Golden Horse - Chapter 13 Parts 1& 2 adapted from the scandalously provocative, politically incorrect Latin classic 'Asinus Aureus'

WARNING: The Greeks and Romans had no problem with 'adult themes' and outlooks on life (from 2,000 years ago!) which are sometimes very different from today's and may shock some readers to the core.

As Yogi Berra said, "When you come to a fork in the road. Take it."
"Golden Horse" is your fork.
Afraid of what lies ahead? Then turn back.

Accidentally turned into a horse by his lover (who’s a witch) a young lawyer's plan to defraud a billionaire goes wildly wrong. Destined to see the cruel crazy erotic world through equine eyes, finally he manages to escape to become an animal rights activist.

Retranslated and (liberally) adapted in today’s world (of London) from the original Latin of Lucius Apuleius (a Tunisian Roman citizen), which itself came from the Ancient Greek he wrote it in.

Chapter 13

Part One.

Once upon a time, there were three sisters. The oldest sisters were ugly and nasty and stupid. The youngest sister was beautiful and kind and clever. Naturally, her father loved her the most. Equally naturally, her sisters hated her. If this story seems familiar, well done. You were obviously paying attention to your bed-time stories.

The particular dysfunctional family lived in genteel poverty in a small, damp mews house by the river in Chelsea. Their mother was, naturally, dead and the three girls were supposed to take it in turns to cook and clean and care for their ailing father. In reality, as in all good fairy stories, the older sisters did nothing at all, all day, except paint their nails. The youngest sister - who was not, I hasten to add, actually called Cinderella, but Amina - did all the work. It was not a happy life.

In between changing sheets (and catheters), peeling potatoes and polishing furniture, the young girl allowed herself to dream of another life. In particular, she allowed herself to dream of a sex life. Of which she had had, so far, precious little experience. She was well aware that she was attractive to the opposite sex, but this seemed - in some topsy-turvy way - to be the whole problem. Men were too frightened even to address her. The plumbers, electricians and gardeners, the doctors, carers and supermarket delivery men, in short, every male who called at the house was reduced to a gibbering wreck. Men wouldn't, or couldn't, even look at her. And they certainly wouldn't speak to her. To get them to touch her seemed a Herculean task. She couldn't even remember her last orgasm or the last time she was even touched below the waist.

She was 24 years old and her biggest sexual adventure so far had been in the dorms at St Winifred’s. She was a fire-ball of raging hormones and sexual frustration. Every night, she pushed and played and splayed, just to ensure that she wouldn't actually seal up. The little ripples of pleasure were vaguely satisfying, but how she yearned, with a desperate yearning, for the Real Thing.

And so it came about that every Thursday night, while her sisters were breaking the furniture at the latest night club ('You know a place has gone to the dogs when it starts being popular on Friday and Saturday'), she trawled the internet for a means of escape. Her needs were very specific. He must be local, he must be rich and he must be interested only in sex. Amina had no desire for the complications of a relationship (hideous word). She loved her father far too much for that.

You would have thought that this was not such a hard remit, but it took the whole summer before she met him. 'Met' of course is hardly the right term, but she had made contact, exchanged e-mails and laid down a few basic rules of engagement. She had even - recklessly - given him her father's address and agreed that he could write. But when the letter finally arrived, in a crisp, cream envelope, crested and embossed, it took two whole days before she could bear to open it. It seemed as if her whole future life depended on the contents of this curiously formal and old-fashioned envelope. And she was right.

At this momentous cliff-hanger, the old crone stopped for the night and ordered her charge to get to bed and go to sleep. Chapter two could wait. And no funny stuff, neither. No big ideas about running away. Where's there to run to, anyway? Even I knew the answer to that. Nowhere. A big fat zero. We were living in one of the last wildernesses on the planet. And so, grinding our teeth in frustration, the girl and I did as we were told. We went to bed. She to a rusty old Z-bed and a sleeping-bag, me to the least windy corner of the field. After a cold and uncomfortable night - I could never quite get the hang of sleeping standing up - I presented myself at the caravan door to hear what happened next.

Part Two

I read the letter again, with a strange mixture of emotions, of which fear was dominant.

5, Wilton Terrace,
Knightsbridge,
London, SW.

Please find enclosed the key and all necessary instructions.
Arrive any time after 5pm on Friday 30th November.
Amuse yourself in any way you wish until 10pm.
At 10pm precisely, go upstairs to the front bedroom.
On the bed, you will find a white shirt and an eye mask. Wear them. And nothing else.
Draw the curtains, switch off the light. And wait. For me.
Tell no one where you are going or what you are doing.
Destroy this letter.

