A Rough Ride: Pony Girl Training in Latex and Leather (16 page)

'Come for me now, pumpkin. Show me and our driver just how much you're enjoying the ride.' He knew she was close. He could smell the resentment and arousal through her tortured breaths.

'Speaking of rides,' Marianna managed to bite out through the fast onset of her rushing hormones, 'why didn't you use your limousine? Surely that would have been more comfortable?' It was a timely comment as they hit one of London's many potholes, which rocketed both the car and herself into orbit.

'I like to live life on the edge,' was his reply.

When the taxi pulled to a stop not ten minutes later Marianna had almost managed to restore her equilibrium, such as it was. When she took this career path she had known what would be expected of her, but putting it into practise was another matter entirely. Where had her poise and grace fled to? The other side of the continent, she suspected, if not further. Glancing through the window to see what sort of fate awaited her, her eyes were met by darkness. The journey had taken close to forty-five minutes and the thick veils of night had now firmly descended upon the inhabitants of London. It was a relief of sorts, because no one would be able to see as clearly as they would have in daylight, but the drawback to that was that the interior of some of the bars littering the streets were brightly lit. If she were to be 'showcased' inside somewhere with glaring bright lights, life was going to get a little difficult for her, to say the least.

To be fair, an evening with Matthews was going to be a hell of a lot more 'difficult', but hanging off his arm was a reward of sorts. How could a face that was so handsome hide a mind that was more corrupt than the average politician's? If the man had morals, she had yet to discover them.

He had shown some compassion towards her, she thought grudgingly. At least he'd allowed her a moment of release before they embarked upon this next journey or she would probably be at his feet, dribbling and begging for a moment of his time, pretty much like any other sane female on the planet. Watching as Mark placed a wad of bills in the driver's hand and offered a kind word of thanks, her hooded eyes followed him as he opened his door before walking around to pull open hers. He was playing the gentleman this evening, then. What a laugh that was. Bracing herself to absorb the horrified stares of the general public, she gripped hold of Mark's proffered hand and let him propel her upwards. The sound of the taxi speeding off into the distance did not even register. There were people all around her, chatting, walking, pressing buttons on their cell phone and delving inside their handbags. London was alive with the soft sounds of jazz music and the hum of neon.

Although Marianna's legs were unsteady at first, her stiletto heels not helping to maintain her balance, she found the sheer indifference of the people around her, who whizzed past on either side lost in their own little worlds, served to soothe her somewhat. Most were dressed a good deal more conservatively than her, but one or two could have been near rivals, with skirts so short they revealed lacy panties and almost transparent plastic tops which displayed Victoria Secret's finest creations. There was plenty of leather to be seen, and black appeared to be the colour of choice. Studded, spiked collars were on proud display (with chains attached!) and piercings through tongues and nipples could also be spotted, if one cared to look carefully enough. Had they just entered the twilight zone? This was an area where there should have been Dior dresses and Hermes handbags.

'We're going to an "alternative lifestyle" bar, in case you're wondering,' Mark offered.

No kidding, thought Marianna, as she tried to summon up enough courage to stand a little taller and walk a little straighter. Every ten seconds she had to resist the urge to try and place her hands over her chest and crotch. Rolling her eyes, she consoled herself with the fact that she didn't have enough hands, regardless.

'Don't worry, you're soon going to see more naked people than you are clothed, so before long you'll feel almost fully dressed in that outfit.'

He winked at her. If he was trying to be reassuring, Marianna thought sourly, he was failing miserably. The paving slabs clipping under her heels stopped abruptly as he led her through a stuccoed portico, featuring some very grand ionic columns, dwarfing her with their sheer height and making her feel even more insignificant than he already had. Glancing upwards she witnessed a series of beautiful frescos, which must have been painstakingly painted by hand, adorning the ceilings.

That was just the beginning. When they entered the ornate iron doors Mark was greeted by name and the concierge, if he could be called such a thing, immediately began to lead them off to the left where they entered one of the most amazing rooms Marianna had ever seen.

