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| The Horse Trader | Back to F | Back to main page |
Collected by Djian
update sep. 19 2007
"The Horse Trader"
by ravishme
"Introduction"
The last thing I remember was enjoying the beautiful fall afternoon,
the colors rich and brilliant...
We had come to Belarus to look at horses to import. With the crashing
Russian economy, the golden Akel-Teke and the bright chestnut Budonney
horses were a steal. For a few hundred dollars US you could buy a
horse that in the states would sell for tens of thousands... Better,
he could stand as a sire, at a thousand bucks a pop. Not too bad a
deal, since his ëenjoymentí doesnít cost you a penny...í
Anyways, our small group of five, the older Murphy couple, myself,
and the mother-daughter team of Melissa and Missy had broken up this
afternoon. They were heading to Moscow for a touristy type trip, I had
wanted to stay behind and explore the ancient and fertile farmlands...
There were rolling pastures full of the most beautiful horses, barns
full of mahogany, brass, and the most beautiful craftsmanship.
Our group's tour guide had obtained an interpreter for me. His
english was stilted, but if I saw something I liked, he could help me
bargain. (To accept the first price would be an insult to the seller.)
The dark young man made me slightly uncomfortable, though he would
flash a shy, crooked smile at me once in awhile. I chalked up the
foreboding feeling to jetlag and a lumpy mattress at the Bed &
Breakfast we were staying in.
We were in one of the oldest stables, still well kept, though
the brass fittings had been sold off and were replaced with
servicible iron. The owner, a middle aged man, a face full of sun
wrinkles and laugh lines, brought out a young stallion when my
interpreter told him why I was there. The colt was magnificent. A
blood bay, the red chestnut gleaming metalically like a new penny,
coal black mane, tail and legs. He had not a spot of white on him. I
moved around him, picking up a hoof, smoothing my hand over his warm,
silky back, measuring the weight and breadth of his chest with my
palm... I only glanced at his teeth, he was strong and lanky,
obviously I was being told the truth about his age. He was just about
perfect. The only thing I didnít like was his eye. A horse should have
a big, soft eye, well set back and wide in the forehead. (Old timers
say the wider the forehead, the more room for the brains!) This
coltís eyes were small, piggish, and hard and shiny. He was tempting,
but Iíd have to see him worked to know his temperament. I couldnít
afford to ship a stallion back to the states only to end up gelding
him....
The middle aged gentlemen frowned when my interpreter said I
would not be buying today. Then he said something which made my
interpreterís eyes dart to me furitively, look down, blush, and then
nod and smile. I wondered if it was an insult. The owner led the colt
back out to let him loose in a paddock. I followed, watching the
beauty, grace and power of the golden black horse.
The owner went into a small second barn, and my interpreter
spoke. "He have a mother horse... with baby, you want look?" I nodded,
it was a beautiful afternoon, importing a mare or two wasnít out of
the question.
When we first stepped into the smaller barn, out of the
sunlight, all I saw was blackness. Without warning, the barn door
slammed shut behind me, making me jump and a small scream escaped.
Then I was grabbed from behind, arms pulled painfully high, and
something sickly and sweet pressed over my nose and mouth. I tried
not to breathe, but finally my oxygen starved lungs had to give in...
that's the last thing I remember.
"The Bidding"
I woke up, groggy, slowly.... disoriented. As consciousness
slipped in, so did panic. I couldnít see, and I couldnít move. My
mouth was filled with cloth, making breathing difficult. I was
standing--sort of. My arms were tied high above my head, spread about
shoulder width apart. The pain in my shoulders, wrists and neck told
me Iíd been this way for awhile. My legs were spread, and tied at the
ankle to something that wouldnít let me draw my knees together.
A chill rippled my skin, and another wave of blinding panic
rolled over me as I realized I had been stripped of all my clothes
except my sensible silk teddy. I lifted my head, blindly trying to
discern where I was and how I got here.
When the rush of fear subsided slightly, I heard the soft
chomping of horses eating their hay, the occaisional snuffle, the
sounds of them moving in the straw. I moved my fingers as much as I
could, and felt stall bars. They ended about half-way to the floor, I
figured I was back in the big barn.
My calves were screaming in agony, and I was alternating between
the punishment of taking more weight on my hands, and pushing up with
my toes to ease the pressure when I heard them. Lots of them. I heard
men, despite the foreign tongue, I heard the edge of greed, the
gutteral growl of lust, the laugh of Russian vodka. I panicked,
pulling, twisting, writhing to loosen my bonds somehow.
The old horse trader laughed as he opened the stall door and saw
my struggles. I stilled as I felt and heard him approach, my breathing
shallow, quick, panicked. He said something to the other men, I heard
mubles which sounded like agreement. It sounded like there was half a
dozen of them.
What came next, I only remember in pieces. My mind refused to
make rational sense of it. I felt the old horse trader rip my teddy
down, exposing my breasts. I tried to struggle, and the murmers of
approval from the crowd had me stilling. Tears flowed from beneath the
blindfold. Muffled sobs escaped the gag. He lifted a breast, pinched
my nipple as I tried to cringe away... ran his hand down my abdomen,
over the slight plumpness of my belly. I felt his fingers rake through
the loose ends of my shoulder length caramel hair, testing the
softness. I think he smelled it.
Iíve never been to an auction, but when he started speaking, I
knew immeadiately thatís what this was. The cold was seeping into my
bones along with the fear. I began to shiver. My jaw ached from the
gag, my wrists burned from the rope.
After a few moments (which felt like hours,) the bidding seemed
to slow. Without warning, My hands were cut loose. I fell forward, and
the old horse trader pushed my to my knees, my legs still held open by
the bar between them. He quickly pulled my hands behind my back, tying
them again, then adding a few wraps around my elbows and upper arms.
Shame battled fear as my big, soft breasts were thrust forward. He
grabbed a handful of hair, pulling my head back, arching me
further.... Into waiting hands. Suddenly they were there. Testing the
flesh of my breasts, lifting them, holding them in their hands,
judging... smoothing their rough, calloused, cold hands over my
belly... lower... testing the muscle in my upper arm, measuring the
silky warmth of the inside of my thighs... painfully pulling on my
cold nipples...
I couldn't take it. I thrashed, pulling, and my hair was yanked,
making me scream and cry. A unanimous laugh went up from the bidders.
Someone finished ripping my teddy, I felt the blush of shame reddening
my belly, moving up my chest... One reached for the newly exposed
thatch of hair, but the old horse trader yanked me up by my hair and
spoke gruffly to him. I was moved a few steps--next to impossible in
the straw of the stall, and then he forced me to bend over by lifting
my hands. With the ësnickí of a snap being closed, I was tied in that
position, my most vulnerable parts opened for display.
The bidding heated up again.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental.