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Chapter One
Darkness. Darkness and pain. That had been her world for...how long? She had lost all sense of time, almost all sense of self. Sensations. The blindfold covering her eyes, cutting out all light. Arms crushed together behind her back, tight hemp ropes at elbows and wrists, secure enough to keep her arms utterly immobilised, but not enough to affect her circulation. He was considerate about some things.... A supple leather collar buckled around her neck, with a short chain bolted to a ring-bolt in the floor, forcing her to kneel with head lowered; her ankles crossed and tied; the maddening discomfort from the bristly doormat, biting into her tortured knees; her mouth, crammed with an immense penis gag, which almost scraped the back of her throat. He had left her here to think about her behaviour, about her lack of obedience.
His voice made her start; it was deep, rich, but pleasant and soft, which somehow made him appear all the more intimidating. There was power behind that deceptive tone, and a massive calm and sense of self-knowledge. How long had he been standing there, she wondered, watching her with those deep brown eyes. "I hope that you now understand the importance of obedience and self-discipline, slave?"
She grunted affirmatively into the gag, so exhausted, so drained, so hurting, that she would have agreed to anything at that moment. She shuddered as she felt the touch of his hand on her cheek, stroking gently down her face. "I'm not convinced."
She let out a small sob of frustration. he couldn't leave her like this for any longer. HE *couldn't*!
"You still deny who and what you really are. You continue to fight against me, against yourself. Until you let your real self free, you will be unhappy and in chaos...and you will not have learned anything."
"I don't need to learn anything. I know who and what I am!" she screamed in the privacy of her mind.
She heard a sigh. "As I thought. We'll continue this chat in a little while." What, could he read minds as well???
She whimpered as his footsteps receded across the flagstone floor, then they paused. "Oh by the way...happy birthday."
She wept then, realising just how long she had been here, and how distant was that fateful day, when all this had begun...
***
Tara sat in the changing room, inhaling the unique and stimulating perfume of leather and polish, barely able to repress her excitement at this, the chance of a lifetime! She had long desired to play competitive polo in England, and thanks to her scholarship to study marketing at Reading University, she had found herself in rural Berkshire, one of the archetypal English shires, home of the Hunt, and County Society. To be honest, it had its fair share of sink estates, crime and drugs too, but these social malaises were a million miles away today. She was at Thurlingham Park, the home of the polo team of the same name, and she was in today's starting line-up. The excited babble from the other girls as they donned their breeches and shirts washed over her as she reflected on her good fortune.
She could hardly believe it. When she'd become aware through university bulletin boards that the team was recruiting new players, and also that there was a chance of being sponsored through an IWPA scholarship, she had applied with the expectation of an arduous series of try-outs. She hadn't been disappointed - the team set high standards and the young Canadian was not an experienced player, although, at 5' 7", with a lithe, disciplined body, and firm though not excessive muscular tone, she was a natural athlete: volleyball, skating, softball, all came as second nature to her, and she was an accomplished equestrienne. She was also strong-willed and determined and these traits in particular stood her in good stead as she passed try-out sessions, one after the other. Supposedly better candidates fell by the wayside as, though they may have been superior players, none could match her deep understanding of her mount, an understanding that almost appeared to be a symbiosis. It seemed that she merely had to will the pony and it would do her bidding. Mark Bridges, the team coach, soon recognised her potential - the poise and surety with which she coaxed her mount through the intricate manoeuvres, the supple strength of her right arm as she wound up her mallet for a shot. He could plainly see he had a burgeoning talent on his hands and was quick to sign her up.
That had been four months ago - Tara had experienced a number of intensive training sessions to develop her polo skills to match her horsemanship: swing techniques for the four main strokes, the mechanics of hitting, short stick practice, polo riding, stick and bail, and the opportunity to experience the tactics of team play in mini-games. The strictures of this training had suited her down to the ground. It felt good to have her goals and her limits set for her after so long having to make her own decisions and motivate herself to succeed. There was almost a sense of release…it felt natural somehow to live within such constraints, let someone else do all the worrying apart from the most important aspect, which was to perform to the best of her ability. She thrived upon it.
She acquitted herself admirably in a number of reserve matches and was soon called into the first team as a regular substitute. Her late entry into a vital Zodiac Trophy match had been a revelation, with a wondrous goal that had won the match and kept a demoralised team struggling with injuries in the competition. As her cheering laughing teammates clustered around her in the saloon bar of the local pub afterwards she finally felt the warm sense of acceptance and camaraderie she'd been seeking, perhaps all her life.
