I wasn't ready for that sound, my first time. I stumbled at the starting line. My timing was off, my feet wouldn't hit the ground squarely. I finished sixth out of seven.
But by the end of that first race, I'd learned how you had to do it. You had to ride the crowd, to get buoyed up by their jeers, pushed along by the waves of lust and scorn and contemptuous admiration. And I knew that Annie wasn't really displeased with me. "There'll be more races, asshole," she said, slapping my butt and sending me to the stocks where losing ponies had to kneel for the rest of the afternoon in the dust behind the stands, available to anybody who might saunter by on their way to get a beer or a lemonade or to use the porta-potties.
Of course, Mr. Constant had me punished for losing. But then, he might have punished me for anything at all, so there was no point getting too upset about this particular obsession. What was important was that I'd figured out this pony racing thing. I can do this, I said calmly to myself. This is just the kind of bent, demonic thing that I can get behind.
And I did. I surprised everybody-except myself and Annie, I think-by winning the next race. Yeah, winningfuck placing or showing. Blue ribbon winning.
"Interesting," he said. He stood up and loosened the sash of his robe.
He climbed onto the bed and straddled her, pulling her down between his legs and pushing his cock against her mouth, forcing her lips open, moving deeply into her throat, and coming quickly.
He closed the robe and sat back down.
"Go on," he said.
It was in New York-some huge estate near the Hudson River. Mr. Constant had business on Wall Street, and he brought Stefan and Tony and Annie and me along in a private plane. The racing sulky, too-taken apart into pieces and packed in the plane's hold. The estate had huge pony stables for events like this-there were dozens and dozens of stalls, filled with slaves and their trainers. It was busy, noisy, kind of cheerful. This was a much bigger competition than others that I'd been in. It was famous, an institution, really-slaves from all over showing their stuff. It spanned several days, though my pony race was one of the opening events. Trainers looked forward to this competition-it was a chance to see old friends, compare notes, complain about their accommodations, and show off their charges to each other. They chatted companionably, comparing training techniques and pony food (the one Annie was feeding me was predictably awful-pure nutrition).
"She's got a lot of talent," Annie said to a friend, as she shaved my cunt over a bucket the day of the race, "but she's especially got that kind of neediness, you know, that ponies have to have. I mean, you train them by letting them come every time they go around the track, and after that they never seem to learn that only the winner will get the treat at the end."
The friend laughed. "Kate says it's what's most charming about them."
Annie grimaced. "Well, Kate's pony Sylvie is the one to beat in this race," she said. "C'mon, asshole," she added to me, "last time around the track before the race-we'll let the sun dry off your snatch."
Kate? But it wouldn't be the same one, would it? Too unlikely, I thought. But I remembered what Margot, at the auction warehouse, had said. Kate knows everybody in this little world. Maybe it was the same Kate. I shuddered a little.
Annie shot a look at me. "Damn Kate," she said to her friend, jerking the ring in my collar as she led me out to the track to practice one last time. "I don't need to be thinking about her right now-and neither does this one."
And so we didn't. Or I didn't, anyway. I ran around the track, getting the feel of the ground under my feet and the angles of the curve at the end of the oval. I looked at the stands. They were big, like at a high school football game, only posher, of course. The crowd's yells would be deafening-Romans at the Coliseum. I took a long, calm breath, imagining it.
Annie stroked my breast. "Okay, Carrie," she said softly-she didn't usually call me Carrie-"I'm going to put everything I have behind my wrist this afternoon."
We had to hurry back to the stable, though, to get me ready, because we could see the first spectators beginning to trickle into the stands. And since mine was only the fourth race that day, we didn't have much time.
We entered the stall, and she kissed my mouth, slowly and deeply. She pushed my shoulders down and I knelt in the straw and kissed the whip she'd be using-she held it, doubled up, in her hand. She caressed my face and breasts with it, and then she put it against my lips again. I kissed it respectfully. I kissed it passionately.
