The Man and the Mare

The tale of a tourist who has only one destination in mind. Contains content which may offend.

Image Credit: 
Epytome / Used With Permission

He had those high cheekbones the ladies liked, with light eyes and dark eyelashes that made it look like he was always wearing eyeliner. He could’ve accidentally walked on a runway and never looked out of place. When he spoke it was the way Americans think all British people speak, like a rich boy with all the money his parents can afford.

That was Richard Dulmock.

All the new trends were at his fingertips. Horse riding lessons since before he could walk, and that was just the beginning. It probably never occurred to him that there were passenger planes for common swine while he travelled the globe in his family’s private jet.

Not only did he have a propensity to boast around in his lavish privilege, he also had a thing for Asian girls. The tiny ones that walk on rich men’s backs for a living. The quiet ones that don’t speak up when they’re being treated like crap. The polite ones that don’t say ‘no’ when summoned to a bedroom.

The Oxford students were busy celebrating their end of year exams and it was his duty to outdo everyone else. This meant his parties were always the biggest, loudest and the most spectacular. No one would forget they went to university with the Richard Dulmock.

The alcohol-laden students stuffed every square inch of his student house, and the booze itself was everywhere. In cups, in bottles, cans, in the carpet and up the walls, everything was saturated with it. Then there was that ever-present waft of weed but no one could be seen smoking it.

The sweat was something else entirely as the students writhed and gyrated against one another in a way that the working-class never pictured a bunch of toffs. The music was loud and urban—so much so it was bordering on ironic. Not that anyone cared.

Then I walked in.

A tiny, quiet, unassuming Asian girl.

Richard Dulmock was the first person to greet me, instantly shaking my hand and vigorously pulling me further into the stew of students. He flashed me his winning grin and I, in that moment, realised exactly what he had; yellow fever.

Just what I was looking for. There was nothing better than casual sex after ten hours riding the rails, and my sexual tourism had brought me right to easiest creep on the street.

I gave him my polite smile and shook my head, and he took that as invitation. As he led me further into the building he probably had no idea that I spoke English. He was playing a game of charades with me as he gestured around the drunken students. There were a few Asian girls eyeing me up and watching as I was led through the house. They had those expressions that tell me they’ve experienced this before, and this was nothing new.

“Poor girl,” I heard them whisper.

“He’s at it again,” said the boys. They ribbed him as we wandered past and he laughed like he knew he had this one in the bag.

When it got a little quieter he spun and looked at me and winked, slipping a plastic cup of alcohol into my hand and I waited until he was turned before throwing it out of the window. When he looked back I smiled as though it was the sweetest wine.

The students packed in, back to back, and I was crammed right into Richard Dulmock’s armpit. He smelled like Lynx Africa and I was pretty sure that wasn’t his phone trying to bury itself in my hip.

“So, Cho, is it?” he said through the bass of the stereo.

I gritted my teeth and rolled my eyes.

“Me no Engrish,” I said. A poor stereotype but he nodded and bought it.

“That’s okay,” he said and pressed his body closer. “Body language is the same across the world.”

I feigned a nervous laugh and took a plastic cup left sitting on the fireplace shelf, and he grinned.

We squeezed through the crowd of drunkards, and Richard Dulmock still managed to find time to point to his pictures on the walls. There were photos of his rugby team, and teammates that dwarfed him. There were two or three in those photos who looked like they’d have far bigger ‘phones.’ I sipped my drink and buried the thought.

“Shall we, um, take this upstairs?” he said and then bit his lip. I was expecting a hair flip and a coy smile, but he stopped mid-thought. “Ah, right,” he continued while wagging his finger at me. “No Engrish.”

He took my wrist and walked me through the party. Woops and cheers followed Richard Dulmock while only tutting and judgement followed me.

The stairs was a parade of make-out sessions with frisky tongues and insatiable hands disappearing up skirts and through zippers. At the top of the step I almost rubbed past a breast but a palm eclipsed me. There was saliva and perfume and I was pulled away to a room that only Richard Dulmock could open.

His tongue was in my mouth before his bedroom door closed. I let him do the stripping and what he thought was a tease. I got a full view of his hairy bollocks before I started to undress. He lay on the bed with a big grin half-hidden by his fully erect cock, and I dropped my knickers. His eyes widened like he couldn’t believe his luck.

I faked a groan as I slipped him in, and he moaned so loud I nearly smothered his whole pedigree face. His body tensed and I could appreciate his physique in the dim light. I rode him like anyone would; like the slut he was. All the pressure became pleasure and I didn’t care who he was or how stupid he sounded when he spoke. I still covered his mouth, but at least he liked it.

He rolled me onto my back and made promises about how the real fun was going to begin. I writhed and moaned and watched his eyes wander. It took a good slap across the jaw to get his attention back on me, but it didn’t last as long as intended. The rhythm became monotonous and I could feel a dull ache in my hips as my climax started to escape me.

Richard Dulmock hadn’t lost enthusiasm. He was still brimming with excitement as far as my thighs could tell, and his eyes were alive with predatory instinct that I hadn’t witnessed even when he came hunting for me.

Then my patience wavered, and I remembered being cornered by the bastard brat for this. Rich men with yellow fever gave the best desperate sex of their lives, and it was always worth the travel for it. What was happening then and there wasn’t sex. It was barely a dalliance. There was no point in my being there if he was being visually stimulated by something else, so I decided to see who was sucking up all my sexual attention.

I remember the night I met Richard Dulmock not because of his snobby charm or his upper-middle class good looks, or because he insisted on speaking to me in a pan-East Asian mock tone throughout the night. Not even a little bit. The clearest image burned into my brain that night would be the dark bay Arabian mare portrait by his bed and the way he snorted when he looked at it.

There was nothing similar to lying there in the half-light and waiting for the thrusting to stop. He buried his head between my shoulder and head and nibbled on my ear, but I cringed. My whole body crawled and I tried not to think about that horse. When he started to slow I could feel his sweat and the chafing betwixt my thighs, and I groaned. He hadn’t finished and I was choking on tension and bad thoughts.

A quick spank got him riled again, and I held my breath. He probably had a riding crop in mind and I hid my hands from my sight. It was a long time before I dabbled in role-play again. He would never know and he wouldn’t care after a climax like that. He grunted and groaned and moaned through all the noise of the house. One final push from his arse and Richard Dulmock finished.

He whipped out his cock without a word of warning, and I was brought back to reality by a chill running up through my legs.

“That was excellent,” he said, but was probably talking to himself.

I was already kicking up my knickers into my hands and quickly collecting my clothes. My t-shirt was back on before I’d found my bra and he stretched out across the sheets. His eyes ran across my body but he clearly wasn’t reading its language.

“Up for another go?” he said slowly with a thrust of his hips. “In about ten minutes?”

He held up his fingers for good measure.

I stared at him, wide-eyed and panting. I had his semen running down my legs and a picture of a horse looking at me, and no second-thoughts coming to mind.

“Nah, I’m good thanks,” I said and rushed out of the room.

Normally there was sweetness in watching the realisation dawn on a bigot’s face, but there was none as I ran through that house. Drunks parted faster and the Asian girls hid their laughter behind their hands. I slipped on my shoes at the door and braced for the night wind.

“She’ll never do that again,” I heard a student say as I closed the door in my wake.

“Yeah,” I scoffed as the party heat faded and I started to walk, and followed music from a few doors down. “And life would never be interesting again.”

Trish has always enjoyed escaping reality, now she invites you to join her.

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