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Chapter Two
Light – blazing light, drilling into her brain. She could feel that she was lying on a flat surface and her wrists were in some kind of leather cuffs, which were joined together and stretched, painfully taut above her head. Her ankles were pulled to the two bottom corners of the table, also encircled by soft, but inescapable leather. She was naked, but she had been mostly naked since the day she'd become his...since the day he'd taken her. Anytime she had been given clothes it had been with the express understanding that they were his to give, and could be taken away at his whim. And his every whim was her most important rule at any given moment. At any rate, they were not the type of clothes she would be seen dead in if she'd had the choice. Ridiculously high-heeled strappy sandals, that immediately threw her off balance, although the fact that her arms were invariably restrained behind her did not help, and slutty lacy underwear that showed everything. This was the extent of her "clothing" which he had so magnanimously provided!
A bull-nose clamp tortured each of her nipples, linked by a chain. Perspiration glistened on the smooth porcelain of her skin, as the fierce light beat down. Her mouth, now uncomfortably accommodating a large red ballgag, was dry as the streets of hell. Yet she shivered. She shivered at the slightest sensation from the evil little device buzzing away relentlessly between her legs, as it insidiously and unrelentingly aroused her to the point of orgasm, an orgasm she dare not allow herself the luxury of. This was another of his lessons. Self-discipline, control, the realisation that she owned nothing, not even her body. It was not her orgasm to have, it was his gift as and when he chose to bestow it. Should she falter and succumb to her own needs, then there would be further lessons. He never called it punishment, never thought of it as sadism; these were "lessons", or "tasks". Again he'd been "generous", with the distractions of light and heat, the pain in her limbs and nipples, constantly forcing her attention away from the spiteful little device whirring away inside her.
His voice again. She had stopped being surprised, as he was usually there somewhere, or kept her so distracted by discomfort or arousal that she didn't notice him sneaking up on her. Yet she felt he was always there, always watching; those calm eyes reading her like a huge colourful picture book, all her emotions, thoughts and needs writ large on every page.
"You've done well, slave. This is the longest you've lasted."
Her skin shrank beneath his light touch on her stomach. His hand was snatched away as if he'd been burned. Secretly in the vaults of her mind, in those areas that would forever be free, forever be HER, she exulted. It still hurt him when she did this, when she recoiled at his touch.
His voice, when it came again, was tight, rigidly controlled. She knew she'd hit home. "You've still failed to learn some things. You still think of this body as yours. That's very...disappointing." His tone was mildly reproachful, as if she'd left a light on, or forgotten the milk while shopping, but she grew tense. This was like physics, where each act of defiance merited an equal and opposite reaction of a further "lesson".
She gasped into the ever-present gag as she felt the buzzing between her legs increase in speed and intensity. Oh my God, oh shit....!
***
The sun blazed down on that hot summer afternoon, and the birds sang a joyful chorus to the delights of wheeling in that azure sky.
Closer to ground level, there was an eager buzz of anticipation from the medium sized crowd sheltering securely behind the fences ringing the polo field. It was a good field, and had been tended well. There had already been three minor games played on it that day, and it was barely marked. The ground staff at Thurlingham Park prided themselves on their maintenance of this 200 by 300-yard rectangle of earth and turf, and their pride was the players' reward.
Tara took a deep breath of the sharp, clean country air, hoping it might somewhat dispel her nerves and slow her heart rate. It singularly failed on both accounts. From her superior vantage point she was looking down at the spectators, so why did she feel like she was in the centre of the Coliseum, with the cruel faces looking down at her, waiting for her to become the main course? Pffftttt, just stage-fright, get a grip, girl! As if in the hope that the deed would reinforce the thought, she took a firm grip of the reins, and joined the rest of her team in lining up in the middle of the field. The opposing team did likewise, and there was the usual few minutes of appraising each other that happens at these times. Tara sized up Norton's number 1, a tall olive-skinned girl, called Hannah Chakravarty. Hannah returned the look coolly, but there was a challenge in those deep brown eyes, and one thing Tara loved was a challenge. She felt her heart quicken as the umpire rode towards them, ready to throw the wooden ball between the two lines and begin the first chukker, or period.
***
The Dowager Duchess stole a surreptitious glance at her son, and was pleasantly surprised. He was leaning forward in his seat, intently studying the teams as they lined up. She did not try to fool herself for one moment into thinking that this was anything to do with a newly awakened interest in polo. She knew well that he preferred somewhat more common sports. No, she knew where his attention was directed, and wondered idly if any of those girls were of sufficient breeding to make them marriageable. She would have to make some discreet enquiries after the game.
