The Filly

by Paul Moore

  “Morgan Mayfield, girl detective.” He opened the door and waved her in.

  “Hardly,” she said, looking around the room to make sure they were alone. As she scanned the room she was looking for clues to his character as well. It was as impersonal as motel rooms always are, a chenille bedspread meant to invoke hominess, a seascape that was too ugly to steal hanging over the bed, and a TV remote bolted to the night stand. He had no personal items in evidence, not so much as a pair of socks on the floor or an open laptop on the desk. He was either obsessively neat or being careful.

  “There are three motels in town. You wouldn’t be sharing your bed with the rats and roaches over at The Stardust. Anyway, the desk clerk here went to school with me.”

  He laughed . “There are no secrets in a small town.”

  “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about,” she said. Back at the coffee shop, she had only agreed to ‘think about it’, and thinking had brought more questions, about Brian, his employer, and herself.

  “Drink?”

  She hesitated. Alcohol was usually not a problem for her, but she wanted to think clearly. On the other hand, frank discussion could use an ice breaker.

  She refused to dwell on the other aspect, that sharing a drink was generally the first step to seduction. She had never really examined her feelings about sex, avoiding the giggling locker room conversations of her classmates, and indulging the demands of a few close boyfriends with a curious lack of passion on her own part. Had it been perhaps a little too easy to fend off passes from the bar patrons? Was she in danger of becoming one of those bitter old maids who sacrifice their youth on the altar of ‘duty’ to disguise a secret frigidity?

  “Scotch on the rocks?” she asked. “It would be nice to have some one else pouring for a change.”

  He opened the tiny fridge and rummaged through his selection of little motel bottles. She smirked at it, thinking that ‘talent scouts’ logged a lot of frequent flier miles.

  “I need to be assured that I can come home and resume the life I have when all of this nonsense is over. I have to know that I will dare to show my face in this town again,” she said as he opened and poured.

  He handed her a drink that was a bit stiffer than she would have made for herself. “We are always discreet,” he said. “What you tell your friends and family is your own affair. A bogus trip to Europe is the cover story for some competitors; I can even round up postcards for you to send home—suitably postmarked of course. Seriously, there are ladies who compete season after season and maintain their private lives. It’s sort of like being a super hero. Your secret identity is safe.”

  “Stop romanticizing it,” she groaned, seating herself gingerly on the bed. “I’m still thinking of this as one step down from pole dancing.”

  She was also thinking, not for the first time, that she was playing out of her league. People with enough money and power to hire a silver medalist to jet around the country recruiting girls for dubious sporting competitions, and dummy up a cover story for their absence, might be capable of darker acts.

  She had been expecting him to use one of the chairs on the other side of the room, and shifted uncomfortably when he sat beside her on the bed. Had she telegraphed her availability somehow, or was he just assuming it?

  “Then why consider it at all?”

  “Money,” she sounded disgusted with herself, “Everything always seems to come down to money—and sex.”

  “And that is bad because...?”

  She punched his shoulder gently. “I’m trying to work up some self pity here, and you’re playing devil’s advocate.”

  “Many happy marriages start out being just about sex or money,” he reminded her. “What you have to decide is whether or not the sacrifice is worth the payoff.”

  He moved toward her then, not the sort of awkward lunge she had come to expect from drunken mill hands. He just leaned into her space subtly and dropped his hand on the bed beside hers.

  “Look, I know what it is to dream big and have it all disappear suddenly. Maybe the question you need to be asking yourself is if you will really want to come back here at all. You might find that this is exactly the sort of new beginning you need.”

  The truth was that she had already considered those very possibilities. The lifestyle he had outlined would demand much of her, including overcoming a stubborn prudishness that had somehow survived the loss of her virginity. Yet it also offered the enticements of minor celebrity and financial reward, certainly adventure, and she was curious.

  She took his hand and squeezed it shyly. Her other hand trembled a bit as she lifted her glass and drained it.

  Born again virgin she thought.

  “I want you to know that I don’t make a habit of visiting strange men in motel rooms,” she said, then regretted using such a corny line. She had rehearsed this scene in her mind, first as an unlikely fantasy, then as a necessary step. Changing one’s life begins with a change of attitude and behavior. She didn’t need to prove anything to Brian, only to herself. In her imagination, this had played more like seduction and less like capitulation.

  He took the hand that was holding hers and raised it to her face, brushing his fingertips lightly against her cheek. “I know that.”

  Of course he does. Is there a fat file on me somewhere, a psychological profile? Has he studied my weaknesses as well as my strengths?

  Did it even matter, in the end? Her mind was already made up, even about him. So when he leaned in for the kiss, her mouth opened to welcome his inquiring tongue, and she only turned her head aside so that he could find the hollow of her neck behind the ear. She didn’t look at him as he broke off the kiss long enough to pull her tee shirt over her head and cast it aside. She hadn’t worn a bra. She seldom needed one, and wanted to minimize awkward fumbling.

  “Disappointed?” she asked.

  His hands had been cradling her face during their kiss, and remained hovering near her shoulders. Now they stroked across her collar bones and down.

