And They're Off . . .

Nimbly sliding to the ground from the saddle of her dappled gray horse Dash, Danielle Marie Parnell presented a mouthwatering vision to every man and boy lucky enough to have her within their sight line at the Davidsonville Polo Club & Equestrian Center. It was the third Saturday in May, and in anticipation of her annual pilgrimage to Pimlico later that day, whereas the managing partner of the prestigious SmythKnight law firm she would host its most important clients, the comely counselor was finishing up a ride of her own in the early morning spring sun.

After unclasping and removing her helmet, the mere act of which freed her luxurious brown mane, sun kissed with blonde highlights, to blow majestically in the light breeze, the gorgeous mother of three put a pair of aviator sunglasses over her emerald green eyes and began the short walk from the outdoor riding arena to the tack room. And what a walk it was. From the tops of her almost knee-high worn leather riding boots, Danielle's incredibly fit legs were covered by a skin-tight pair of tan riding pants, a coupling of cotton and spandex that cupped her peerless ass like a glove. Up top, the preening alpha-mom sported a tight, white, ribbed tank top that profiled her firm midsection to its most sultry effect while showing off her long, tan, feminine but muscled arms.

With her skin glistening from the efforts of putting Dash through his paces, Mrs. Parnell was a vision of sophisticated sex appeal -- and she knew it. Sporting the body of a woman half her age and a face that was a perfect coupling of the best of Kerri Russel and Miranda Kerr, Danielle Parnell thrived not only on the fact of her beauty but even more so on the effect it had on men. And this morning was no different. Watched intently by a host of male trainers, stable hands, riding students and, to Mrs. Parnell's delight, husbands of her friends and neighbors who were there dropping off and picking up their children from riding lessons, Danielle did her best to put on a show. Although outwardly she disdainfully sneered at her lustful audience, she smiled heartily on the inside as she put a little extra sway in her spectacular step.

"Dream on you losers," the preening uber-MILF thought to herself as she bent over at the waste to get a drink of water from a fountain immediately outside the tack room's door, "this is the closest any of you will ever get to this body."

Prolonging her drink for the benefit of her "audience," Mrs. Parnell caught Dr. Richard Miras, a nerdy neighborhood dentist and obvious devotee of Danielle's stunning beauty, ogling her spectacular bottom a bit too closely. Her discovery had the twofold effect of, on the one hand, stoking the alpha-mom's already healthy ego even further and, on the other, providing her with an opportunity to engage in a favorite pastime -- the emasculation of men.

For what provided Danielle with almost as much pleasure as flaunting her magnificent form before men and boys alike, was the rush she experienced from catching one of them in the very act she was so shamelessly encouraging and, in so doing, calling his "inappropriate" behavior out publicly. The icing on the cake was to do so in front of the now humiliated man's wife, daughter or girlfriend, which provided Danielle Parnell the added bonus of letting those women know that in her presence they effectively ceased to exist -- the fat cows.

"Excuse me

doctor

Miras," the haughty diva loudly and condescendingly began, "but I don't recall asking you for an examination of my bottom. Your behavior is outrageously

inappropriate

sir

.

And in front of your wife and daughter no less. How do you think that makes

them

feel?"

Dr. Miras sheepishly glanced between his feet and the very annoyed face of his wife Rachel -- the Davidsonville PTA President who didn't know who she hated more at that moment, her idiot of a husband or the arrogant tease who made him, and now Rachel and their 18 year old daughter Sharon, look ridiculous. As her mother fumed, Sharon Miras, likewise shocked by her father's chiding, fell from the saddle of her horse into a huge mud puddle right in front of her parents. Although the softness of the mud and wet ground thankfully broke Sharon's fall without incident, the ensuing splash of sullied water and horse manure soaked her and her parents alike.

The gathered crowd of local parents, children and other onlookers reacted with a mixture of suppressed laughter at the plight of the Miras family and -- at least as far as any woman present was concerned -- internalized righteous indignation at the arrogant show-off responsible for the scene unfolding before them. Meanwhile, a delighted Danielle Marie Parnell, laughing heartily at the humiliated Miras clan, disappeared into the tack room as she disdainfully remarked, "now you're literally and figuratively a dirty old man Richard."

