grip on the shafts, took swift intakes of breath through her teeth, and as she raced by the Valkyrie on the next curve she could see the girl was spent, her face distorted with the effort. The Viking was standing, lashing the air with his whip, but the Valkyrie dropped further back.
They reached The Black Sheep and the magpies on the roof let out a screech as they took flight. Men quaffing beer drained their glasses and ran with the pony girls as they crossed the green, turned into the farm and chased up the hill. Amber was pulling further ahead. The green trap felt heavier now and she understood why Richard had starved himself. He had done this for her, just as she was doing this for him.
The grandstand came into view at the brow of the hill. She could see the pennants waving. Hear the cry of the crowd. She felt the reins on her back, the bite of the bit between her teeth. Gustav was lashing his pony, the sound of leather scolding the still air, but Amber maintained the same pace like a mill turn
ing with the flow of water or the breath of the wind.
The speakers were screaming. Amber Pegasus, Amber Pegasus. The Valkyrie’s crossing the green with Simba closing the gap. But it’s Amber from Pegasus. Amber from Pegasus.
She could see Dirty Bill in his yellow waistcoat, a stopwatch in his hand. The people were pressing forward, narrowing the space into a funnel that drew them towards the finishing line.
And it’s Amber from Pegasus.
She drew level with Gustav and saw the look of astonishment in his blue eyes. He stood in the stirrups and Amber’s faultless features twisted in pain as the whiplash uncoiled across her rump.
It was unbelievable. Mr Maddox had told her she would defy gravity that day and his words ran through her mind as her feet left the ground. I have thunderbolts in my veins. I will make my Zeus proud of me. I can fly.
Chapter Nineteen – Duende
IT CAME AS NO surprise that Dirty Bill was Lord Longman, the environmental spokesman in the House of Lords. Count Ruspoli was Count Ruspoli; Greta knew the legend and had left her mark on its foundations.
Henrietta Maddox had discovered as matron at a well-known school that girls reach a state of grace when their bottoms are properly disciplined and had brought her zeal to Marsham. Tom and Alex had grown up in the village. Both had travelled, followed other paths, new callings, but what work could be more rewarding than life on the farm with Lord Marsham?
Greta wasn’t keen on all this lord business, but did approve of tradition. Some hazy daguerreotype photographs of girls in harness dating from 1840 show Marsham Hall in all its splendour and in the main salon, eight etchings from 1723 show girls in activities in which she had become familiar, sweeping out the stable, milking goats, riding bareback, being strapped to a whipping stool for a spanking, the girls naked, naturally, the prints in superb condition. While the rest of the world was becoming bland and predictable, Gustav and Richard were loyal to the customs of their forefathers. Their mother had been an opera singer with a love of Mahler and Wagner, thus their names, but it was their father who had prevailed in their education.
Greta was pleased to see Bella getting a head-start for the following year’s event and thought of the girl as her protégé. Greta was now a member of a special club and felt honoured to introduce others to their world. Tara Scott-Wallace was another candidate for discipline and Gustav planned to initiate her into the game now that she had finished her degree. After all that hard work a girl needs a gap year and what better way to spend it than naked in the country pulling a pony trap?
It was nice being a winner, of course, but when you win something, you lose something, too. She would lose Richard’s guiding hand, the bite of the bit in her cheek, the reins on her bare shoulders, that uninhibited acceptance of everything. The discipline she would require in her career would have to come from within. There would be no safety nets, no chastisement, no spankings, except for pleasure. She was herself again, but more so, more self-confident, the complete Greta May.
She was dressed in green silk with emerald earrings, Jimmy Choo shoes and the little Cartier wristwatch she had lost in Soho and Richard had been looking after for her since her arrival in Marsham. She had grown to love the village and that night it had never looked prettier. Wooden boards had been laid over the green and strings of pink lanterns hung from the trees. She danced in Richard’s arms. She danced with Dirty Bill, as she would always think of him. She danced with Count Ruspoli and he told her that she had awoken something in him that day in the marble bath and he had since given up his vow of celibacy. That made her feel proud.