Curiosity taking over, she tried her best to peer around the concierge's uniformed back, who was standing directly in front of her. To say there was a lot to take in would have been the understatement of the century. At the rear, a floor to ceiling fish tank took pride of place in glorious aquamarine blue and housed a collection of the biggest, brightest tropical fish she had ever laid her eyes upon. There was a bar directly in front of it and liveried serving staff scurried around pouring drinks and completing orders. Huge cream vases, decorated in delicate, swirling patterns, sprung out of the floor erupting in tall, leafy green potted palms. The floor was glass, it was backlit and it was clear there was a series of waterways underneath her feet, this time in turquoise green. Goldfish swam in busy shoals beneath her. The movement set her off kilter and her heel would have folded beneath her had Mark not tightened his grip on her arm.

Tables were set beneath the floor-line and you had to descend small glass steps to reach them. Bright blue, velour cushions were provided to soften your landing if you were lucky enough to reach them unharmed. While the lighting was dim, there was a mass of scented candles on raised transparent pillars, which were dotted about the floor and smelt heavenly. She couldn't place the fragrance; vetiver, citrus and maybe some kind of spice? It was tantalising and made her mouth water. And that was just the décor.

London's glitterati had assembled in droves. Some had dressed up and dripped money in the form of designer clothes and diamonds at every turn of their elegantly fashioned heads. The men wore anything from double-breasted suits to tight leather trousers. The women, for the most part, wore considerably less. Many sported collars around their neck, some of which were subtle and consisted of delicate gold or platinum chains fastened together with a tiny padlock. Others were made of thick leather with bold buckles and decorated with spikes, studs or sparkling gems.

About half of the women assembled were completely naked, whilst others were paraded around in little more than stockings and underwear. A few wore pathetic excuses for clothing, much as she did, in either shockingly transparent fabric or easily accessible body-stockings. It didn't ease the pressure on the constant urge to cover her most intimate areas, but it did lessen her sense of vulnerability. Although why that should be the case was anybody's guess; the men here were sexual predators and with Mr Matthews' permission she could be used by any of them. The attention she had courted for so long was now hers, but it came with demanding consequences. She had been prepped for all of this, of course, but that had been two years ago. Since then she had become a virtual recluse, head buried in her computer screen at work before she reburied it in television soaps when she returned home. She spun around the room to try and encompass everyone and everything. All of this was too much and too soon.

'Impressive, isn't it?' She jumped as Mark's voice breathed into her ear. 'They're about to serve up the main course if you're feeling peckish.' He captured her chin with his finger and directed her gaze, which was still slewing left and right with no anchor in sight, to a long rectangular banquet table. In keeping with the transparent theme it was made of glass, and clear, cylindrical perspex stools circled its base. He began leading her towards it. 'They call this place
Atlantisse
. A nod to the depravities of the Greek Gods, no doubt, not to mention the fact that most who enter here are lost beyond all redemption.

That was one way of putting it, thought Marianna. The sound of traditional Asian music began to gently seep through the air and made her skin prickle. Twanging strings performed an intricate dance with the soft, reedy sound of the flute. Her ears strained to hear it at first, but the ballad was so beautiful she could not resist its lure. The volume increased slowly by small degrees and the crowd assembled looked towards the entrance of the room in silent anticipation of the main event. They were not to be kept waiting.

A long, rectangular stretcher was carried into the room by six naked, oiled male slaves and atop the wooden slats laid a young, lithe, Japanese girl, bound hand and foot to it with thick, hemp rope. Technically she was naked but in actuality her body was clothed in a myriad of different types of Japanese cuisine. Sushi rolls decorated her stomach, and raw and brightly coloured scraps of sashimi fish were patterned over her legs and adorned with little slivers of green condiment. Fragrant noodles danced upon her arms and the air was redolent with the scent of spice, making Marianna's mouth water.

