Free The Stallion by Georgina Brown

little more than sisterly affection, she glanced briefly at her brother before she spoke.
    ‘She doesn’t like to be told that she can’t have something,’ said Nadine. ‘Ari said that. You know, the Barbie-doll type who you spent yourself with last time. That’s good, my darling brother, very good. She’s compliant, extremely sexual and very determined.’
    The Adam’s apple in Alistair’s throat throbbed as if trying to escape. His gaze stayed on the mirror to the room beyond. It was empty now. Penny had gone, but his mind filled the void as he imagined what was to come.
    Nadine watched him and saw the constriction in his throat. Just like his penis, she thought with perverse pleasure. How engorged it must be; swollen with need, yet unable to break free from its rubber prison, confined there until she decreed the time was right.
    Nadine smiled to herself. How was Penny to know that Ariadne had indeed had sex with Alistair? How was she also to know that – powerful man as he was, always giving orders, always having people standing in awe of him – he liked his urgings controlled . . . by his sister.
    He had sex when
she
wanted. The rest of the time, he wore the rubber pants and was only allowed to watch and wonder whilst Nadine imagined his rising prick, trapped and unable to do anything.
    And so, his passion was saved, accrued, and when he was released . . .
    ‘We’d better be off into dinner, my dear brother,’ Nadine said, stretching languidly, arms above her head so her fingertips were well on their way to the ceiling.
    Suddenly, Alistair grabbed hold of his sister’s arm. The action took her by surprise. Eyes met eyes, and Nadine’s jaw clenched squarely as he spoke. ‘You know she’s going to do everything in her power to get me going, don’t you? She already knows these mirrors are two-way. She’d hardly have put on that exhibition otherwise now, would she?’
    Nadine’s smile was undeniably cruel. She raked one black-painted fingernail down over his cheek.
    ‘Yes, brother. Ariadne knew she would. Knew she couldn’t resist the wager either. If she gets you, she also gets the stallion. Sweetly, deliciously ironic, don’t you think? Two stallions all in one.’
    There were chandeliers in the dining-room, all starlike sparkle hanging from the high ceiling, which was predominantly Wedgwood blue but with swirls of ornamental plaster picked out in crisp gold and icy white.
    The windows were like the ones Penny remembered from Alistair’s office: Georgian panes set in big sash windows that left little room for walls between the high ceiling and the blue-and-gold plush pile carpet. The curtains were gold damask with heavy tie-backs that hooked to the unusually pronounced brass phalli of flying cherubs.
    The walls that were left were white, their expansive iciness relieved only with a dado rail of crisp blue and spine of gold. Large paintings also relieved the white walls. The frames were gilt, the subjects’ nude figures indulging in a variety of positions with more than one partner. Yet they were not piles of Titian flesh, all white and lumpy with small breasts and heavy hips. These were sleek women and well-honed and -hung men. These were today’s figures, firm and supple, uninhibited in their pleasures and healthy in their bodies.
    The gold, the blue, the whiteness were reflected in a myriad shades from the overhanging chandeliers and duplicated by the lead-crystal wine glasses. Some of the glasses contained red wine, dark as warm blood; others were full with white wine, the liquid softly golden.
    There were four people seated at the table: Alistair, of course; another man introduced as Auberon Harding, a fellow rider, young and good-looking; and another man introduced as Sir Reginald Chrysling, who was older, but had worn well and had an instant, if predictable, old-world charm.
    ‘Reggie,’ he corrected enthusiastically, his tongue licking over thin lips in a strong face. ‘My friends call me