Mortified and mud-soaked, the Miras family skulked shamefully toward their car.

"Mom . . . I'm so sorry," sobbed Sharon. "When I heard Mrs. Parnell yelling at dad I completely lost my focus and fell . . . I didn't mean to embarrass you guys."

"It's not your fault sweetie," her mother assured the crestfallen teen, careful not to reveal to Sharon her seething anger at the tiny tease who Rachel knew was actually responsible for the entire scene.

"It certainly isn't honey," came the soothing voice of Emma Duncan, a neighbor of both the Miras and Parnell families, who after witnessing the former's misfortune made a bee-line toward Rachel in the parking lot. "Why don't you and your dad hop in the car while I chat with your mom for a minute?"

As young Sharon jumped into the family SUV, now at least somewhat appeased that she wasn't responsible for her parents' humiliation, Rachel Miras shared with Mrs. Duncan the words she had spared her daughter from hearing.

"Can you believe that Parnell woman," she began, almost shaking with anger, "it's not bad enough that she parades around here in those skin-tight clothes shaking that little bottom of hers in the face of our husbands and sons while lording her 'beauty' over us. No -- Little Miss Perfect needs to 'catch them in the act' and then publicly humiliate everyone. Well this time it has gone too far . . . Sharon could have been hurt . . . Richard and I are covered in mud. The worst part is we have to see her again at the club's Preakness garden party this afternoon -- before she struts off to Pimlico with her fancy clients. Just once I'd like to get even with that little show-off -- for her to be on the receiving end."

"You're telling me," Emma commiserated, "I can't tell you how many times that woman has made a snide comment about my weight, my clothes, my intelligence or my 'lazy' children -- and always with that condescending sneer on her perfectly made up face -- always looking down at us from her ridiculously high heels in her fancy designer clothes. I can only imagine the outfit she'll have on at the garden party."

"Do you mean this outfit," came the voice of Billy Miras, Rachel's 19-year-old son and a notorious prankster who, before walking over to join the conversation, witnessed his family's humiliation at the hands of Mrs. Parnell through the large picture window in front of the Polo Club's reception desk where he worked after school and on weekends.

Confused by why her son was holding a $1500 navy blue Carolina Herrera spring mini dress, bedecked with white polka-dots, but with a widening smile on her mud-streaked face, Rachel Miras queried, "is that . . ."

But before she could continue, and with a mischievous grin forming on his own teenage face, Billy completed his mother's question, " . . . Mrs. Parnell's fancy dress for today's garden party? Why yes it is mother. In fact, it was just delivered here straight from the alterations department at Saks. Of course, as the Polo Club's trusted employee manning the reception desk, I'm charged with making sure the

altered

garment makes its way to the ladies locker room where Mrs. Parnell is expecting it."

"Then let the alterations begin," Emma Duncan chimed in as she removed a small scissors from her handbag.

* * *

Stepping from one of the luxurious marble shower stalls in the Davidson Polo Club's sumptuous ladies' locker room, Danielle Parnell pulled on a very short, bright-white terry cloth robe. The well-tanned, gorgeous, emerald eyed mother of three was still smiling from her humiliation of that ridiculous dentist Richard Miras. That his hobbit of a wife and ungrateful daughter had likewise been made public laughingstocks was just icing on the cake. That officious little cow Rachel Miras was nothing but a chubby busy body and the sixth grade Sharon Miras had the audacity only a week before to turn down Will Parnell's invitation to his senior prom making Danielle's eldest, in his mother's eyes, look the fool.

"That's what she gets for embarrassing a Parnell," Danielle thought to herself delighted that once again "mommy" had made right a slight against her "baby boy."

With that thought stoking the love she had for herself even further, Mrs. Parnell began to prepare for the Polo Club's Annual Pre-Preakness Garden Party. As usual, she would bring as guests to the fete the powerful CEOs of her law firm's most important clients -- along with their frumpy wives -- before joining them all for a short ride from the club to Pimilico to watch the second leg of the Triple Crown from millionaire's row. In order to captivate the well-heeled executives' undivided attention, which in turn filled SmythKnight's coffers and secured her position as its managing partner, the captivating counselor planned to dress, as usual, to the nines.