I stood up and she knelt down to relace my boots. To smooth them over my calves and make sure the fine leather thongs were threaded correctly through the eyelets and around the hooks. To pull them tightly, tie them in strong, failproof bowknots. She slapped my ass, and I bent slightly and opened to receive the dildo attached to my tail. The grease on the shaft was cold; the horsehair tail prickled the back of my knees. And there was a new sensation-bits of smooth satin-they'd decorated the tail with ribbons. She harnessed me slowly, methodically, pulling everything tight, doublechecking all the buckles, and finishing up by pinching my nipples in their decorative little clips.
I was almost glad to take the gag-bit in my mouth-it had felt empty after her kiss. And as for the blinders at the side of my face-I would have taken the track entirely blindfolded if she'd wanted me to. She stenciled my number across my belly, above my naked cunt. And instead of bringing somebody else in to lick my clit, she knelt down herself, making me tremble so hard that she had to pull away almost immediately. She was right, I was a natural pony-too greedy and stupid to know that I was being tricked. Or to care. "They usually have somebody with a pretty good tongue," she whispered spitefully to me, "at the finish line."
I was ready, I thought-to the extent that I was thinking at all. But not quite. "This is a very fancy race," she said to me, grinning at my helpless excitement. She attached a bright green ribbon cockade to the top of my bridle. "Each pony gets her own color." I guessed the ribbons in my tail were green as well. She pulled off her T-shirt and put on a green satin jacket with my number attached to the back. It looked like something a jockey would wear, except she didn't bother to zip it up. She looked tough, her hard little breasts partly visible through the opening of her jacket. She had a red-eyed lizard tattooed on one of them-it looked ready to skitter diagonally across her chest. I'd never seen that lizard; in fact, I'd never seen her in anything but her black sleeveless T-shirts. The bright green looked good against her pale skin and short white hair, and the lizard, one of its eyes partially obscured by the jacket's open zipper, seemed to wink at me as she moved.
Trumpets blared, and I heard the crowd cheer. They were announcing our race. I trotted out to the track, first parading by the stands, pausing briefly to receive their screams-I could detect the note of scorn, too: They knew I'd stumbled, my first time out. And then I waited, tensed, at the starting line, pulsing, quivering, dancing on my feet. I was aware of other ponies, but I didn't think of them as competition, I thought of them as the bright ribbons decorating their tails. They were the other hues vibrating on the spectrum. Green is in the middle-it's the toughest lane in the race-so there'd be ponies trying to head me off on both sides. I was glad.
And the race itself? Absurdly brief, after all the elaborate preparation. But it was as long as I could stand. And, well-I won, that's all. I mean, sometimes life is like that, you know: no complications, no reversals. Later for the intricacies of dodging and weaving, cutting off the other ponies and being cut off by them. All that would happen in other races, closer races, races I'd win by a nose or a neck or a hair, or not at all. But not today. Today I was too fast for anybody to cut in front of, and I won, as I'd always known I would. I broke through the tape at the end of the course, and I fell, gasping, to my knees, and I felt hands all over me, roughly taking off my harness, pulling me upright. I felt a mouth on me-I looked down at a sweet curly head at my cunt, that was all I could see, I don't even know if it was a boy or a girl-and 1 came enormously, sighing and howling behind my bit,
almost oblivious to the mocking laughter from the stands. I guess it's a cute moment, the final cruelty of the cruel event, watching the pony get her little yummy at the end. And then they led me to Mr. Constant, waiting with Stefan in the winners' circle.
He was delighted, of course, and the photographers were eager for shots of him with me kneeling at his feet, the blue ribbon pinned to my collar. It was good that I still had the bridle on, because I wanted to grin triumphantly at the cameras, instead of keeping my eyes down and my face impassive. I was feeling so cocky, you know just controlling my gaze took quite a lot of discipline.
But of course you're never quite disciplined enough for what you'll encounter. A sudden, challenging demand from your master. Or the surprising swoops of your own desire.
Or, something much simpler, that day in New York. A foot, shod in white leather that was softer than my skin, prodding my legs further apart, silently and imperiously demanding that I show more of my naked-and suddenly very moist-cunt.
And a voice-well, first that husky, melodious laugh. "You're doing a good job with her, babe. Too good-I lost a pile of money on this race. But we'll beat you next time."