And now she was on the verge of her first match in the starting line-up, playing in the number 4 position, primarily responsible for defence. She knew she was better than that, and would have liked the pivotal number 3 role, but that went to the more experienced Dawn Taylor. Still, it was attainable if she maintained this level of commitment. And she would...
She methodically checked her gloves, pulled on her helmet over her short reddish-auburn hair, idly thinking it was about time that she got it cut again, and tugged on her supple leather boots. She was resplendent in her crimson number 4 shirt and regulation white breeches. As she was buckling on her knee-guards, Mark appeared at the door. "OK girls, let's get out there and slay them!"
The team voiced their unanimous approval of this sentiment and trooped out to face the enemy.
***
Dominic Bartholomew, 4th Duke of Malmsbury, was bored. From his seat at the edge of the field he brooded over the proceedings like a raven perched above the postern gate at a funeral. He was over 6 feet in height, thin, with dark brown, almost black, hair and a thin face, dressed casually in black corduroy trousers and an open-necked green shirt. Attendance at these matches was one of those tedious obligations – noblesse oblige – that were these days about the only remaining function of an almost redundant British aristocracy. This whole event was as bizarre to him as the chants of the crowds, FA Cup, and tribalism of football would be to the huntin', shootin' and fishin' set of Berkshire. Although he was the only son of Donald Bartholomew, His Grace the Third Duke, he had been raised in Islington, now home of the New Labour glitterati, following the acrimonious break-up of his mother's marriage to His Grace. It had taken the premature death of his estranged father, in a hunting accident, typically enough, and the subsequent resolve of his mother to return to the "ancestral seat" over which she was determined to rule like some kind of modern-day matriarch, that had brought them both "home".
For someone who had been raised in the cosmopolitan environment of London, where Soho met Docklands met Westminster met Hackney, this transition to the stuffy, cloistered and ludicrous snobbery of the remnants of the so-called "upper class" of the County was an incredible culture shock. Privately, he knew they looked down their noses at him, due to his strong North London accent, his mannerisms, and his perfectly understandable difficulty with conforming to their feigned standards of etiquette. The major irritant was that fact that he was the rightful heir to the title seemed to mean nothing to them. His upbringing had labelled him as "not one of us" and that was a handicap he would never be able to overcome. It was not even as if he was uneducated. He had gone to the Brompton Oratory, where even the Prime Minister's children attended – he had been to Kings College, Cambridge, and graduated with a second in Psychology. His IQ was possibly far higher than the entire "set" of inbred mutants that now looked down upon him, but it meant for nothing here. He was out of place and apparently out of time.
His one consolation was that the Internet even reached out to this benighted place and he could continue to indulge his particular tastes in art, photography and literature in his old virtual haunts. It was a spark of normality in this new alien environment, and he clutched gratefully at it.
It had been his mother's idea to introduce him to as many of the local events as possible, in order to coat him with a veneer of respectability, something which served only to re-establish herself in her former position, though meaningless in the reality of 21st century Britain.
Dominic bore them all stoically, making the obligatory small talk and concentrating on using the cutlery laid from outside to inside during the interminable five-course meals. He opened fetes and fun-runs, attended the village church every Sunday in order to dutifully mouth pieties and mime to dreary hymns. He bore it because at night he could retreat to his bedroom, and his computer, and re-enter the world that was...his.
***
Tara checked the girth-strap was secure. This was an English-type saddle with an overgirth in addition to the regular girth to keep it from slipping. Her chestnut gelding, whose name was Days of Thunder nickered gently and shot an enquiring look back at her. She smiled happily and patted him. She was never happier than when she was with him, either riding or grooming, it was all the same. He had a beautifully sweet nature and personality, more so than most men she had known in her life. She bent down to check his leg bandages were also secure, then put her foot in the stirrup and mounted.
***
Dominic shifted position in his uncomfortable folding chair and was instantly nudged by the Dowager Duchess. He swung a glance in her direction, only to see her facing the front, a fixed smile on her face. Dominic had not yet mastered the art of feigning polite interest on these occasions, and the look of sullen boredom on his own face was obvious. It was then that the two teams trotted out onto the field, Thurlingham Park leading, their red shirts a startling splash of colour against the green of the trees bordering the field, with their rivals, Norton Parva, in royal blue behind.
Dominic perked up. He hadn't really been paying attention when his mother had tried to sell the idea of this event to him, and hadn't realised it was a women's match. Things were looking up... he fixed a look of polite interest on his face, and settled back to watch...
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