After applying a neutral hued blush to her sun-kissed cheeks, an appropriate but stunning dash of pink to her luscious lips and the softest, almost imperceptible shade of rust colored eyeliner, the sexy solicitor put her hair up in a tight bun in anticipation of setting on her head the fabulous "crown" she had chosen for the day's activities. Rather than go with what had become her race day trademark of a very wide, soft-brimmed stunner in a color that complimented her frock of choice, this year Mrs. Parnell had opted for a very small pillbox hat, with blue polka dots on a white field to contrast it with her backless Carolina Herrera spring mini-dress that featured white polka dots on a field of blue. The fancy chapeau also sported a series of white and blue feathers as decorative plumage. In her view, the creation that sat in the hat box in front of her was the epitome of fashionable sophistication.

Before topping off her outfit though, and after slipping out of her tiny terry cloth robe, Danielle stepped into a towering pair of 4.5" blue leather Fendi peep-toe heels and pulled the tiniest of sheer blue and white silk polka dotted thongs over her magnificent hips. Looking at herself in the mirror as she adjusted the barely there panties -- her dress wouldn't permit a bra but her spectacularly pert baseball sized breasts wouldn't miss it -- Mrs., Parnell reveled in the knowledge that every man wanted her and every woman wanted to be her. Smiling, the lusty lawyer fastened her Mikimoto pearl necklace around her supple neck and slipped a diamond encrusted tennis bracelet onto one wrist and a similarly bejeweled Cartier watch onto the other.

"You're perfect," she cooed at her reflection. And then, after looking around to ensure that no one was watching, the diva of Davidson opened her hat box and fastened her custom made creation atop her perfectly coiffed hair. Imagining the uncontrollable hard-ons the powerful leaders of her firm's most important clients would sport if they ever saw her like this, basking in the certainty of her control over not only their libidos but their valuable accounts and drunk on the superiority she knew her station, beauty and intelligence provided her over their wives and all women, Danielle purred to her imaginary assemblage of CEOs, "do you see anything you like, gentlemen. I thought so."

A sharp knock on the locker room door, followed by a young man's voice asking if everyone was "decent in there," pulled Mrs. Parnell from her private reverie and, after putting her robe back on, the self-satisfied solicitor cracked open the door that led from the locker room itself into a vestibule that separated it from an opulent lobby, where she came face-to-face with one of the club's "flunkies" who was delivering her dress that had just arrived from Saks.

"It's about time," she sneered at Billy Miras, "I take it you brought it straight here after it arrived."

"Of course, Mrs. Parnell," Billy said politely, the smile on his face not a function of his accommodating this shrewish woman but rather of his knowledge -- or at least hope -- of things to come. And then, before placing the hanger in the waiting and well-manicured hand of the haughty diva who only an hour before had humiliated his entire family, Billy offered, "it's a very beautiful dress Mrs. Parnell, I'm sure you'll be the hit of the garden party."

"That's none of your concern young man now mind your place," snapped the imperious

prima donna,

on the one hand shocked that this insufferable peon would dare pass judgment on her in any way but on the other delighted that yet another man had validated her beauty. None of them could resist her, the losers.

As the self-important socialite turned on her oh-so-high heels and headed back into the locker room, Billy Miras, fuming now even more at her arrogance, couldn't help but stare at the backs of Danielle's long legs that were visible all the way to mid-thigh before disappearing under her short robe.

"I wonder what she's wearing under there," he thought to himself. Soon enough he would know.

* * *

As his mother got dressed in the club's opulent women's locker room, slipping the halter top of her backless designer mini-dress over her bare shoulders while fastening the flouncy, flared, mid-thigh length skirt bottom around her tiny waist, young Will Parnell, Danielle's 18-year-old son, was getting ready in the men's locker room. Despite his protestations to the contrary, his mother was forcing him one final time to participate in the "little jockeys' pony race." Every year, the young sons of club members would get into black boots, white riding pants, "silks" chosen by their moms and a matching helmet, only to be paraded through the Polo Club's garden party and then forced to mount ponies for a quick one-lap ride around the outdoor practice track. Proud, smiling parents would place bets on who would win with all proceeds going to charity.