Greta was momentarily disappointed that Jason Wise wasn’t present, if only to gloat, but he had only ever played a minor role in her training and it was Tyler Copic standing with Richard at the edge of the square considering her thoughtfully as she glided towards him.
It was straight to business. Very American. He was casting Blood Wedding, the Lorca play he had talked about that night in Jasmine’s. They had signed a big name for Leonardo. He wanted her to read for the part of the Bride. ‘The bridegroom is a glass of clear water but the muddy river of the Bride’s past flows through her veins,’ he said, and it sounded like a review, like a calling to something inside her. It was the role Greta had longed for without knowing it. She was whisked off to London next day and the following week was in rehearsals.
It was a new interpretation of the play, the work Federico Garcia Lorca would have written without the strict censorship prevailing in 1932. Set below the fiery furnace of the Andalusian sun, through long days of rural tedium, it is the story of the Bride’s irrepressible desires and secret passions. When she bolts with her first love Leonardo on her wedding day, the guests track down the lovers and kill them. Why would people do such a thing? Because they ran off? No: because they were caught in flagrante. They were caught fucking in the forest and that’s what Greta May brought to the stage, that commitment, that passion.
Every night and two matinees at the Almeida, Leonardo stripped her white wedding clothes from her damp body and they performed with such ardour the play was a sell-out and moved to the West End. Other stars, bigger stars, queued up to join the cast as Leonardo but it was the name Greta May that topped the bill in tall letters that glimmered in lights over Shaftesbury Avenue. It made her heart skip every time she saw it.
It was live sex on stage that made Greta May a sensation. Many came to hear her joyous screams as the pink gash of her wet pussy is finally gratified, but they left the theatre in their hordes with moist eyes and moist parts and the knowledge that what they were witnessing was the birth of a true talent. Shooting around her theatre commitments during the 18 months that the play ran in the West End, she did two low-budget English films. The first bombed. The second, a horror spoof called Zombie Queen, went mega in America and Hollywood came calling.
Greta often thought about the cameras constantly turning while she was in training on the farm. Three years later, Marsham Hall was burgled and the film came to light. Still pictures of her as a pony girl appeared in the press and someone made a fortune flogging video cuts on the internet. The controversial new standards of public behaviour laws in America resulted in two lucrative contracts in Hollywood being withdrawn, but Greta’s name shot to the top of the A list in Europe. She won best actress at Cannes for her role in Stolen, the story of a slave girl’s escape from people smugglers, and returned to the London stage to take the lead in the courageous new version of Shakespeare’s Macbeth by the same writer behind Zombie Queen.
Tara had lap-danced her way through her finals at the LSE and left with a first. The girls moved to a new flat in NoHo where they installed the largest jacuzzi they could find and employed an understanding char to take care of the ice cream sheets.
When her busy schedule permits, Greta wanders through Camden Market on a Sunday morning in the hope of catching a glimpse of Richard and Gustav taking new girls through their paces. What is it about Camden that makes you want to take your clothes off?
Life as an actress is demanding, but Greta makes sure she always has a few days off at the August bank holiday to attend the pony races. Richard had told her once that one day she would demand to be naked. He was right, of course. She wears a mask now she’s a celebrity, but that feeling of freedom when she steps naked into the crowd at Marsham reminds her what it is like to be completely alive.
Greta was never quite sure how she had managed to win the race against the odds that day, but as she worked at her profession she came to see that to be a great artist – painter, writer, musician, flamenco singer, actress, pony girl, to be great is to find something inside that can’t be seen or described. It is a subtle, mysterious power: the power to cut the strings of our earthbound existence and defy gravity. Lorca called it duende. Greta May has duende.
THE END
Xcite Books help make loving better with a wide range of erotic books, eBooks, adult products and dating sites.
www.xcitebooks.com
Sign-up to our Facebook page for special offers and free gifts
A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel Page 22