  “Not at all. You really are quite beautiful.”

  Her first impulse was to remind him that he had been with super models, and had doubtless seen better, but she didn’t want to spoil this moment. It was nice to let herself believe, just for this one night, that he cared only for her, that his affection was no mere ploy.

  His fingertips slid reverently over her breasts and paused to tweak her nipples gently before moving on. The sensation of his cool hands deflected her from bitter self awareness. She had come here bathed and perfumed, with every intention of giving herself, but this was more of a reawakening than she had anticipated.

  Oh yeah! This is what I have been missing. I had forgotten!

  “I’m not expecting anything from this,” she sighed.

  His mouth followed the path of his hands, into the hollow of her throat and down. He began to suckle her breasts softly.

  “I mean, this isn’t a bargaining chip, and God knows I don’t expect you to fall in love with me. Sooner or later the phone will be ringing and mister big will be telling you to buy a plane ticket for...”

  He took his mouth off of her breast long enough to finish for her. “Akron.”

  She shrugged at that, looking down at him, thinking how sad and lonely his job must be.

  “It’s just that life has been kind of cold lately and we both need someone to warm us,” she said. “It’s nothing more than that.”

  His teeth found her nipple and made her gasp as he took her hair in his fist and raised her face up for the kiss that he was about to take from her.

  “Stop thinking,” he growled as he unbuttoned the front of her jeans. “We’re fucking now.”

  She grinned up at the ceiling fan slowly turning above the bed. His hand in her hair wasn’t painful, only restricting. He snarled like a puppy with a knotted rope in his teeth, but his gruff command was the permission she needed to lose herself in the role of whore.

  As his mouth smothered h
ers, she could feel his hands curling over the waistband of her jeans, gathering jeans and panties together and pulling them down. She raised her hips to make it easier for him, kicking out of her shoes and hooking at her socks with her big toes.

  He drew back and regarded her steadily, and she had a moment to consider the fact that she had just allowed herself to be stripped, in a matter of moments, by a man who was still dressed. The difference made her feel unusually vulnerable, and she realized that this was something she would need to become accustomed to soon, not just being naked, but becoming no more than a sexual object on display.

  “Okay, big boy.” She hoped that her voice was a husky purr. “I showed you mine.”

  He was too fit and youthful to be shy. He grinned at her as his shirt came off, revealing the lean, defined body of a trained athlete, still tan in October. He did a little strip tease with his trousers, lowering them slowly over his swaying hips while she murmured catcalls.

  “Come on big guy! Show the nice lady what you’ve got!”

  She hadn’t seen very many of them, and was hardly an expert, but it made her catch her breath just a little. She reached out tentatively and cradled his cock in the palm of her hand, feeling its weight and curling her fingers a bit to measure the girth. It twitched in response, and grew even more as he bent over her to bury his face in her hair. She raised her face for another kiss and murmured.

  “Be gentle.”

  She was fooling only herself. He had already seen the heat in her eyes when his hand found her hair, and when he pushed her backward onto the bed her legs were already opening to invite him. The fingers that explored her came away damp and she arched herself to meet his first slow drive.

  She almost resisted him then, feeling a sudden thrill of doubt, fearing that she was too narrow to take him. Her body was wiser. She had denied herself too long, and even the initial pain was delicious.

  He stared down into her eyes, reading her hesitancy and overcoming it by planting a gentle kiss on her forehead. She wanted to tell him that she was just being prim, and he shouldn’t be discouraged by her prudishness, that it was merely a stubborn obstacle she was determined to overcome. Words failed her, but her legs came up and she put her heels into the small of his back to hold him fast while she willed her body to relax and accept him.

  Stop thinking!

  He began to thrust, slowly at first, then faster and deeper as she became slick inside and began rising to his rhythm.

  As she came, Brian rolled over onto his side, still joined, taking her with him. He reached across her back and trailed a finger slowly down the cleft of her ass and forward to tickle her engorged lips, but only long enough to gather moisture from them.

  Then his hand became more deliberate and urgent, gliding back until the slick finger found her anus and curled up and in, like a hook. Her eyes grew wide with sudden premonition as she spasmed on him, feeling him stiffen, if that were possible, even more. He wasn’t finished yet. He only paused a moment to let her catch her breath before he began thrusting again, more energetically now, and she knew from the look in his eyes that from here on this was going to be hard and deep and sustained. His obligation to her was taken care of, at least for now, and it was his turn to be satisfied. He grinned down at her, that maddening, ingratiating grin that was such a contrast to the sudden mean delight in his tone. The finger that remained planted deep in her ass wiggled a bit to remind her that it was still there.

  “That’s where the tail will go.”

  Chapter Three

  Fate sometimes curses people with ironic surnames. Morgan once knew a dwarf named Tallman, and a fat girl named Slimmer.

  Mr. Frisk stood up to greet her when she entered the room, but he did it slowly, with the assistance of a pair of aluminum canes. As he shook her hand, one of the canes dangled from a nylon strap buckled to his wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong, apparently his infirmity only affected his legs.