In Will's mind being deemed a "little jockey" was bad enough when he was a child but far worse now that he was about to finish high school and the next oldest "rider" was only 12. It wasn't his fault that he was -- admittedly -- a somewhat undersized prepubescent teen. This was embarrassing. Of course, that meant nothing to his mother. Will genuinely loved his mom but resented that she still treated him like a baby. The other guys always razzed him about it and he knew this would make it even worse. It also didn't help that she was bossy to his teachers, his coaches, his friends' parents and his friends themselves. Couple that with the fact that he had almost completely outgrown his white canvas riding pants and was being forced by Danielle to wear a blue-and-white polka dotted silk shirt and helmet cover and he knew it was going to be a long day.

* * *

The cavernous lobby of the Davidson Polo Club & Equestrian Center clubhouse opened through a series of floor to ceiling glass plated French doors to an expansive cedar terrace which stretched the entire 200 feet of the building's sizable back facade. The terrace in turn, which provided a stunning vista of the polo fields and outdoor riding track, stepped down on each side into two symmetrical and lovely English gardens which were bifurcated in the center by the main turn of the Equestrian Center racetrack on which this day sat a rolling platform where the little jockey's would mount their miniature steeds for the start of the pony race.

The terrace and the gardens were already awash with garden party attendees including Richard and Rachel Miras and Emma Duncan, when Mrs. Parnell made her grand entrance from the lobby. Confident of the effect she always had on men, Danielle sensed the snapping of necks and stirring of loins as, with a little extra sway in her spectacular hips she made her away across the terrace to where she spotted the small assemblage of SmythKnight's key clients' most senior executives and their wives.

"It's like taking candy from a baby," the sexy solicitor thought to herself as she deftly laid a hand on each CEO's wrist before bestowing an air kiss on each of his cheeks, "these old fools are already salivating as their fossilized wives stew powerlessly in their irrelevance."

Just as the men and boys present were mesmerized by the sexy beauty before them, the women at the garden party stared daggers at the self-proclaimed Queen Bee who looked down upon them as if they were mere peasants.

"Just look at her flirting shamelessly with those old men in her cutesy little outfit," said Karen Manley, a "partner" of Danielle's at the prestigious SmythKnight law firm who had been told by her imperious boss in no uncertain terms to be at the garden party for the purpose of attending to clients' wives.

"The companies led by those

old men

pay our salaries," responded Lauren Butcher, another SmythKnight lawyer who Danielle had tasked with "wife" babysitting duty.

"It's just too bad that all of their business goes into that little show-off's win column," continued the almost six foot tall Mrs. Butcher, "she wouldn't be so high and mighty if that work was yours or mine."

"No kidding," laughed Karen imagining how wonderful it would be to have that type of leverage over their oppressive boss, "then we could tell her what to do instead of always doing her bidding."

"Dream on, she'll always have them eating out of her well-manicured hand" Lauren lamented just as Mrs. Parnell came their way.

"Ladies," the preening diva addressed the CEOs' wives who she had in tow, "allow me to introduce you to Karen Manley and Lauren Butcher. They work for me at SmythKnight and while they may not look it at first glance, they should quite capably be able to attend to your needs while your husbands and I talk business."

And just like that, having insulted two groups of women at once and having loved every second of it, Mrs. Danielle Parnell left the fuming females behind as the club's president announced from the cedar deck that it was time for the mother and son parade that preceded the annual little jockeys' race.

As the procession of moms and sons made their way toward the rolling platform that bisected the expansive Polo Club terrace it became very clear to all that young Will Parnell was a bit too old for this race, and quite literally a bit too big for his britches that were stretched almost to the breaking point. Although all the other boys, a smattering of ten kids between 10 and 12 years old, looked adorable in their little riding suits, poor Will who although not very tall still stood a good eight inches higher than the next tallest rider, looked completely put upon and was the only kid whose silks matched his mother's dress.

Not caring a wit for her son's discomfort, Danielle Parnell, practically dragging Will by his hand, strode across the veranda as if she was a model on a catwalk while every man "saluted" her efforts and every woman longed for her comeuppance. Thanks to the confluence of Will having outgrown his riding pants, an allergic horse who wanted no part of any passenger and Emma Duncan's handiwork, those women were about to get their wish.