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.
Chapter 14 is a very rocky road, so if you're afraid of what lies ahead, turn back.
Chapter 14
We were both silent for a long time. I, for one, was so moved by the story that I cursed the lack of pen and paper. This was surely something that should be written down. It would be a best-seller. A much better get-rich-quick plan than fleecing Egyptian millionaires. I decided to do my very best to remember the story. To repeat it to myself every week until I became a man once more. Whenever the fuck that would be.
The long narrative seemed to have quite an effect on Ffiona, too. She was crying again, but apparently at the story rather than her own woes. In fact, she seemed quite to have forgotten her current predicament. She hugged the old story-teller with genuine warmth.
'Dear Granny, what a lovely story. But poor Amina. How much she had to suffer!'
The telling of the story had taken almost a week and it was a big disappointment to return to normal life. Or what passed for normal life these days. I felt at a terrible loose-end, especially during the long evenings when I used to hearing the latest, exciting instalment. I chewed the cud with the other horses, but I'm afraid that their conversation wasn't really up to much. Ffiona and the old crone seemed similarly deflated and had started bickering again like an old married couple.
So it was almost a relief - or a least a distraction - when, one cold and starry night, we had visitors. A screech of tyres and a salvo of swearing announced the arrival of our old friends, the kidnappers. I recognized three of the baddies from last time, but Mr Big seemed to have changed. He was no longer the text-book, Michael Caine East-Ender, who had duffed-up Ffiona, but a crazy boy in a Halloween scream mask, waving a Kalashnikov at all and sundry.
The women were obviously terrified and huddled together for comfort, their squabbles apparently forgotten. I felt that I should gallop manfully over, like the mighty stallion I was, and protect the poor dears from the nasty men. But something about the gun made me change my mind. As my father always said, discretion is most definitely the better part of valour. And so I resigned myself to an merely observational capacity. And there was much to observe.
Three fat, cardiac-cases spent a wheezy hour unloading the van. First came a consignment of boring, but apparently very heavy cardboard boxes. Next came some wooden chests that might have come straight from the Hispaniola, a few good old-fashioned swag bags and even the odd safe or two. Finally, with much off-stage encouragement from the teenage criminal master-mind, came a couple of rolled-up 'Old Masters.'
Looks were certainly deceiving: this bunch of malcos were apparently very successful robbers. At least, they were certainly better at robbery than kidnapping. Ffiona had been in the caravan for about three months and there was no sign of any ransom. But, at robbery, they were the bees-knees. I made a mental note to make this my first criminal case on return to civvy street. The public would love it. George Clooney would ask me to marry him and I'd glide seamlessly into a delectable
ménage a trois with him and Amal. Lost in daydreams of endless erotic fulfilment, I almost failed to notice that all the loot had been unloaded. The gangsters (is that word still used? It seems a bit Graham Greene, but I can't think of an alternative) spent the rest of the evening farting and beating each other up.
This set the pattern for the rest of the week. Every evening, at exactly the same time, the same screech of tyres, the same swearing and the same unloading of the same white van. It was only after the final consignment of crack (or Hatton Garden jewels or lost, Nazi-swiped Rembrandts or Syrians) had been safely stowed-away that Pinkie finally noticed me and the other nags, skulking in the corner and trying to look inconspicuous. Distinctly less than perky. He strode over and stood in front of me, arms a-kimbo, chewing gum. He took off his cap and scratched his head in mock bewilderment.
'What. Is. This. Doing. In. My. Field.'
He kicked me savagely in the ribs. Repeatedly. Why I was singled out for special treatment I don't know. I never do.
He turned round to the nearest gang-member, a lardy baldy of about fifty, presumably for enlightenment.
'Any bright ideas, sunshine?'
'It's that deal with Del, isn't it? Del down the knackers. Shirl fattens 'em up and we get the dough. Easy work if you can get it. And there's plenty more gee-gees where these came from. Them pikeys can't breed 'em fast enough.'
'And why is it that I am the last to know about this particular get-rich-quick master plan?'
Lardy and the others recognized the warning signs and made themselves scarce.
All too soon, the pint-sized psycho was eye-balling me like a maniac and screaming, inches from my face, about much he hated horses. It was probably something Freudian. I can't say that I was over keen on him, either. I tried to back off, too, but only succeeded in burning my arse on the electric fence, lurching forward and crushing my front hoof on poor ickle Pinkie's tootsie. Bad move.
