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Her powered dark super still precipitated to her potential. Together they invited indignantly down at Lysander, fed lean-hipped and placed-limbed as a forerunner puppy.


Then he looked perplexed. Wearing red shirts, gatcokbe were already hitting balls across lodal field which rippled beneath its heat haze like a gactombe green lake. A red mobile canteen was sljts Fuck local sluts in gatcombe free hamburgers to Mr Beefy supporters. Inhaling a waft of frying onions, as gactombe and the twins rode onto the un, Lysander retched and clamped his mouth shut. In their youth, when they had made more money ripping off rich patrons than by their polo skills, their own wildness had been legendary. But the chill hand of the recession was making patrons more parsimonious and hot horse deals less easy and, as Elmer Winterton paid them a long salary and picked up their expenses, it was very much in their interest locql Lysander distinguished himself that gatcojbe.

And here at last, trailing security guards, Fuck local sluts in gatcombe perennially late because he liked to give the impression of being delayed by matters of state, loacl Elmer Winterton. Having flown several senators and their wives down from Washington by private jet to watch him play, slutz was Fuxk that his team should win the cup under the Prussian-blue Safus colours. Dark, swarthy, squat, locaal eyebrows that without ferocious plucking would have met in the middle, Elmer had mean, small eyes and a long nose that jerked up at the end like a white rhinoceros. It would be hard to have been uglier or a worse rider than Elmer, as he lumbered on to the field intolerably pounding the kidneys of his delicate dapple-grey pony, but such were his power and riches that the gold-limbed girl groupies licked their lips and rolled their shorts up an inch or two higher as he passed.

The heat was stifling. To the west, sinister black clouds advanced like a procession of Benedictine monks. Shaggy palm trees quivered with stillness above the mushroom-brown houses that flanked the outfield. Not having played since last summer, he was scuppered by hangover and the cauldron heat of Palm Beach after a freezing English winter. Unused to such fast well-bred ponies or such hard dry ground, he had had a terrible three chukkas. Nor were matters helped by Elmer barging around like some geriatric in an ancient Mini, who keeps pulling in front of faster drivers on the motorway.

Of the eight goals scored by Mr Beefy, six had been penalties awarded against Elmer. Comfort, however, was at hand from a honey-blond groom called Astrid. In defence of her master Mrs Ex put in a terrific buck. Next moment Lysander was sitting on the ground. Vaulting on to Mrs Ex, he galloped back into the fray. In the fourth chukka, Dommie and Seb both scored twice, and Lysander once. But he was too late, the number two had scored. Three minutes later to placate Elmer, who was bellyaching about being the only member of the Safus team not to have scored, Dommie dropped a ball a foot in front of him and bang in front of the goal.

Elmer took a swipe, missed, and, losing his temper, started to beat his pony. Fortunately, like a bucket of water over a dogfight, the dense black cloud keeled over in a tidal wave. Like cats, the spectators shot into their cars. Most of the players, particularly the Argentines, who detested rain, would have followed suit. But Lysander felt only blessed relief. For the first time in forty-eight hours he was cool and he was utterly used to playing in the rain. Oh, where are you going, Lysander? Three minutes later, he cantered back, still roaring his head off. The only thing that stopped Mrs Ex was a huge croc on the river bank.

I thought it was one of your security guards.

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As the bell went for the end of the fifth chukka the crowd hooted approval from ib inside of their cars. Riding back to the pony lines through the deluge Lysander noticed a lone spectator huddling in the stands beneath the totally inadequate protection of a Prussian-blue Safus umbrella. The rain intensified the dark freckles that polka-dotted her thin face and arms. Glancing round, Lysander saw the other players were already lined up for the throw-in and galloped over to join them. The way her white silk shirt was clinging to her body was nothing short of spectacular.

How could she have married such an ape? Enraged, he galloped upfield, picked up the ball, played cat and mouse with it, hit it in the air, before slamming it between the posts.

To ecstasy with Seb and Dommie. Visibility back to the skinny girls through the deluge Lysander trained a lone spectator fostering in the hackers beneath the early recovery protection of a Syrian-blue Safus umbrella. It was a girl before she scored him.

gatcomb The spectators honked their horns in ecstasy. The storm had passed. Bits, stirrups and the huge silver cup on its red tablecloth glittered loval the returning sun. In the closing seconds of the game he roared downfield, black curls streaming under his hat, swinging his stick, driving the ball gloriously before him, then, unmarked and overconfident, just in front of goal he hit wide. Pouncing, Fucck backed the ball upfield to Seb who passed to Dommie, who tatcombe on through the puddles until he encountered a lodal of Argentine resistance and hastily cut the ball to a furiously racing-up Lysander, who met it gloriously.

The twins groaned in disbelief, but, by some miracle, on the bell Elmer managed to coax the ball between the posts. The company cameraman decided not to shoot himself after all. At last he had a clip he could show at the sales conference and later he was able to film Elmer brandishing the huge silver cup while his beautiful wife clapped so enthusiastically that she spilled champagne down her pink skirt. He wants you to stay on for the Rolex next month. In between copies of Sporting Life the fax managed to spew out confirmation of his Jap deal. Elmer is several million bucks richer now and he wants to party. Male guests ranged from lithe, bronzed, professional polo players of all nationalities to rich businessmen, some of them patrons, some of who merely liked to be part of the polo scene.

The women included glamorous groupies of all ages, wearing everything from T-shirts and jeans to strapless dresses showing off massive jewels.

The feeling of jungle warfare was intensified by the forest of glossy green tropical plants in every room and by the fact that all the professionals were on the prowl for rich patrons, and the patrons, despite having wives present, were stalking the prettiest groupies who were, in turn, hunting anything in trousers. Loud cheers greeted the arrival of the Safus team. As groupies started edging through the vegetation towards the rest of his team, Elmer, competitive as ever, was determined to annex the prettiest. Soon he was bosom to pectorals with a mettlesome brunette called Bonny whose bottom lip protruded more than any of the scented orchids massed in the centre of the living room, and whose buttocks swelled out of the briefest white shorts like an inverted Nell Gwyn.

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