Golden Horse - Chapter 15 Part 1 adapted from the scandalously provocative, politically incorrect Latin classic 'Asinus Aureus'

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.

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 on the very rocky road ahead? Then turn back.

Chapter 15 - Part 1

Early next morning, while I was still grinding my teeth in frustration, the bailiff from Dowsett Manor roared up in a battered old jeep. This was the first sign that something was wrong. While Colonel Watson visited everyday, he invariably rode over on his favourite hunter. To see him driving a car was as unexpected as to see him crying. But, on this fine May morning, as the thrushes sang and the trees sagged with blossom, the faithful old retainer was doing both. Both driving and crying. Something truly terrible must have happened. I cantered over and joined the group that was rapidly assembling on the terrace. As soon as the whole household was present, the Colonel broke his terrible news.

"Dear friends, there is no easy way to tell you this, no honeyed words to coat the bitter pill. You master and mistress are both dead. The funeral has yet to be arranged."
There was a horrified gasp from the assembled crowd. Soon, everyone was talking at once and asking questions. Some of the girls were crying and some seemed to be praying. Most people were (naturally) worried about their jobs and what would happen to the stud. I can honestly say that my tears (I hadn't until this moment known that horses could cry) were all for silly old Ffiona. She might have been as dim as Princess Di, but she was always kind to me. I remembered all the moments of tenderness in the Robbers' Caravan, how she always managed to smuggle out a rotten apple to us nags in the field. I also remembered how much she had spoiled me up at the Manor - the flat screen TV, the futon, The Horse of the Year Show. And all those silly rumours of les liaisons dangereux between her and me. Which were, truth be told, not entirely silly rumours. At least from my point of view.

As I stood on the uneven old terrace, I remembered the powerfully erotic sensation of our morning rides across the rolling hills of North Essex. I remembered the novel sensation of her jodhpur-clad arse beating rhythmically on my bony, horsy back. I remembered the thoughts of her hardening clit rubbing against my pommel. I remembered the vigorous rub-downs, the kisses on my nose and the playful spanks across my equine derriere. I remembered it all, in blue-movie techni-colour. But now, it seems, she was dead. How could such a live-wire possibly be dead? It was like hearing that Sonny Jim had killed himself.

After about five minutes of mounting hysteria, Colonel Watson raised his hand and raised his voice to a parade-ground shout. He told us that there was no use speculating about the future. For the time-being, at least, the stud would carry on as normal. Probate would take at least a year and, until then, life would carry on as normal. Hadn't we all got work to do? We mustn't forget the imminent arrival of the Sheik and, if rumours are to be believed, of Her Majesty herself. This was enough to get things moving PDQ. There are few groups as snobby as a stud-farm staff.
Within minutes, the boys had all returned to the stables, the Sloaney, pearly girls had gone back to the office and the Captain and I were left alone on the terrace. How I longed, then, for the gift of speech, to become a talking horse, to ask the old boy what the hell had happened. Because, dear reader, I had a strongest suspicion of foul play, that my two employers had not enjoyed a peaceful death.

As I stood at the edge of the lawn, miserably pawing the ground, my companion sat stiffly on an old bench, took out his pipe and began dialling on an antiquated mobile 'phone. That such a person should even own such a thing was the first surprise. The second surprise was that he was obviously calling a lover, a mistress, a good-time girl, a paid help. I shan't disgust you by repeating the cringey baby-talk, the revolting suggestions and the endless, ridiculous terms of apparent endearment. No. As I said, I won't disgust you by repeating them. Get your mind out of the gutter and concentrate on the story. This is not a pornographic short, but a true and tragic tale of love and loss.

So, without further a-do, if you're sitting comfortably, I shall begin. I shall tell you the whole strange story that I over-heard that morning. A verbatim report. The exact story, exactly as the Colonel told it. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, as we used to say in the good old days. And if you are not as shocked and saddened as I was, I'm not a horse called Pegasus. And if you're inclined to doubt the veracity of this extraordinary tale, bear in mind that you heard it straight from the horse's mouth.

