La Queue-de-Cheval Read online

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  La Queue de Cheval

  Copyright © 2008 by Michele De Lully

  ISBN: 1-60504-080-0

  Edited by Laurie Rauch

  Cover by Anne Cain

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: July 2008

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  La Queue-de-Cheval

  Michèle de Lully

  Dedication

  For S.C.

  Chapter One

  It was one of those glitzy parties. Not black-tie, but glamorous in a nightclub way, with hundreds of guests. The long, circular driveway was crowded with Jags and Mercedes instead of Rolls. Inside, rich men and pretty girls chased each other to the beat of Top-Forty music and the fragrance of champagne. Angie was making progress with a tall, blond stockbroker, until the pony-girl showed up.

  The girl was beautiful, thin and svelte with small, perky breasts and luxurious long black hair, but that wasn’t enough to make her the center of attention. Even the audacity of showing up in a skimpy black bikini with thousand-dollar Manolo pumps and three-carat diamond earrings was only worth a few stares.

  What locked people’s gazes was the halter—fine, black leather straps dangling from the bit in her mouth. And the tail.

  Two feet long, thick and curly, and as black as jet, it hung from her backside and twitched ever so slightly as she walked.

  Angie slipped away from her stockbroker, who was staring open-mouthed at the girl. It was hard to blame him, since everyone else was doing the same. She felt bad for the women who were there with steadies or husbands. The jealousy emanating from half the room was palpable, although the men were clueless as usual. Angie wasn’t jealous, though. She was too impressed. It had to take a lot of nerve to go out in public dressed like that.

  As she worked her way closer, a few details became apparent. The girl was following a man around. He was badly dressed, in that too-much-money way that put the wrong jacket with the wrong trousers just because they both came from Armani. The message it sent was, “I have too many expensive suits to keep them all straight.” Angie had to admit it was not an entirely ineffective message.

  There was more—another man, filling out his modest off-the-rack suit with much more effect. He was handsome enough to attract the attention of the women, if they could stop glaring at the pony-girl. But he hung back, discreetly, following the couple. Security—hired muscle.

  Why did the good-looking ones always have the lousy jobs?

  He was also out of place. Guards belonged at parties with movie stars and royalty.

  She took another look at the man he protected—the VIP all this wealth and power orbited around—but she didn’t recognize him.

  She recognized the type, though. Born to money, spoiled by it. Arrogant, and even a little cruel; well-educated, world-traveled, jaded into a fashionable cynicism, and yet naïve in curious ways. He was still young and healthy, tanned and fit. He still had a chance to mature, to become a sophisticated gentleman instead of a decadent, used-up old fop. He just needed a good woman to steer him straight.

  Angie, like every other single woman in the room, went a little giddy at the thought that she might be that woman.

  He caught her looking at him. And accepted it; took it as his due. Angie was furious with herself, but only for an instant. The man had spent a small fortune tonight, solely for the purpose of being looked at. To not appreciate the display would have been impolite.

  His gaze raked up and down Angie’s body. Then he flicked a glance at his pony-girl and then back to Angie.

  And smiled.

  Angie blushed and melted back into the crowd. How had the man detected her fascination with the pony-girl? Of course he assumed all the men were staring. But his sardonic glance said he had seen Angie staring, too.

  Maybe he was just guessing. Maybe he assumed everyone was impressed with his showpiece. Angie tried out these excuses, but none of them fit comfortably. The man’s eyes were too intelligent for that.

  She spent the next hour observing them from afar, careful not to let the man see her. The stockbroker served as adequate cover, having come to find her again. Watching the pony-girl had put ideas into his head. Normally she would have appreciated the girl for making the men in the room considerably more pliable, but she had lost interest in the stockbroker. Even the playboy was less intriguing than the pony-girl. Men, she understood; but the girl was something new.

  Angie wondered what the girl was feeling right now. Walking around dressed like that, broiling in the hungry stares of the men and the minatory glares of the women. Was she excited? Nervous? Ashamed? There was something about her posture, about the submissive way she followed the man. It was hard to recognize because it was so out of place, but eventually Angie understood.

  The pony-girl was aroused. She had that languid softness that women get when they are ready to yield to a man. And the men around her sensed it, fed off it. Angie finally understood the point of the security guard. He wasn’t there for the man; he was there for the girl. To protect her from the emotions she evoked.

  Angie felt it herself. Once you got past the jealousy, the pony-girl really was erotically stimulating. To be the center of so much male energy would be exhilarating; to do so safe in the knowledge that two men were protecting you would be liberating. Watching her advertise her sexual availability to anyone and everyone tugged at Angie’s own desires. Whether they could admit it or not, the other women must feel the same.

  A lot of people were going to get lucky tonight.

  Sadly, Angie would not be one of them. She could not settle for her bland broker tonight, no matter how earnestly he pressed his case. He was simply too ordinary. She wanted something special now, sparked into wishful dreaming by the magic of the pony-girl.