Dancing around on one leg and sobbing though he was, (little) Mr Big still managed to make himself more than clear vis-à-vis yours truly.
'Get that fucking piece of mangy shit out of here. If I see him here tomorrow, you're all dead. And you can tell 'Del' there's a special reduction if he does it without the stunning.'
With that, the psycho git head-butted me, threw a sack over my head and drove off with the others. Presumably for another high-returns-guaranteed heist.
With the delightful prospect of unanaesthetised slaughter clouding my mind, you can guess that I didn't get much sleep. I stood in the field, securely tethered for once, and contemplated imminent death. I cursed the fickleness of fate. I had escaped slaughter once, only to be facing it all over again. I cursed fate, but I also cursed my own insatiable curiosity. I was sufficiently honest to recognize that I shouldered the lion's share of blame for my hopeless situation. I recalled, in merciless detail, Astea's repeated insistence that I leave well alone, that her mistress' box of tricks was not to be trifled with, that this sort of magic was most definitely not a game. Why, oh why didn't I listen? The thought of who and where I could be now - Luke Johnson in bed with Astea - tortured the night with a sense of desperate if-onlys.
Somehow, after what seemed like a life-time in hell, morning came and with it breakfast. The usual measly measure of sub-standard oats.
'The prisoner ate a hearty breakfast.'
The toothless old crone laughed loudly at this unwonted display of wit.
'Not quite what I'd choose for my own last supper, but beggars can't be choosers, eh?'
That did it.
She might be able to spin a good yarn, but Granny was as hard as a Kray moll. Barbara Windsor without the boobs. She deserved a bit of rough treatment and, boy, was she going to get it. No more Mr Nice Horse. I turned my back on the bitch and aimed a vicious kick right at her withered old prune of a face. And missed. Rather than the satisfying crunch of broken bones, all I heard was my own agonized whinny and Granny's hooting laughter. I had smashed my back leg into a dry stone wall and was left with a very bruised, possible pierced back hoof.
I was in such pain and such despair that I almost missed the next scene. In a blur of scissor-like legs and swishing blonde hair, Ffiona had shot out of the caravan, screaming like a banshee. Honestly, such language! I was quite ashamed and would have covered my ears, if I'd had any hands. But what happened next pushed all prudery far from my mind. With a lightening upper-cut, she felled the old crone and leapt lightly onto my back with the practised aplomb of a Pony Club stalwart. She cut the hitch and we were soon riding off into the frozen Essex dawn.
It is quite hard (excuse the pun) to explain my feelings as I felt her muscled legs gripping my sweaty flanks. As I felt her snooker-ball arse pound up-and-down on my back. As I felt the bite of the whip on my haunches. As I felt her little kisses and whispers of encouragement. As her felt her cool hands stroking and caressing my funny, pointy ears. As I imagined her fanny jigging about all over my saddle-less back. As I said, hard to describe, but suffice it to say that I was growing harder and harder by the minute. And a horse's erection - as I was only just beginning to realize - is not to be trifled with.
It seemed as if Ffiona were enjoying a very similar feeling. It was very close, in fact, to those scenes in Equus, the more overtly perverted scenes, when the boy no longer hides his feelings for the horse. I half expected her to strip naked and suck me off right there on bridle path 4376. But we were on a mission and there was no time, alas, for such public displays of affection. We had to put as much distance as poss between us and the baddies.
And so we ploughed on, dashing across the wintry fields, clearing fences, hedges and streams. The ride of Paul Revere surely had nothing on this. We were truly riding for our lives. And all the while, Ffiona kept up a steady stream of the most gratifying conversation. She seemed to hold me entirely responsible for her great escape. Although the truth of the matter was pretty much the exact opposite, I was in no position to correct her. I let her carry on and on, while I wallowed in a temporary, if fraudulent, sense of heroism.
'My beautiful horse! Black Beauty, Pegasus, Feste! My hero, my darling, my saviour! Where would I be without you? Just you wait till we get home. Back home. Safe and sound. To Dowsett Manor. You will be rewarded. Have no fear of that. You will be handsomely rewarded. Rewarded beyond your wildest, horsy dreams. You will be the toast of the town, the most famous horse in the County. In the world! You will wear a golden bridle, you will drink the finest wine and sleep on a feather bed. No stables and hay for you, my beautiful thoroughbred. And we shall buy the prettiest, friskiest mares to be your play-mates....'