There was no signature, just a mysterious, vaguely hieratic mark.
My hands were shaking as I read the letter. My mouth was dry and my heart was hammering. I felt suddenly faint with fear, confusion and other, less easily definable emotions. I sat on a chair and tried to think calmly and rationally. He was most likely a sick pervert who would chop me up into little pieces and feed me to his pugs. I should, of course, meet him in a crowded place, with a couple of well-meaning, ugly friends, before committing myself to this curious SM-ish scenario. I had read the web-site's dating guidelines. Of course I had. And what sort of man tells a woman he's never even met what to wear and how to behave in the master bedroom? Who the hell does he think he is? And why didn't he put up a photo? He's seen me from every angle and in every state of undress, but I hadn't the slightest clue as to his physical appearance. In fact, I hadn't the slightest clue about anything at all. I knew absolutely nothing about this man. We had been exchanging e-mails for three months and I didn't even know his name. Was I ready to have sex with a black hole?

On the other hand, Friday was always my night off. At 3 pm, as regular as clockwork, a scarily efficient Swedish matron drives up to Tite Mews and looks after Dad until 10 the next morning. The die, as they say, was cast. And it was all thanks to Mrs Bjork and her meat-balls. And, yes, she really was called that. If your powers of imagination are really so rudimentary, you're going to have a lot of trouble with the rest of this story and may as well stop reading right now.
I somehow managed to lurch from Tuesday to Friday.

I somehow managed to think of a reasonably convincing story of where I was going, something about a last-minute deal on a painting course. I somehow completed the short tube trip from Sloane Square to Hyde Park Corner and somehow navigated the mansion-lined streets to my destination. All around me, life went on as normal, the tourists looking for Harrods, the chauffeurs polishing the ambassadorial jags, the Arab princesses shopping with their female body-guards. I felt a sudden yearning for the normal, the hum-drum and the tangible.

The quotidian. I looked at my watch and thought what I'd normally be doing at this time on a Friday. Doing twenty lengths with my old school friends (my erstwhile dorm-mates). There was still time. I didn't have to go through with this crazy nonsense. I touched the key in my pocket and wondered what magic casement it would open. What new life. What seedy death. A crocodile of prep-school boys, so innocent and so real, literally stopped me in my tracks. I stood on the pavement, like Hercules at the cross-roads. The angels waited with baited breath to see which way I'd jump. I somehow knew that I was poised before the most momentous decision of my life. What should I do?

In the end, I did what any normal woman would do: I chose the path most likely to lead to sexual satisfaction.
As soon as I put my key in the door and crossed the threshold, I knew that I had entered another dimension, a parallel reality, or, as I explained to my prosaic, 21st-century self, a meticulously crafted, computer-animated, virtual reality. As soon as I placed my wary foot on the highly polished parquet floor, the house leapt into life. As if released at last from the spell of a wicked stepmother. Everywhere were the sounds of muted, yet busy activity. The sounds of voices, the chink of glass, the running of taps, the opening of doors, the patter of busy feet. As I stood in the glorious, Georgian hall, side-lights were magically switched on, invisible hands took my coat and puffed a delicious, light scent at my throat and wrists. Somewhere, a piano played. A Chopin waltz. At the far end of the marble atrium, a door opened and a voice addressed me. A voice without a body. I was startled to hear the slightly Germanic voice of a well-trained butler:
Step this way, Madam, if you please.

The disembodied voice ushered me through a long passage into a gorgeous dining room, just the sort one sees in glossy magazines and Sunday supplements. Everything was beautiful and wildly expensive. I suppose that I must subconsciously have been expecting brocades and velvet and heavy furniture. Something appropriately Georgian and appropriately Knightsbridge. But the owner of this perfectly proportioned room had had the sense to fill it with contemporary masterpieces. It was a risk, but it worked perfectly. This was a man who trod his own path. As I stood, transfixed, in front of a candelabrum that seemed to dance and jig before my very eyes, a chair was pulled out and I was invited to sit. And sit I did, before a mouth-watering array of international delicacies.

Since nerves had prevented me from eating breakfast or even lunch, the collation was, to say the least, welcome. Like Belle in the Beast's castle, I was served by an army of invisible, diligent servants. My plate was soon heaped with caviar, camembert, artisan bread and Swedish crackers, with fat, purple olives, dolmades, enchiladas and crumbly Greek pastries filled with feta and saffron. An elderly voice poured glass after glass of perfectly chilled, perfectly matched wines.