  Who had just disappeared. Along with her entourage. Angie made a half-hearted excuse and slipped away from the stockbroker. She knew the girl hadn’t left by the front door, so where had she gone?

  Angie snagged a glass of champagne, slipped one strap off her shoulder and pulled a lock of hair out of place. Acting tipsy, she pretended to search for a restroom. This let her wander the halls of the mansion with a plausible cover. The one servant she encountered was a man, so slipping past him was as easy as a giggle and a wink.

  Deep inside the house, she finally heard conversation. Male, ribald, but subdued. Wandering in that direction, she found a dining hall. She had approached from the servants’ entrance, not the main doors, so the small group of men at the other end of the room did not notice her.

  There were six of them, including the playboy and the guard. They were drinking and talking like boys watching a football game. Except what they were watching—

  Angie didn’t believe it at first. But there it was.

  The pony-girl was bent face-down over the table, her tail flipped up and resting on her naked back. Behind her stood one of the men, holding her reins in one hand and leaning on the table with the other. And he was thrusting away, his pants around his ankles.


  Stunned into silence, Angie could only watch as the man finished, emptying himself into the girl. He leaned over her, gasping, until one of the other men slapped him on the back. Then he stepped away, gathering his clothes up as the new man dropped his trousers and took his place.

  The idea that the girl was just a whore shattered her illusions. This was not sex, but just business. Angie stepped forward, intent on entering the room and ruining the men’s fun with some well-aimed and savage mockery, when she saw the pony-girl’s face.

  She had lifted her head from the table as the new man entered her. Looking away from the men, hooded by her long black hair, they could not see her face. The rapture she wore was not a mask for them. Eyes closed, mouth held open by the bit, the girl yielded eagerly to the next rider.

  Angie froze, trapped by the ecstatic visage. Like a boomerang, her disgust returned upside-down as desire. The pony-girl must have known this was coming; she had spent the evening out there, exposed and almost naked, while her master selected the men who would line up and fuck her.

  Breathing suddenly became difficult for Angie.

  She stepped back into the shadows.

  So the girl was a slut, not a whore. Angie knew you were supposed to think even less of girls who gave it away for free than professionals who at least could claim they were supporting a family. But this girl was surrounded by attractive men and wearing the most expensive jewelry. And she had incredible taste in shoes. It was very difficult to condemn the girl while Angie was so impressed.

  And aroused. Part of her wanted to join the girl. To walk out there, bend over the table, lift her skirt, and get her needs fully serviced. Men always quit too soon, anyway. Even when it was good, she knew she could go on longer. With a whole line, the feeling wouldn’t have to stop just because one man reached his limits.

  But Angie wasn’t wearing Manolo pumps. In the morning, Angie wouldn’t be someone’s valued pet, with a big strong security guard to beat up anyone who insulted her. If Angie joined that orgy, all she would be was a whore too dumb to get paid.

  It seemed entirely unfair.

  Watching as the second man finished and stepped away, something else occurred to her. The girl was still wearing her tail. If it wasn’t affixed to the bottom of her bikini, then how was it attached?

  When the obvious answer occurred to her, it made her twinge inside. Front and back.

  Between the bit, the tail, and the men’s cocks, the pony-girl was being penetrated in every possible way.

  In any ordinary setting, Angie would have laughed at such kinkiness. But watching the girl enjoying it, seeing her complete and total submission to the men clustered around her, the imagery took on a new flavor. To be so thoroughly sexualized, to have every part of your body rendered erogenous, to become fully an object of lust and pleasure…

  Angie took another step back into the shadows, leaning up against a wall. Involuntarily, her hand slipped below her waist, pulling up her short skirt to touch herself. Shocked at how wet she was, she couldn’t stop.

  What if someone found her? What if a wandering servant came upon her? Or what if she made a sound, and the men in the room discovered her masturbating in the corner?

  Perhaps they would bend her over the table, and she would not be able to protest. Revealed as a licentious trollop, she would be paralyzed by shame and unable to resist as they lined up behind her. And the pony-girl would watch, laughing, twitching her tail in mockery.

  The images flooded through her head, drowning her. She had to bite her lip to stifle her cry as the orgasm shuddered through her. Astonishing in its intensity, given so little physical stimulation. But it was not entirely satisfying. She still felt empty, still burned to be filled.

  Most unexpectedly, her backside clenched, even while her conscious mind skittered away from the thought of that luxurious black tail.

  Turning her attention back to the dining room, she was relieved that they had not in fact seen her. Fantasies were one thing, but the reality would have been merely embarrassing.

  The men were leaving, finished with their turns. The guard was going out with them. But the girl was still on the table, and the master was waiting with her.

  When the door closed behind the security guard, the master went to his girl. He talked too softly for Angie to hear, but the girl looked over her shoulder at him, watched as he lowered his trousers and mounted her.