Kate. And those were Annie's black jeans, weren't they, and her scuffed Doc Martens, so close to Kate's crisp white slacks and soft, backless shoes? And Annie's voice, surprisingly subdued-shy-sounding, even.
"You were right. She's fun to drive."
"And to discipline, I should imagine."
They moved a little closer together, the black jeans pressing up against the white slacks. How far could I raise my eyelids without breaking form? I moved my gaze up Kate's legs, slowly, to the bottom of her white blazer. A little higher, now: Her arm was around Annie's waist. Or maybe her hand was in the back pocket of Annie's jeans-Annie would like that. Could I peek any higher? A little-up to her jacket button, to the pink faille waistcoat the color of the inside of a seashell.... And I knew that that was all I'd be allowed, that I'd never know what sort of hat she was wearing (funny how curious I was about that). And I'd simply have to imagine her cool, pale, limpid, dispassionate green eyes. I was surprised by how precisely I remembered her eyes-I mean, I'd only been in her presence maybe twice before. Briefly, and then only to be prodded a little, to have my form corrected and my progress assessed. Which was probably as much as I could ever expect from her.
She moved her hand over my bridle, tugging here and there to test the tension of the straps, laughing softly as she watched me drop my eyes and concentrate on my breath.
"And you've taught her some manners, I see."
I stared as hard as I could at her white shoes and the dusty ground, fighting the angry, frustrated tears welling up behind my eyelids. I hated Annie right then, with Kate's hand curved around her ass. I hated everybody in the small crowd of people milling around, congratulating Mr. Constant. I hated Stefan, but then, I always did. And I especially hated the photographers, who could look at Kate all they wanted, and who were madly snapping pictures of her. She was talking to Mr. Constant now, congratulating him and also detailing the wonderful job Annie'd done on me. She was charming, and very knowledgeable about the race, almost as though she'd been a driver-or a pony-once herself.
"We got some marvelous footage of her crossing the finish line," she said. "So far in the lead that all you can see is Sylvie's knee and the toe of her boot. We're thinking about an online film clip-maybe a quick cut to her coming at the end. For the racing page."
Logical, I thought. My straining, fetishized body, digitized now, coming soon-and coming ecstatically-to a few thousand very select computer screens worldwide. I couldn't hear Mr. Constant's reply, but I could feel his exhibitionist delight, his hand tightening at my shoulder. Of course I'd been overhearing all the fascinated chatter, at parties and exhibitions, about the new private online system the association was building. Well, but who wasn't fascinated by online porn?
And then-was I hearing correctly?
"Lend her to me, Edouard. For the next two days. I have a scene scheduled and I need an extra girl."
Annie snorted. "And so you want my winning pony. Unbelievable, Kate." Well, I must have heard correctlyeither that or I was dreaming.
Kate laughed again. "Look," she persisted, addressing herself to Mr. Constant, "we can do a trade. Take Randy. Annie can drive him and Tony in the boys' pairs race. It's the day after tomorrow, you've still got time to sign them up and she's got all day tomorrow to drill them. They'll be ravishing. Come on."
He stroked my head thoughtfully.
"Boys' pairs," he mused. "That's a nice race. And Stefan and I'll be in Manhattan all day tomorrow anyway." I felt Stefan's hand stroke me too. Surprisingly gently, for him.
Annie whistled through her teeth. "Unbelievable," she repeated, as a guy in khaki pants came over to us.
"Kate," he said, "sorry to bother you, but it's Sylvie. I think she'll cry herself sick."
She moved toward him. "Well, Edouard?" she said to Mr. Constant.
"Why not?" Mr. Constant laughed, and Kate stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. She turned to go with the guy in the khakis, first murmuring to Annie, "See you tonight, babe." And I kept my eyes down while the photographers snapped a few more pictures of me and Mr. Constant, this time with a less angry than usual Stefan and a blissful, giddy Anniewho, I noticed later, after they'd hung up the framed pictures on the wall of the trophy room back on the island, looked about sixteen years old at that moment-in her tough green jockey jacket with a happy lizard winking at the camera.