***
Battle commenced - the umpire threw in the ball which was instantly flicked out of the line up by Norton's number three, Rachel Saunders. She immediately followed it up to circle round the pack and with a half shot from the boards at the 25-yard line sent the ball whizzing towards the Thurlingham goal. Adrenaline surged through Tara with the power of Niagara Falls the minute the ball had appeared. All feelings of nervousness were suddenly cast aside as she deftly steered Thunder round towards the goal, and was in position to make an almost perfect interception. Almost negligently, or so it seemed to those watching, she thrust out her mallet. The ball connected with a sharp "THUNK" and the force sent a tremor up her arm, but she clutched the handle all the tighter as the ball was elegantly deflected away from the goal.
***
The game continued. As a practised student of the art of the female form, Dominic was glued to the spectacle of eight of them jiggling up and down on horseback for his entertainment, however other considerations were beginning to impinge upon his mind; that number 4 player for instance. Obviously his view was restricted by the distance and she was rather anonymous beneath that polo helmet, but Dominic was a born observer, a man who saw beneath the facades that most people liked to project. He observed and catalogued examples of body language, and its true meaning. He stored mannerisms, expressions and speech patterns in that capacious data bank of a mind, and used it to analyse and explore those people who interested him. If he could penetrate those shields put up by nearly all human beings in their everyday life, he could also read certain character traits, even from a distance. His practised powers of observation noted that the number 4 radiated dynamism and a certain sense of pent-up aggression. He watched spellbound as she rode off Norton's number 2 and it had been as though she had barely stopped to consider the consequences of her actions, as if she was acting on pure adrenaline, or maybe animal instinct? A certain wildness...What would it take to tame such a woman?
***
The first two periods were virtually without incident, and more importantly, utterly devoid of goals. Tara was obliged to change ponies for the second period, as was the rest of the team and found herself riding a fine bay mare called Blaze of Glory. Although she was initially uncomfortable with the change, she was accomplished enough to take it in her stride. After all, every polo player must adapt to different mounts. In many ways, the choice of mount was immaterial; what counted was the proficiency of the rider. An exceptional rider could be introduced to a pony of any temperament and coax and mould them to their will. Tara had ridden Blaze many times before and her empathy with the pony was only slightly less than with Thunder.
***
"Empathy". The word popped into Dominic's head as he watched the pretty Canadian's obvious symbiosis with her mount. Now that was an interesting thought…he had a calling, more than an interest, more than a hobby. He had carried out exhaustive research, both theoretical and practical, into the rituals and protocols that were necessary in a true D/s relationship, but such was his depth of perception that he had moved beyond the superficial and shallow practices of merely "breaking" a sub. For sure, these had their place, but in his mind were complementary to the main technique of "deconstructing" the slave's personality and examining just what exactly it was that made one human being happily or unhappily submit to another in the 21st century. Empathy – the power of identifying one's self mentally with (and so fully comprehending) a person or object of contemplation. He had always rather liked that definition, especially the inclusion of the term "object", as that could equally apply to an owned slave. As he looked on, Tara wheeled Blaze around to block a scorching ten-yard shot from Norton's number 3. The easy, fluid motions of her arm as she deployed the mallet spoke of her top physical condition. Dominic smiled. That too was extremely important in a good slave…Dominic daydreamed on imagining what it would be like to have a girl like this under his "tutelage". Or, this girl…?
***
The sun had reached its zenith and waves of heat washed over the perspiring crowd, the players and their mounts alike.
A rebound from the side boards, upon which Norton's number 2 ably capitalised, put Norton into a shock lead at the beginning of the third period, Tara, who had left her unmarked as she closed down the number 1, was left dazed. She blinked as she wheeled Thunder around just in time to see the ball zip between the posts of the goal *she* was supposed to be defending! Shit! Norton's player had moved so fast, she had barely had the chance to react. She had let them all down, the whole team. How could she have been so stupid??? She perceived the disappointed looks on the faces of her team-mates as a personal rebuke. She had let them down, and she had failed.
She seethed silently in the next line-up, waiting for the ball to be thrown in, her anger boiling up inside her as she regarded the smug faces of the Norton team opposite. Bitches! They would not be gloating for long!
Dominic had studied the woman's reaction to the goal as best he could from fifteen yards away, yet with intense interest. Now, this was something…small but noticeable changes in body language – the way she hunched over her reins - eyes downcast in an attitude of…what? Sorrow? No…abjection? Not quite…then it struck him…apology. She had failed to perform well and was unconsciously apologising to her team, Whilst it was undoubtedly true that anyone in that position might behave in the same manner, Dominic was confident that his appraisal was correct. He wondered if there would be any chance to meet her after the match…
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