The girl was more than worthy of being a feast for the Gods and she was exquisitely adorned from head to toe. Parcels of rice wrapped in banana leaves were stuffed between her legs and tempura prawns were arched over her breasts with an array of colourful vegetables, none of which Marianna could put a name to. As she was laid gently down on the centre of the table, it became clear that there was even more on offer. Her mouth was stretched wide open, filled with tiny bright pink pickles, and around her neck rested large cubes of pineapple, decorated with mint, coloured sugar and dribbling strawberry coulis. Her sex was full to bursting with tiny, bright orange pearls. Marianna found her jaw hanging in amazement.

'Would you like to be devoured, Marianna? We can come back next week and your body can feature as the entrée of your choice. You can keep with the Asian theme or perhaps you'd like to try something a little more traditional. We could have you trussed up like a turkey and suitably stuffed.' Mark raised an eyebrow at her and she thought he was teasing, but couldn't be absolutely certain. Finding something the size of an average tennis ball stuck in her throat, Marianna took a moment to clear it, her eyes never leaving the prostrate culinary masterpiece.

'I think I'd prefer to be sucked and nibbled, preferably in private.' She tried for an even, assertive tone, but everything came out in a horrible rush. Taking a deep breath she tried to voice the question, 'Is this a usual feature to the evening?' This time she sounded rather squeaky, but she was suitably impressed that she managed to talk at all.

'Features change from week to week, but this is a regular activity. We've had all sorts paraded before us. Intricate human desserts from chocolate profiteroles decorated with spun sugar to a living and breathing cream cake - and yes, it gave a whole new meaning to the words "squirty cream".' Mark winked at her. 'There have been exhibits for seafood platters, paella, loin of lamb with crushed apples and on occasion, simply a round of canapés and caviar. Can you guess where the caviar goes, by chance?'

Marianna was afraid that she knew exactly where it would go. As Mark ushered her forward to take one of the simple stools, she placed her simmering backside down on the cool perspex and sighed.

'Still a bit raw?' He laughed and plunged straight back into the previous conversation. 'Can you imagine a hundred, softly rounded knives dipping inside your sex and seeking to taste its nectar? A little bit of your essence being spread on the lightest and fluffiest of blinis, to be savoured by all around you?'

The tennis ball had not really moved in her throat, but Marianna found herself just about able to dislodge it when politeness was required.

'I'm not sure I can imagine that, Sir,' she whispered, her eyes focused on the attentive male slaves, who were now handing out elegantly patterned bamboo chopsticks to the dining participants. Accepting hers gracefully she had to resist the urge to run her fingers over the man's superbly muscled, glossy chest. Suspecting her backside would get another pounding for such a slip, she gripped her chopsticks as firmly as she could between trembling fingers.

'I saw that moment of temptation, my sweet.' Mark gave her a lingering, knowing smile and then nodded towards the food, giving his permission for her to begin her meal. He then focused his attention on doing the same and deftly picked up a tuna roll as if chopsticks were second nature to him. Why was she not surprised? The man had confidence oozing out of every pore in his body. It was infuriating, disturbing and, strangely, arousing. There was no question that he was in control. It wasn't bluster or arrogance, either. He had a presence that demanded attention and respect, both in the bedroom and in the boardroom. Mark would be a fearsome opponent if one stupidly decided to go head-to-head with him. She was not that opponent, however. She intended to obey him to the letter. The panty incident had been enough of a warning and she suspected the mistake would be rued more than once before the night was over.

Flexing her chopsticks a couple of times to get the measure of them, she gingerly picked up a sliver of salmon from the girl's leg. A thick dollop of green paste was dotted in a corner and she didn't think very clearly before placing the morsel into her mouth. Ooh, wasabi. Fire instantly exploded and her first instinct, which was to spit the offending offering out, wasn't really an option. Keeping the fish on her tongue and the wasabi, which was liberally smeared on the top of it, well away from the roof of her mouth, she sat there for a few seconds in utter panic. She couldn't eat the thing. She hated hot food and this was hotter than most. What on earth was she going to do? Because of the damn dress she didn't even have a tissue she could use to whisk the unsavoury item away.