Since my father had always prided himself on a superlative cellar, I was better educated than most girls in the wines of the world and could do some justice to the evening's bewildering display of the vintner's art.
Finally, a comfortable, middle-aged voice, with a distinct West-county burr, offered me a slice of her very special cake. The original recipe, she informed me proudly, went back to the time of the Crusades, but the present version was perfected by the monks of Buckfast Abbey in the 15th century. It is his lordship's favourite, she added. And I'm not surprised. I had never eaten anything so utterly delicious. He had good taste in food as well as decor. And women. As you can no doubt tell, I was beginning to feel more confident by the mouthful.

Those of you who signed up for kinky sex scenes must be very disappointed by all this foody bollocks. But hold your horses. You haven't long to wait. Only, in fact, a couple of paragraphs...
By the time I'd finished eating it was just after half past nine. I felt the pin-pricks of fear and excitement creep slowly up and down my spine. I felt my hairs stand on end and my breathing quicken. My hands were clammy and shaking. I tried to speak, to thank the 'voices' for dinner, but the words stuck in my throat, like a water-drop in a desert waste. What had the night in store for me? What sort of man lives in an enchanted castle, with a troupe of fairy-tale servants?

And what would he do to me? Was he the Beast? Or was he Beauty? Would he be the God of Love or the Prince of Darkness?
Tortured by these and a hundred other unanswerable questions, I heard a clock strike a mellow ten-o'clock. Somehow, I managed to stand up, to climb the stairs and find the bedroom. As per the letter, I found the white shirt and black mask laid neatly on the bed. I did as I was told. I undressed and, wearing only the cool, crisp shirt, lay down, prone on the bed. I felt the tough linen brush and tease my already erect nipples. I reached out and fitted the mask, tightly and securely. It was black velvet and, tied securely with a ribbon, blocked out everything. I could have been blind.

I lay in the enormous bed, my heart beating wildly. After what seemed like an eternity, I could at last hear a noise in the house. A noise other than the ominous ticking of the Louis Quinze clock. The noise was surely that of the front door opening and shutting. Of the tread of soft, leather-shod feet on the grand staircase. Of the opening of the bedroom door. Of leisured undressing. Of a brief shower. And, finally, of a bare-footed, confident stroll across the wide expanse of parquet floor to where I lay. The sacrificial victim. Blinded, prone and dressed in pure, virginal white. Holding my breath. Iphigenia in Knightsbridge.

The bed sagged as he climbed in, the springs creaked and I could smell cologne, cloves and cinnamon. He lay on his back, not touching me. Not even acknowledging my presence. He lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, a marble knight on a marble tomb. Minutes past and nothing happened. Eventually, his hand found mine and clasped it tightly, possessively. We lay like this for a long beat. The babes in the wood, the children of the storm. Innocent, childlike, brother and sister. That, at least, is how we might have appeared. In reality the pheromones were driving feverishly through every corner of my being. Every nerve of my skin was electrified with desire. Every hair erect. Every pulse hammering. I felt more alive than I had ever felt in my entire life.

A warm wetness seeped deliciously from the secret centre of my being and spread down, down, down. I was drowning in the honey sweetness of desperate carnal craving. My clitoris was already huge and hammering, begging to be touched, to be kissed, to be licked, to be bitten, squeezed and pinched.
When he finally touched me, I almost screamed. His fingers slowly unbuttoned the long, white shirt. A gradual, balletic and infinitely erotic revelation of me to him. A revelation of the whole of me. A revelation not only of my body, but of my entire being, mind, body and soul. He licked each erect nipple, meticulously, maddeningly. Tenderly at first, then roughly and urgently. Slowly and deliberately, he bent his face to mine. His tongue played with the corner of my mouth, teasing, testing, toying. A fiery, deadly, serpent's tongue. And always the same game of arousal and withdrawal. Blind man's buff. His hands and mouth danced all over my naked, quivering body. From tip to toe, to every single toe. At last, he hovered above me, legs splayed and arms locked, refusing to touch any part of my body, daring me to move. But I knew the game; I knew the rules. By now, of course I did. I wouldn't be tricked. I lay perfectly still. And waited. Hung over the abyss, crucified on the cross of desperate desire. The agony and the ecstasy.

The first thrust was enough. The climax soared and sang and exploded in a myriad of shining shooting stars. I cried a primal scream of utter abandon. And slept.

Stay tuned for the continuation to be posted soon

© 2017 Mimi L. Thompson

For previous chapters (some of which are posted as nsfw because of 'adult themed' content not photographs) please visit my blog page. Your support is much appreciated and comments are most welcome

You can find my other ebooks on Amazon Kindle Unlimited "Under The Shadow of Vesuvius" - Coming of age in the age of depravity in the Malibu of the Ancient World.

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