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“Hello… My name is Angie.”

“Yes?” The woman on the other end wasn’t giving anything away. Not even a name.

Angie had to plow ahead on her own. “I was given a card.”

A brief pause, just long enough for Angie to think she might have called the wrong number.

“I will give you an address. If you are serious, you will present yourself tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp.” The voice was elegant, with a light French accent. “Plan to be away for the day. Do not pack anything. Your needs will be provided for.”

Angie’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding?” Like she would go away with someone without even knowing her name.

“Are you wasting my time?” Underneath the cultured poise was imperiousness.

“I mean, I don’t know you. I’m not—”

She was interrupted. “You are. You know perfectly well what kind of place you have called. You are either interested or you are not. If you come, do not be late.”

Angie wrote down the address, numb with confusion. Before she could say anything else, she was disconnected.

She remembered the pony-girl at the party. Especially the earrings and shoes. Yes, she knew what kind of place she had called. A place where rich people lived.

In the morning, she took a train out into the country. Disembarking at a small village station, she discovered company. Two other women, young and very attractive. Angie felt a little stab of competition.

One was blonde and very quiet. Her body and hair were both a little too thin for Angie’s taste, and she looked nervous. The other one, with full, bouncy black tresses and an equally impressive bust, smiled and tried to make friends.

“Hi. I’m Trina. I guess we’re all here for the same reason.”

“I suppose,” Angie said coolly. The blonde bit her lip and said nothing.

“Quite a lark,” Trina babbled on. “It’s my first time. I don’t really know what to expect.”

It was pretty obviously the first time for all of them, so naturally they were all nervous. But Angie was here to embarrass the annoying Jack Greyson. That gave her a sense of purpose and control.

She smiled serenely at the other girls, and pointed at the long black limo that pulled into the station parking lot.

“I believe that’s our ride.” Angie led the other girls off the platform and towards the car.

The limo driver was huge, expensively dressed, and silent. Much like the limo. Real leather on the seats, etched glass ashtrays that were perfectly clean, and deep shag carpeting that looked as fresh as new-fallen snow.

The car glided through an imposing gate that closed itself behind them. The blonde girl was too nervous to speak, and Trina had mercifully responded to Angie’s coolness by shutting up. After they pulled to a stop, the driver leapt from his seat and marched smartly around the car to open the door for the women

The blonde showed a little life as they climbed the stairs to the huge oak front door. She stared at the magnificence of the mansion, and began to smile.

Oddly, no one opened the door for them. Angie looked in vain for a doorbell button or a buzzer.

“I guess we have to let ourselves in,” Trina said.

Instinctively, Angie glanced above the doorway, expecting to see fiery letters spelling out “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” With a harrumph at her own squeamishness, she pushed on the great brass handle. The door opened easily, making a soft, glassy tinkling to announce their presence.

Inside was a great hallway leading to a room flanked with large flowing staircases. In the middle of the room, an elegant, attractive, middle-aged woman waited for them.

“I will explain the rules to you exactly once,” the woman said. Angie recognized the voice, the tone of command softened only by the French accent.

“What rules?” Trina asked.

The woman flicked her eyelashes contemptuously. Angie was deeply impressed. It took a lifetime of practice to convey so much with so little, to so politely and yet effectively put someone in their place.

“The first rule is to not speak unless spoken to. You will refer to me as Mistress Vanya, when you have need of actually speaking.”

Vanya let that sink in, pulling an exotic cigarette from a small jeweled case and lighting it to pass the time. Angie tried not to fidget, wishing Trina would stop embarrassing them all.

“What you must know first is that this all for show.” Vanya looked each of them in the eyes piercingly. “If you are looking for complete domination, you must go elsewhere. We play at it here; we do not live it. Of course, our gentleman customers are men, yes, so you may expect the ordinary demands, which I am sure you are quite capable of fulfilling.”

“What are you suggesting?” Trina blurted out, but Vanya silenced her with a glance.

“The second thing you must know is that this is all completely voluntary. You may leave at any time. Bathshire Stables does not provide a product; it provides a service, to both our gentlemen customers and our female clients. On these grounds, rich men and pretty girls may meet each other under special circumstances, and come to whatever arrangement pleases both parties. You must follow some rules to facilitate those circumstances, but the end result is up to your discretion, taste, and ambition.”

Vanya inhaled from her cigarette, and slowly blew out a gentle stream of smoke. It smelled like cloves and perfume.

“You will find the rules…onerous at first. This cannot be helped. Again, you may leave at any time, but if you do so, you will not be allowed to return. Understand that our customers, and our staff, are bound by rules also, so your safety is assured.”

Angie felt herself starting to blush. Embarrassing Jack under these circumstances might be more difficult than she had expected. More disconcertingly, however, she found herself listening to Vanya’s presentation with interest.

“Finally, understand that we are experts. When we ask for something, it is because we know you are prepared for it. You must trust our judgment, and submit to our authority. By doing so, you will be taught to attract the attention of a suitable gentleman, who will then add you to his stable at whatever position of affection and loyalty you have earned. This, of course, is your goal, and it is Bathshire Stable’s goal as well. We have a long and proud history, and our reputation is everything to us. I can tell you that we often take in girls by referral. The life you have been seeking is now within your grasp, if you are willing to reach for it.”

Angie thought about her long quest, the noisy bars, the pathetic stockbrokers, and the lonely weeks in between. It was time to admit her plan wasn’t really working. Another few years of that and she’d be past her prime, unbearably lonely, and desperate enough to settle for some handsome, strong idiot who made a living with his hands.

Like Jack Greyson.

Against the memory of his thick hands, the vision of the pony-girl’s earrings glittered in her mind. More than that, the memory of the girl’s audacity, flaunting her beauty and sexuality, enjoying it instead of hiding it. Being valued for it. The power reversed. The act of sex becoming something that put her in control of the men even while she serviced them. Being the source of her man’s glory, instead of merely a reflection of it.

Angie wasn’t going to settle for a three-room flat and a handful of noisy brats, living off an underwriter’s salary, washing her own dishes, doing her own laundry, taking holidays at Brighton Beach instead of the Riviera. Angie wasn’t going to let herself be trapped like that.

“I’ll do it,” she said, even though Vanya hadn’t asked anything yet.