  Morgan smiled at him tightly, suppressing her first impulse to commiserate or question. It wouldn’t do to begin the interview by embarrassing him or opening old wounds. He motioned her into a chair, and waited until she was seated before he lowered himself back into his own, sparing her the dilemma of standing idly by while he struggled. He looked up at the secretary who had entered behind Morgan to present her.

  “I could use another cup of coffee, if you would.” He looked at Morgan. “Ms. Mayfield?”

  She was going to decline but realized that having something in her hand might keep her from fidgeting. “Black for me, thanks.”

  His presence was intimidating. Size and age were only a part of it. He had the thousand yard stare of ex military or law enforcement, the bearing of a man comfortable with wealth and power.

  The music didn’t help. It was piped in from discreet speakers overhead, something soothing and classical she couldn’t identify. Mr. Frisk would know it though, the number of the symphony and the name of the composer. It wasn’t the sort of ubiquitous muzak she had come to expect in public spaces. He had selected it personally, or it had been mixed for him by someone who understood his tastes. Everything about this place; the massive arch above the street entrance, the condescending smirk on the doorman’s face, the stainless steel and mahogany elevator that swept her up and up—all were signs that this was not a world where she belonged. This center of wealth and culture was no place for an ignorant small town girl. She felt as though she were a trespasser and a fraud, who would be exposed as unworthy and ejected at any moment.

  “I understand that you arrive burdened with a bit of reluctance.” His strong baritone came from somewhere below the Mason Dixon Line. Over a telephone it would provide no clue to his frailty. She was painfully aware that the effort of rising from his chair had cost him. This gesture of simple courtesy, long forgotten by younger generations, had left a sheen of sweat on his pale brow.

  “I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for my brother.” She tried to keep any trace of bitterness out of her voice. This was only a business transaction, not a hostage negotiation. She had already rejected charity. What other choices did she have?

  Back at the motel, Brian hadn’t put it to her that way, not at all. He had spoken of other things, a lifestyle simple and pure, the joy of competition and striving for perfection, of being well rewarded for doing something she enjoyed.

  “How is your brother?” asked Mr. Frisk. His concern seemed genuine enough, though she was sure that he already knew the answer to that question. She had barely finished her long distance conversation with Robby when the phone rang again. It had been a crisp, businesslike female voice, confirming Morgan’s seat assignment on a weekend flight that she had never reserved. A promise had been kept. Payment was due.

  “The word miracle may be too strong,” she allowed herself a tight smile. “But it appears that Robby is on his way to a complete recovery.”

  “I’m glad that we could be of assistance.” Looking into his eyes, she could see that Mr. Frisk actually was pleased, and not just because Morgan was now obligated to him.

  She saw something else too, the trace of regret that his own condition was beyond help. He acknowledged her insight with a sad smile and a shrug.

  “I have my diversions,” he said, addressing her unspoken question. “The races allow me a bit of vicarious enjoyment.” He dismissed the subject by clearing his throat.

  The secretary came in, smiling apologetically at the necessity of interruption as she served coffee from a silver tray. Morgan noticed that she was young and attractive, and wondered if she was just one more ornament in an office filled with fine art objects and mementoes gathered from far away places. Mr. Frisk was a collector, Morgan realized, a man with an aesthetic mind in a twisted body, surrounding himself with beauty.

  “To business then. Your brother’s trip to the clinic was in the nature of a recruiting bonus, not revocable obviously,” he smirked at his bit of dark humor. “What I propose is that you spend a month at a priva
te training facility. Your stay will be in the nature of an audition. There will be other candidates there, only a few will make the grade. The work is hard, and you will give up many of the rights and luxuries to which you are accustomed. It would be best if you considered it a sort of boot camp, designed to teach you to obey commands without question or argument and reject any prudish preconceptions you might now have. Trust that no lasting harm will come to you there. Listen to your trainers. Their methods may seem rather bizarre, occasionally cruel, and even a bit silly, but they get results.

  “An escrow account will be kept in your name. If you stay with the program for a month, you will be paid fifty thousand dollars. If you quit or wash out, you will be compensated at the rate of one thousand dollars per diem. If you do measure up and are willing to continue, you will be offered a one year contract and a consideration of one million dollars.”

  He observed her reaction with mild amusement, knowing what he would see on her face.

  After a long pause, she closed her mouth and cleared her throat.

  “Maybe we should talk more about my prudish preconceptions,” she said. “Mr. Boison hinted that there might be some…exposure involved. I suppose my ideas about human ponies have been contaminated by the sort of cheap pornographic images and stories that are all over the web, but if this so-called sport isn’t broadcast on ESPN, I can only conclude that there is more to it than a simple footrace.”

  He chuckled a bit. “Forgive me, Ms. Mayfield. I have interviewed many young ladies. Usually they were the ones who initiated contact. Their personal motives were many—fetishism, masochism, exhibitionism, even simple greed. They were all extremely eager; so I am out of practice at persuasion. I will be direct. I was looking for someone different, someone who would look beyond the sexual fetishism and silly pageantry and run for the simple joy of running. I wanted a real competitor, someone who might see this not as a sport but a sort of calling. Have I found that woman?”

  “I don’t know,” she confessed.