As she spoke on and on, an endless stream of honeyed words, the future began to look distinctly brighter than it had first thing. Maybe being a horse for a couple more weeks might not be such a bad thing.
What is it they say - pride comes before a fall? Well, they're dead right. No sooner was the sun over the yard-arm and we were both enjoying a celebratory snifter in a thatched, gastro pub on the A12 than we heard the familiar screech of wheels and saw the familiar sight of a white van, driven by a teenager in a Halloween mask. By the topiaried box trees, I sat down and wept. Within a second - and without even the need for the Kalashnikov - the garden was cleared and Ffiona and I were quickly bundled back into the van and taken back to the same fucking field. Déja vu, all over again.
I was re-tied to the fence, this time with a chain. For good measure, they even hobbled and blinkered me. Ffiona was tied up, too, and gagged, and thrown unceremoniously into the filthiest corner of the filthy caravan. With the two fugitives safely dealt with, the gang sat down for a caricatured evening of whisky, smokes and poker. It was all so obvious that I kept looking round for the cameras and Guy Ritchie, pretending to know about the criminal underworld. Even the head baddie, sans Halloween mask, was a dead-ringer for Vinny Jones. Life was very strange these days. I sighed and contemplated a distinctly bleak future. I wasn't sure of the exact form this future would take, but it wouldn't be rosy. Just as I mulling over the gloomy alternatives, I caught the tale-end of a worrying 'conversation'. I use the term loosely, as it's unlikely that a member of this particular gang was capable of anything even remotely resembling a conversation.
Two of the nastiest gangsters had come out into the 'garden' for a pee.
'Even my dead Nan would realize that, you cunt. Dobbin's her wheels. Kill him and she stays put. Get it?'
'So we just leave him as he is?'
The 'cunt' laughed an adenoidal, special-needs-primary-school-in-Solihull laugh.
'Leave him to starve?'
They were both still laughing, as they lurched, arm in arm, back inside.
They might have had the joint mental age of a precocious three year-old, but their plan for me was adopted toute suite. While my two horsy playmates continued to receive their regulation oats, I was indeed left to starve. Every so often, a couple of the men would come and look at the hilarious spectacle of a slowly dying horse. It might have made them laugh, but at least Ffiona had the decency to protest on my behalf. What is it with her sort? They kill foxes and pheasants with gay abandon, but a horse or a dog looking even vaguely uncomfortable arouses the wrath of God himself. She screamed at the men to stop what they doing to me, she pummelled them with her fists and even tried to enlist the support of the old crone. Fat lot of good. They just knocked her out with a revolver butt.
Starvation, for your information, is one of the slowest and most painful forms of execution. I don't know why it isn't more widely practised by repressive regimes. Why weren't Nero or Stalin wise to its potentials? It starts off with a grumbling tummy and a healthy appetite. It soon develops into agonizing cramps and gripes, nausea, diarrhoea and palpitations. Of course, my chain kept me just far enough away from the water trough to be tantalised and tortured by its twinkling depths. Never had a foetid, fly-blown inch of water looked so ridiculously delicious. My mouth was transformed into a street in Cairo in the middle of August, my tongue stuck to my teeth and my throat burned. God knows what was happening to my kidneys.
The cramps started on day two, the hallucinations and delirium on day three. You might have thought that a spot of day-dreaming would be a relief from the agony of my current reality, but you'd be wrong. The hallucinations were terrifying, like the worse LSD trip you've ever had. It was the police-cell all over again. A hideous amalgam of torture, rape and voodoo, of Ouija boards, necromancy and child-abuse, of the tarot pack, the morgue and the Astea's haunting laughter, of every devil seen by every desert saint, of the yawning depths of hell itself.
About the sixth day, the dreams suddenly changed and the nightmares became more closely akin to reality as I had recently known it. I dreamt of the sudden arrival of rival Mr Big, of gun-shots, of spurting, arterial blood, of screeching tyres, of screaming women, of burning cars, and smashed bones.
It took me far longer than it should to realize that this was not a dream. That this was reality and that the new Mr Big was in fact Piers, Ffiona's new husband, who had somehow managed to track us down. In the months after the disastrous wedding, he had somehow transformed himself from a yiddischer Tim Nice But Dim to Steven Segal. How did he manage it? Fuck knows, and who cares? He was here. That's all that mattered. I started thinking that I might - just might - survive this unspeakable experience, that I might actually have a second stab at this funny new life. Thinking such unwontedly cheerful thoughts, I saw Piers clutching a swooning Ffiona, while simultaneously and expertly covering the baddies with a shiny new pistol. I saw him make for the car, I heard him swear as it burst into flames, I felt a jab of something in my back-side and a sudden bolt of power and strength surge through my poor, abused body.
