Miranda was on her way to Blaisdell Farms for her second breeding session. This one would be different, as Pruett had explained.
"Think of this as your society debut. I know you can handle the shows, Larry tells me your club, performances went well, and I've seen you charm VIPs like Carlton Willoughby. Now that we know you can handle the actual job, it's time we introduced you to some more of the IHBA members. With so much in common, these people socialize quite a bit. Especially those in this part of the state. Seems like every event is worthy of a party."
"And I'm the entertainment?"
"You're the reason."
"It's OK. I'm fine with being the entertainment. I just hope they aren't expecting a show. I can't do both at once. The breeding part is too overwhelming for me to make it flashy."
"No, you do what you're there to do, which is to inseminate their horse. Don't worry about theatrics. I saw how ... focused you got last time."
"Biological compulsion. Meaning my dick took control and the rest of me was dragged along. I've felt that from both sides now. It happened the first time Barry and I ... got together. This was before, of course. I couldn't stop myself then either. I just had to have it. I was so desperate I let him take me bareback. That was stupid, but I was so..."
Pruett cleared his throat to interrupt her. "I promise that when the time comes, I'll make sure nothing gets in your way."
"Thanks. I think we can blame my breeding-frenzy on the hormones working the way they're supposed to. But the other stuff ... either I have poor impulse-control or I'm just naturally highly-sexed."
"Hmph!" Pruett snorted. It was just short of a laugh.
"This needing to masturbate all the time isn't really the burden I thought it might be. I always enjoy doing it. It's just that it can be ... inconvenient, you know?"
Pruett didn't reply. Miranda saw him press his lips together into a thin line and interpreted that to mean he wasn't comfortable with the conversation and didn't want it to continue.
"Anyway," Miranda went on, "I wanted to thank you for agreeing to buy me the Extractor. That's going to help a lot."
"You're welcome," Pruett told her, glad that she'd finally arrived at the point. "Fletcher's estimate wasn't quite as astronomical as it might have been."
"Uh, that may have been Vince's doing. He seemed quite enthusiastic about handling the project. He thinks he has what he needs on the shelf and he can make the rest himself. His uncle is probably just glad to have something to keep him busy and out of his hair. Vince may be borderline OCD. I think most geniuses are. Of course, not everyone who is compulsive is a genius."
Pruett had his own suspicions about what Vincent Danvers had been enthusiastic about handling. Miranda had already told him about how Acme's Chief Designer had been very thorough with his measurements. He suspected that was less about getting accurate data and more about getting touchy-feelie with her. Larry Richard's reports on sales of Miranda's first video showed a level of interest that clearly went beyond the niche trans-gender community and even the gay market. Straights had to be ordering it as well. More proof that Larry had been right and he had been wrong about the appeal of a real-live Stallion Girl. As if any more were needed. He'd already eaten that helping of crow. Miranda was well on her way to becoming a minor celebrity in a niche market. But the world was a big place. Even niches could be populated with a large-enough number of people to be very profitable. While the videos and live appearances weren't a fraction of what they would make from her stud-fees, money was, after all, money. You never knew when that extra dollar might make a difference. That was a point he'd made more than once in meetings, so he couldn't object if Larry had repeated it back.
Driving the fence-lined two-lane roads through the rolling hills in his over-sized pickup truck, Pruett seemed in his element. Much of the other traffic they passed was split between trucks pulling trailers, imported SUVs, and even fancier sedans. Half of the vehicles they saw had logos on them belonging to some farm, ranch, or stable.
"What's a farrier?" Miranda asked, after they passed one truck.
"Someone who shoes horses. Why?"
"I thought that's what it meant. The sign on the back of that last truck said 'Grace Miller, Farrier'".
"Grace has been shoeing horses since I was a teenager. She's never going to retire. Why? Don't tell me you're surprized that a woman does that kind of work."
"I guess I sound sexist, don't I?"