Jonathan grinned.
"I do remember her introducing me to Annie once-she's got a girl in every port, doesn't she? But you didn't actually spend two days with Kate, in New York?"
"Well, a day and a half. We came back in time for her to watch Tony and Randy win boys' pairs."
He grimaced impatiently.
"You didn't know?" she asked.
"She never told me. But then, I guess I made a point of not asking. "
He looked down at the floor. "I should have known," he said.
She was silent and he concentrated on remaining calm.
"Well," he finally said, "what are you waiting for? Tell me about it."
Funny, she thought, that Kate hadn't told him. She paused a long moment before she continued.
CARRIE TELLS A STORY ABOUT KATE
"She's crazy," Annie said to Mr. Constant, as they promenaded around the lush, leafy estate grounds later that afternoon, leading me by the reins. People would come by to congratulate him on my winning the race. They'd compliment Annie on her driving too, and they'd stroke me, roughly or appreciatively.
"She's such a fucking workaholic," she complained. "I mean, how often do I get to see her, you know?"
He made some distant, sympathetic noises.
"And it's not like she needs the money," she ranted. "She rents this gorgeous house-the back lawn goes straight down to the river-but she can't just party, hang out. Oh, hell no. She's got to schedule scenes, develop accounts three thousand miles away from where she lives...."
She rattled on, blissfully unaware that she was boring him out of his mind. But he was charitable. He loved to win-to win anything at all, really-and an upset, a long shot like my victory, was just about his favorite thing in the world. So he maintained a comfortable silence, enjoying the victory promenade, and tolerating, or perhaps tuning out, her harangue.
While I, on the other hand, was straining to hear what she said. I could see how much she was enjoying it; she'd probably continue for hours if he'd let her. She was affecting this exasperation because she would have been embarrassed to admit how thrilled and delighted she was by that little "see you tonight" and what it promised. Her plaints about Kate's supposed craziness, obsessiveness, were really hymns, hosannas, hallelujahs. Bitching and moaning were ways she could keep talking, savoring her excitement.
And I understood so well, you see, because I was equally excited. Lend her to me, Edouard. I had no idea what it promised, but I kept repeatin
g it to myself, hearing it in her voice. She'd said something similar, you know, long ago in San Francisco, when you first showed me to her, Jonathan. She suggested that you send me to her in Napa, if you were too bored or lazy to train me properly. And she laughed to see how excited I got, and how angry you became. You told me later to forget about it, that you'd never send me to her-but I didn't forget. I pranced behind Annie and Mr. Constant in a kind of dream haze, my tail, with its green ribbons, floating in the breeze. And I hardly noticed the hands that stroked and slapped me-everybody, superstitiously, wanting a piece of the winner.
But there was still that night's party to get through. I tried to gather my resources, to be alert to people's signals, as I wandered around my assigned territory, the blue ribbon pinned next to my coinbox. I'd try to focus on the nods and snaps of the finger, the slaps and kicks. But I was slow, dreamy, exhausted from the race and still thinking about Kate. From time to time, I'd hear the dull clanking sound of a lead token in the box at my throat, and my stomach would clench. But really, there wasn't much I could do about it. I would have collected some lead tokens no matter how I'd acted, since some people had lost big money on my race and wanted to take it out on me. And on Sylvie.
I'd never seen Sylvie before that afternoon-she'd been the indigo pony, I realized now. It wasn't hard to pick her out in the party crowd-the red ribbon on her collar was a clue, but mostly it was her beautiful gestures and manners. She bent and opened with the same kind of grace that you'd described Stephanie having. It was a special kind of polish, quite beyond anything I could have done even on a good night. And she was lovely, too, though perhaps less so than Stephanie. Well, not as lush-she looked like a racer, after all, which has its own kind of stripped-down aesthetic. She was slimmer than Stephanie, a tawny, tousled blond, with large gray-blue eyes, and freckles sprinkled over her wide cheekbones and high, very round, little breasts. And she had a subtle, sexy, French overbite. Perhaps it had been that overbite that had made Kate want to put a bit in her mouth in the first place.
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