I was transformed. Good as new. The hunger strike quite forgotten.
With an imperious snap of his fingers and an ear-piercing whistle, Piers indicated that he needed my help. Cometh the hour, cometh the horse. With a terrifying snort from my flaring nostrils and a rearing-up worthy of the Horses of the Apocalypse, I cleared the twenty-foot foot fence as easily as a Grand National winner. I stood at Piers's side, sweating, eyes rolling and chomping at the bit. In one easy leap, he was on my back. Never had horse and rider been more heroically entwined. We were Alexander and Bucephalos, Caligula and Incitatus, Dick Turpin and Black Bess, Lester Pigott and Red Rum romping home the final furlong (to rapturous applause). And, then, in a daring swoop, worthy of the tackiest Barbara Cartland, the hero snatched up the swooning heroine and flung her manfully across my sweating haunches. With a celebratory salvo of bullets and an ironic Adios, amigos, we galloped off into the night. And we didn't stop galloping until we arrived at Dowsett Manor, an impressive Tudor pile on the Essex-Hertfordshire border.
Praise where praise is due, Fffiona was true to her word. She showered me with presents and treated me absolutely like one of the family. I even had my own room in the West Wing. No more draughty stables for yours truly. Every morning and very evening, I was groomed by the mistress herself. She plaited my mane and threaded it with roses. She brushed my coat until it shone. She anointed my hooves with the very best linseed oil, imported from Qatar, and fed me the finest oats, mixed with gold flake, from a marble and ivory manger. An enormous screen had been set up in my bedroom, on which I could watch endless replays of The Horse of the Year Show and the Grand National. It took some time before I managed to convey that Kung Foo Hustle was more my cup of tea, but even so life was good. It was certainly a bloody lot better than life in the gypsy field. I sometimes had pangs of guilt over the fate of my horsey play-mates. Were they still standing miserably amongst the thistles? Their conversation may not have been very sophisticated, but they weren't bad companions, as horses go. As I lay in bed one morning, drinking a restorative glass of Dom Perignon, I made a vow. If I ever returned to being Luke Johnstone, I would give half my earnings to the Ada Cole Horse Sanctuary. She may not give her charges vintage champagne, but they were at least assured of food, shelter and vetenery attention.
The mad boy-Emperor, Caligula, is said to have spoiled his favourite horses to such an extent that it brought the entire Roman Empire to its knees: the revenue of whole countries were diverted to the royal stables. I can only assume that similar financial anxieties were undermining the peace and equilibrium of Dowsett Manor. Ffiona was clearly spending a small fortune on my upkeep. There was even talk of a perverted, quasi Catherine the Great, relationship, between me and Ffiona. Si seulement is all I can reply to that particular piece of malicious gossip. Back in the real world, there is nothing I'd have liked more than a spot of horse-play with the delectable new-bride. But, strange as it might seem, she had eyes only for her new husband.
Whatever the real reason, it was soon decided that I would have to get out and about and do something to earn my keep. And so, one fine morning in early Spring, just as I was just settling down in front of Trisha - ('Don't let a sex-change end your marriage') - Piers bustled into the room, wreathed in smiles.
"Why the long face, Dobbin?" It was his favourite, perhaps only, joke. "I am the bearer of very good news."
The silly young man paused dramatically and pompously. Since Piers was not exactly my number one fan, I feared that the 'very good news' might turn out to be spectacularly bad news for me.
"Ffiona and I have decided to reward you for your loyalty and heroism by a two month secondment to Willingham Stud."
Holy moly! This was indeed good news. Exceptionally good news. Nice though it was to lie in bed all day, watching the tele, it would surely be even nicer to have sex all day. I preened myself and tried to look modest. After all, this was not the first time that people had been desperate to have my children. My loins stirred pleasantly as I recalled countless scenes of different women, standing naked in front of me, crying 'Fill me with your little babies!' To the best of my knowledge, and the best of my efforts, this had never actually happened, and the prospect of fatherhood suddenly seemed rather appealing.
