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All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: D.B. Story
Encounters: Equine Escape © 2009 D.B. Story
eXcessica publishing
All rights reserved
Encounters: Equine Escape
By D.B. Story
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A special thanks to Rocket Ralph, VW, and Mulligan for their excellent and much appreciated proofreading.
And to eXcessica publishing for supporting this author in getting published.
Chapter 1—Horse
It's hard to even say why I was at the horse show and auction that day. I don't own horses myself. Never have. Some old girlfriends of mine are really into it however, and I soon learned two things about these show/auctions.
First is that pretty females of all ages love horses, and are easily found around them.
But it's more than that. Horses, especially the fillies and mares, are just downright sexy. Why only the fillies and mares? The stallions will challenge you every time you go near them. While I know women who like that challenge, and easily shove around stallions many times their own weight, I'm not interested in those kinds of confrontations.
Mares are beautiful—much more so than any other quadruped ungulate. Often docile, warm and smooth furred, with strong muscles you can feel under you as you ride them. And who can ignore those deep liquid eyes and expressive ears? There's power and grace in a good horse that is only missing intelligence to complete the package. What equines think of humans we may never know, but a healthy horse is sensual indeed.
So I never get tired of watching them, and often wonder what's in their thoughts. Stopping by a show or auction to watch the horses—and the other people admiring them—is an easy choice for me on an otherwise uncommitted day.
* * * *
The young woman approaching me was beautiful, but in a way that not everyone else would immediately recognize. She had long, straight dark brown hair that fell like a mane down her back, framing a young face that was more vertical than round. That face has bright, intelligent gray-blue eyes, and appeared to be wearing no makeup at all. Not every woman can look good this way, but she did. She looked nineteen, on the cusp of full womanhood.
I'm good at eyeballing measurements. It helps a lot in my day job as a construction worker. I can look at a pile of boxes, boards, or gravel, and instinctively know if it will fit in my pickup. Show me a big pile of dirt, and I can tell you within a dump truck full how many loads it will take to move it.
This particular filly stood just under seventeen hands in horse parlance, or five-feet-seven in human terms. If you want metric, hey I'm here for you as well. I make her a slim one point seven meters.
She was dressed like many who work at these shows, but everything looked handed down from an older brother. She was adorned in worn cowboy boots that had slogged through many a pasture and barn full of mud and manure, the requisite worn, baggy blue jeans, and a loose, long sleeved red flannel shirt that tried to obscure her girlish figure. This told me she was a worker—one who truly loves horses—rather than a performer. The performers are all fancied up for their big moment in the show ring, and come with an attitude I wasn't seeing in this one. I pegged her as simply a young woman who works around horses as a way to be near them.
But even such concealing clothes are no real impediment to my skill. I could see she was slim, with high hips, and a figure that was still maturing. I measured her at 32-20-31, and will buy a round of drinks for anyone who can prove me off by more than an inch. She'll be quite a looker if she ever puts a little effort into it. And I was certain her boobs were moving freely under that shirt. No halter there.
I didn't expect anything more from her beyond a passing glance. In the same way I'd placed her, she knew I wasn't a horse person myself, but just an interested visitor. That left me quite surprised when she stopped and gave me a second glance. Her un-made-up lips formed a hesitant smile, followed a moment later by a tentative greeting.
"Hi," she said timidly, in a voice that sounded much younger than she looked.
"Howdy, ma'am," I replied, in my best Southwestern USA greeting.
Howdy is short for "How do you do?" But it comes without the implied question mark at the end. I like it that way. Too many people greet you with a question like: "How's it going?" "Nice day, isn't it?" "What's happening?" Or half a hundred other variations to put you on the spot for an answer.
I consider it rude to ask a stranger a question requiring them to answer. I view my "Howdy" as on par with the Australian "G'Day", which I don't use because I'm not Australian.
Since she spoke to me first, I figure she wants something. Whatever it is, however, she seems skittish enough to bolt if she doesn't get exactly the right response.
"Howdy," must have been that right response, since she was smiling a bit more now, and took a step closer.
"I don't suppose," she started out, still as tentative as early morning dew on a hot summer day, "That you can haul a trailer?" Her expression said she hadn't found what she needed yet, and was starting to despair of finding it at all.
"Horse trailer? Or something bigger?" I queried.
"Single horse trailer," she confirmed.