  Incredibly, even after giving her to all those other men, he still wanted her. Angie’s desire flooded back, stronger than before. But now she felt like voyeur. The audience was gone; the show was over. This was a private act of love, not an erotic spectacle. Blushing, Angie fled back down the corridor.

  She headed straight for the exit. The party had lost its allure. She had already seen the most excitement it had to offer, and she had not been a part of it. Next weekend she could return to her ordinary pursuit of a nice man, a big house, a fancy wedding. Tonight, however, those dreams seemed tame, like cardboard cutouts of real passion.

  As she stepped out the front door, someone gently tapped her on the shoulder. Instantly she suspected she had been seen, and kept going, ignoring the discreet touch. But he followed and called out to her.

  “Miss,” he said in a voice that was used to obedience. She had to stop then, and look at him.

  The security guard. He was impressively thick, in a muscle-bound way, but right now he was trying to be unintimidating. Angie found the contrast surprisingly sexy.

  “My employer thought you might like to have this. In case you’re interested.”

  He handed her a business card.

  Bathshire Stables. For the discriminating gentleman.

  She wanted to make a snappy retort, throw the card in his face, but he was already gone.

  Standing there, she tried to drop the card on the ground like a piece of litter. But her fingers disobeyed. The card remained in her hand.

  With a sigh, she tucked it into her purse. She’d deal with the thing later. Right now, all she wanted was to go home, take a hot shower, and crawl into her silk sheets.

  And, no doubt, enjoy another review of the night’s events. Just thinking about it made her want to go back in and find the stockbroker. Or the guard.

  But the guard would turn her down—she could already tell he was the kind of man who took his duties seriously. And the stockbroker would let her down—there was no way he could live up to the fantasies in her head.

  The cab driver was the only man she could be sure of tonight. For a few quid, he would flirt with her—respectfully—and escort her home, like a gentleman. And if she wanted to see him tomorrow, he was just a phone call away.

  If only all men were so reliable.

  Chapter Two

  Her skirt was too black. And much, much too short. She’d worn it as a kind of homage to the pony-girl. But an accountancy office wasn’t a party, and the staid, formal atmosphere of Boswick, Calvin, & Chesterfield, with wall-paneling that hadn’t changed since the turn of the century, was a living relic of tradition. Being sexy here would only attract the wrong kind of attention.

  On the other hand, her job was dull, and the memory of glamour made it unbearably dull today. If she wasn’t feeling slightly nervous about what people would think, she wouldn’t be feeling anything at all.

  Mondays were always the worst. Every Monday was another weekend she hadn’t met Mr. Right; another week she would have to suffer through until she had a chance to escape this life.

  Mrs. Smythe appeared at Angie’s desk, her broad bulk imposing even though it was wrapped in a ridiculous flower-print that had gone out of fashion before Angie had been born. From the false smile on her face, Angie instantly knew the old battle-ax was about to lay into someone. The lark of underdressing for work suddenly seemed a lot less fun.

  “Will you come with me, dear?” Mrs. Smythe’s voice burbled unnervingly. Angie automatically tried to tug her skirt longer as she stood up. Following the large woman to her private
office, Angie struggled to ignore all the eyes staring at her. Of course they watched when the battle-ax picked out a new victim. No doubt the old hens would approve her being told off for her sartorial exuberance. The lads wouldn’t, but she didn’t really care what they thought. She’d eliminated all of them as potential mates within her first hours here.

  The only men in the firm who made enough money to fulfill her dreams were the senior partners. And they were far too old, dried-up, and married to be interesting. They’d probably disapprove of her skirt as much as Mrs. Smythe did.

  Utterly unbidden, entirely unwelcome, a naughty image flashed before Angie’s eyes. For a brief instant she saw herself bent over a desk, her skirt pulled up, while the senior staff took turns expressing their opinion of her inappropriate behavior. Mrs. Smythe stood by with a ruler, threatening to administer a thorough swatting if Angie made any objection. In her vision, Angie could see her own face, and it was the face of the pony-girl in rapture.

  The mirage lasted only two footsteps, but it was intense enough to leave her pulse throbbing and her head dizzy. She had no real desire to entertain the seniors, and no fear that they would ever stoop to such conduct. She absolutely had no interest in the stout Mrs. Smythe contemplating her bare buttocks with a ruler in hand. But the mere act of walking through the office in a skirt two inches shorter than it should be while everyone watched had sparked something deep inside, touched off a hidden flame that smoldered hungrily.

  She wondered what lascivious fantasies the pony-girl must suffer, until she remembered that, for the pony-girl, they were not merely fantasies. The memory of the sound of the men dropping their trousers, the soft rustle of leather and wool, swam over Angie and drowned out the normal background of office clinkery and chatter.

  With relief, Angie slipped into the glassed office behind Mrs. Smythe. Being chewed out would be easier to take than these uncontrollable erotic flashes. Astonishing that after two days the pony-girl still had such an effect on her.