It was, therefore, with a spring in my step and the nearest thing to a smile on my hairy old face, that I clattered up the ramp into the horse-box, ready for the next great adventure of my strange new life. Of course I had heard of Willingham Stud, who hadn't? It was the most famous and most expensive stud farm in the country. The thoroughbreds it produced were sold for countless millions to owners and trainers the world over. The Agar Khan, Donald Trump and Queen Elizabeth II were among its more illustrious clients. It was pretty flattering to be considered worthy of joining such a gold-plated ménage.
Or so, dear reader, I thought. Read on, and you shall hear all about the cruel tricks played by fate - or more likely by the snivelling Piers - on an innocent and unsuspecting old nag. Not that the dastardly plan was revealed all at once. Oh no. They like to lull you into a sense of false security, even happiness. It took some time for the axe to fall.
Life at the stud farm actually started off pretty well. Excellently, in fact. If you expect a horse to produce the new Seabiscuit (and, thereby, a few squillion dollars) you've got to treat him with a bit of respect. The accommodation, the food, the staff, the food, the location... It was all like the five star Cotswold Hotel in Old Marlborough. We were even given special, horsy massages, taken to a high-tech, hydro-therapy pool and played soothing classical music as we went to sleep. No expense was spared to pander to our every whim, to pamper and spoil the horses and, I suppose, their very precious sperm.
Life went on this very pleasant way for some weeks and I began to wonder when the actual stud business would start. I began to feel ever so slightly conned and ever so slightly frustrated. Everyday, I could see the pretty fillies gambolling daintily about in a nearby field. I could smell their special smell and feel their heat. They were hot babes. But, so far, the entire field and the entire female sex, had been strictly off-limits. I hadn't had much contact with my fellow stallions, either. But this was something of a relief. Their mighty stature, enormous erections and aggressive mien had rather frightened me.
I was just resigning myself to another day in the exclusive company of Danny, my cheerful 'boy', when a ruddy-faced vet burst into the stable. He seemed such a tweedy caricature that I at first wondered if we were on set for a re-make of All Creatures Great and Small. 'Seigfried' exchanged a few mysterious words with Danny and then preceded to give me a very thorough examination in my very private parts. I almost died with the indignity of all, but got my revenge with a well-aimed squirt from my rectum all over his silly face. Seemingly unperturbed by this, the vet stood up and slapped me avuncular on the neck.
"Well today's the day, old sport. The day we've all been waiting for. The day you finally get to show us what you’re made of."
With these promising words ringing in my ears, the old boy led me to the Field of Fillies.
But it was not, I'm afraid to say, exactly the erotic thrill that I had in mind. Au very contraire, it was by turns utterly terrifying and excruciatingly frustrating. The terrifying part was the gangs of aforementioned, enormous stallions with enormous erections, guarding their fillies in a menacing and extremely proprietorial manner. Every time I tried to approach, they bared their enormous teeth and stamped their enormous feet. I actually saw two of them bite a sweet-looking donkey, who had presumably been brought in to create a mule. Fat chance of that. Even the mares terrified the poor little sod.
Finally, after about an hour of cautious circling of the field, accompanied by a gradual hardening of my hairy and very serviceable cock, I homed in on a likely-looking female. She seemed a little bit smaller than the others and could even be said to have a pretty face, with long lashes and shining, come-hither eyes. And I reckon that she really was wanting me to come-hither. After all, the sex drives of mares on heat are something of a proverb, at least where I come from. I licked my fat lips and looked forward to a long, hot afternoon of multiple orgasms with a willing and experienced partner. After a quick recce of the field, and having ascertained the positions of my main love-rivals, I cantered over and prepared for the ride of my life. I mounted her with ease and panache and felt my cock deliciously enclosed, blissfully squeezed and caressed by a teenaged cunt. I thrust harder and harder. Masterfully, manfully (horsefully?) and felt myself reach higher and higher...
Cut! The tweedy vet ran over and intervened. It really was as if we were on set and I had somehow flunked the crucial love scene. I looked over as if to say, 'What's up, chum?' But sooner than I could even form the words, the wheezy old perv had hauled me off my frisky play mate and stuck my rigid todger into a sort of test tube, which I preceded to fill with gallons of foaming, pent-up sperm. I was furious. I was humiliated. I was ridiculed. The indignity of it all. The frustration. How dare they?
From observation of the other poor stallions, I soon learned that coitus interuptus, otherwise known as 'artificial insemination' was all the rage in stud farms. As I ran away, shame-faced and flaccid, I suddenly understood the smirk on Piers' face as closed the door of the horse-box. The bastard had known all along.
© 2017 Mimi L. Thompson
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