"You remember Marcus Shotson, over at Whybrow Hall? No? I'm very surprised that your paths haven't crossed. I'm sure he'd appreciate the gangster scenario. But I suppose it's too late for all that now. What? Ok. I'll get on with the story. Don't get your knickers in a twist. Well. He was your classic cad. Thrown out of Wellington for bullying, thrown out of their guards for enjoying the killing side a bit too much, thrown into Belmarsh... Eh? Well, yes. I suppose you're right. He did meet some interesting people there. They even formed an 'Old Etonian Lags Support Group'. But all that was very small fry.

He soon graduated to regime change in Banana Republics - yes, come to think of it, he did talk about Mark Thatcher quite a lot, not quite one of us though. Where was I? Oh yes, he turned his hand to everything, from diamond smuggling, to currency devaluation and finally to white-slavery. It was only thanks to his father being in the Lords that he skipped bail each time.

It was inevitable, of course, that such a toe-rag should be attracted to dear Ffiona. She was everything that he was not. Nice. Stupid. Innocent. They had in fact grown up together. He was her first boyfriend, her first squire to her first Hunt Ball. She was not exactly a full pic-nic, poor girl - What's that? All right, all right, I won't speak ill of the dead, but you know what I mean - perhaps this was part of the attraction. Opposites attract and all that malarkey. I did read once that Mrs Einstein didn't even know her seven times table. Ok, ok. I AM getting on with it. Anyway, somewhere, somehow, Ffiona had got wind that all was not quite ticketty-boo with her childhood sweetheart. That he had some rather shady connections, that his visits to Soho strip-clubs and Wormwood Scrubs were not actually part of the Holy Trinity outreach scheme.

That the suitcase full of diamonds was not really an early birthday present and that the Krays biography was not simply bedtime reading. She began to worry and started to distance herself. To take extended holidays to the Cote D'Azur, St Moritz, St Barths. Once, in desperation, she even went to Outer Mongolia. She took cookery courses in Tuscany, painting lessons in the Alhambra and pony-trekking in Texas. All to no avail. He was always waiting for her when she returned. Waiting with open arms and first-class tickets to Ascot, Glyndebourne, Goodwood and Henley.

In the end, the poor girl realized that desperate situations required desperate solutions. And so it was that she became engaged to dear old Piers. Of course he was a Jew, but we soon got over the initial embarrassment. What's that? Yes, of course, I'd forgotten that you were at the wedding. Oh, darling, how could even ask such a thing? How could I forget your dress and the groom was not the only one who' -
Once again, I censor the reminiscences of Don Juan and his Matron of Honour. Suffice it to say, the wedding went with a bang in more ways than one.
'Anyway, you know all about that rotter, the Assistant Priest, the kidnapping and the dramatic rescue...'

At the mention of the dramatic rescue, I tried to draw attention to myself as the real hero of this particular chapter of the story. After all, what had Piers actually done? All he did was look handsome and shoot the baddies. Where would they both have been without me? I was their wheels, their get-away car, their magic carpet ride to Paradise. Without me, they'd still be stuck in the badlands of central Essex. So I was a bit peeved, to say the least, that the Colonel made no reference to my pivotal role in the proceedings. I was clearly a superfluous equine detail. I was tempted to gallop off in a fit of pique, but as I was desperate to know the rest of the story, I forced myself to stay put. But endeavoured to look as superior as poss.

'Well, you might have thought that the psycho next door would at this point throw in the towel, admit defeat and shake Piers' hand in a sportsman-like gesture of honourable defeat. It was pretty obvious to everyone that Fee and her new hubby were head of heels. Actually, it could be quite embarrassing up at the Manor. Since the poor dears had been so cruelly deprived of a real honey-moon, they contrived to turn an old Cotswolds manor-house into Shag Central. No, I suppose you're right. Not quite in your league. But still. We were always coming across them mid-fuck. In the dining room, in the stables, in the swimming pool, in the arboretum, even in the bloody suits of armour. Yes, I suppose the cod-pieces did add a certain je ne sais quoi. The kidnapping, it seems, had only served to deepen their passion, to fan their ardour. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. They were in love big time, as any fool could see. But Mr Shotson, of course, was not a fool. He was as cool and calculating as a cucumber.

© 2017 Mimi L. Thompson

Chapter 15 - Part 2 follows tomorrow

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.

amazon page https://www.amazon.com/Mimi-L.-Thompson/e/B06XZV8347/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1