"A little. She doesn't do the smith-work. The shoes are all lightweight alloys now, not hammered iron bar-stock. Still, it isn't light work. Gracie still swings a mean hammer. And not just for a woman her age. She's got to be in her seventies now."
Miranda fell silent. She was wondering what she'd be doing at that age. Her present career could only last so long. Age wouldn't be the limiting factor. She thought it was far more likely that Dr. McKay, or someone like him, would create a new-and-improved Stallion Girl and she'd be put out to pasture – a more-than-normally appropriate metaphor in her case.
"Better make hay while the sun shines," she thought. "If I do the best I can now, I won't have to worry about having a job down the road. I'll be independently wealthy and able to do anything I like. According to Daddy, my club appearance fees and tips have already put me well ahead of what I could have expected to make doing lingerie catalogs."
When they arrived, a buff young man in white slacks and a poorly-fitting bright-green jacket over a snug white t-shirt came over to open her door. Miranda recognized the colors from the signs they had passed on the way. They were the same colors that the jockeys would wear when riding horses raised there. The fact that the jacket fit so poorly had to mean that the young man was a temp who'd been hired to open doors and park cars for the day.
"Welcome to Blaisdell Farms," he said as he swung the door open for her. Miranda suspected that the enthusiasm of his greeting had more to do with her appearance than his pay scale. Although if she had to guess, based on the muscles she could see straining the seams of his too-small coat, she'd say he was a sports-jock of some kind who had lucked-into a simple job with a chance to make some extra money. Perhaps more than usual for parking cars, considering the kind of people who would likely be there today.
Since she'd be attending a party before getting down to work, Miranda had dressed accordingly. She wore her hair pulled back from her face to show-off her expertly-applied makeup. After a debate with herself over the obviousness of it, she'd decided to wear it in a pony-tail. To offset the naivete that projected, she wore her black, ankle-length dress made of sheer stretch nylon. The effect was very much like she'd pulled on a full-body black nylon stocking. The dress was club-wear, meant to be seen under low or poor lighting, where it would obscure much and show little. Pulled tight over her chest, flanks, and rump in the direct rays of the afternoon sun, it was quite transparent, much like a tinted car window. It had sleeves that came to her elbows and a 'V' neckline dropped low enough between her breasts to offer unnecessary proof that she wasn't wearing a bra.
Miranda had anticipated one potential problem area. As she turned to get down out of the truck, she held her small purse in front of her groin so that it covered the bulge made by the base of her cock. She was unaware of two other spots until the gaze of the valet brought them to her attention.
"Thank you," Miranda said, taking the offered hand as she maneuvered down from the cab. The dress wasn't designed to allow her legs much freedom. Other than jumping, the only way she could get down was to extend one foot below the other and hope nothing would flop out and dangle free while she was in mid-step.
As luck would have it, something did drop into view for a second, but the attention of the valet was so glued to her bust, that he completely missed seeing the end of her cock fall into view before Miranda could get her feet together again.
"This is not a club appearance," Miranda reminded herself once again. "I won't be stripping. At least I don't expect them to ask me to. My appearance today will have a purpose other than just entertaining people by showing-off. Like Mr. Pruett says, this is my real job. I need to keep it classy and business-like."
Pruett handed his key to the young man and gave his arm to Miranda. Wearing sky-high heels was almost second-nature for her now, but these were new and more stylish than practical, making her less steady on her feet than usual. Combined with the restriction of her tight dress, having his support seemed an excellent idea.
The valet started the truck, but paused to look through the windshield at Pruett leading Miranda to the front door. As she walked away, he admired the way things moved under her clingy dress. Too many things, he realized. With a puzzled frown, he stared after her, wondering how it was that she seemed to have four ass-cheeks and three legs moving around under her dress.
"I shouldn't have let the stable-hands talk me into smoking that doobie with them before the party," he thought, blinking firmly to try to erase the illusion. "Their weed is stronger than the shit I'm used to."
.... There is more of this story ...