THE WINNING COLORS ARE YELLOW AND BLACK
George's father was a jockey and George's father's father was a jockey. It just so happened that they were all Georges, so George rightfully could be called George the Third. Of course, he never used that title because it sounded so very royal and pretentious.
The diminutive jockey with the name of George was originally from a place called Sedgwick on Avon but whenever anyone asked him his place of origin, he just shrugged his shoulders and mumbled,
He had been fairly successful this past season. That was a very fortunate happenstance since his father had suffered a serious injury after a nasty fall the previous year and was unable to do any riding in the current racing circuit. He did the best he could to help out and tended the stock to keep them in tip-top condition for the very serious business of racing.
On the very first night of the Cambridge meet, he spied a strange message in his stack of personal emails. It was from an unfamiliar female called "Devious Denise". George did not remember ever meeting any female with the name of Denise.
Out of curiosity, he felt the compulsion to open the email. George was a gentleman and would never do anything to offend a member of the opposite sex. As soon as he read the message, he immediately regretted his impulse to look at it.
Well, the die was cast and things were set in motion that he no longer had any control over.
The message had only 11 words but they sent a chilling warning!
"Race and you will suffer the same fate as your father!"
He quickly deleted the message and decided to ignore it completely. Later he was to find out that was a mistake but he was, after all, only a simple jockey.
George's father George was in a very good mood after an enjoyable evening at the pub just outside the racetrack grounds. Some old admirers had bought him several rounds just to hear his stories of past glories. He was a well-known face around racing circles whereas young George was a virtual unknown.
When he came into the caravan, George pretended to be asleep in his compartment but he could hear his father whispering to a giggling female who was obviously well lubricated with several pints of beer.
He put the pillow over his head trying to drown out the sounds of fumbling love-making going only a short distance from his ears. It did seem kind of strange to him that his "over the hill" father was making out with the local females and he, in the prime of his life, was seldom in the company of a nubile young girl.
George could hear Prince Mojo, his favorite mount, snorting restlessly only a short distance from their caravan. The beautiful white racing horse was due to race tomorrow afternoon and he was probably a bit nervous before the outing. He wanted to bounce out of bed and run over to the stable and calm him down but it would be unseemly to disturb his father and the unknown female in the middle of their nocturnal pleasures.
He had a special rapport with the valuable animal that seemed to pull the very best effort from the handsome white horse in each and every race. They had managed to come in either first or second in every race thus far. That record made Prince Mojo the highest prize winning horse in the Sheffield Farms stable and George was the leading jockey at this point in the season.
Prince Mojo settled down, the frenzied activities in the next room quieted, and George fell off into a troubled sleep thinking about crossing the finish line on the back of a white horse. He knew it just had to be his favorite mount, Prince Mojo, son of Queen Anne and Mystic Moneymaker. They were both purebreds of great distinction and millions of race enthusiasts had felt the beat of excitement when either famous steed made their move down the homestretch.
The light of the morning sun made George open his gritty eyes early the next morning. He eased out of the caravan not wanting to know if only his father was still in residence or if he still had company.
Prince Mojo was peering out of the half door of the stable watching him approach with keen attention. George could see that he was just aching for some exercise. That silly girl, Josefina, the exercise rider was late this morning. George decided he would ride Prince Mojo to take off the edge before the big race. Josie was a hard working girl but sometimes she liked to party too much in the evening and she liked to get her full allotment of sleep no matter what. He really couldn't fault her for that as it was her only real fault. Well that, and the fact the pretty girl seemed to have an awful lot of male companions.
When he opened the stable door, George saw a white envelope underneath. It had only one word on it. That word was "George". He ripped it open whilst Prince Mojo nuzzled his neck from behind. The message was short and sweet.
"Ride the white horse at your peril!"
This message made George a bit more nervous than the first message because it had the flavor of being an omen. George had no problem with silly messages, but omens were a different matter, indeed. He took such things much more seriously because of his Gypsy blood that coursed through his veins and guided his every action. He looked over his shoulder and crossed himself 3 times before he kissed his little lucky gold coin hanging around his neck. Sometimes he wanted to curse his own superstitious beliefs but was too fearful of the consequences.
He crumpled up the piece of paper and tossed it in the trash bin in the corner. Soon, both he and Prince Mojo were flying down the straightaway at a pace that made every muscle in the huge horse's body stretch with sheer delight to be running once again. He carefully brought the champion mount back into the stable complex before he sweated up too rapidly.
Josefina was standing there looking contrite ready to wash Prince Mojo down and tend to his other needs.
"I am so sorry to be late, Master George."
"No problem, Josie, I enjoyed the ride and needed to clear my head. Were there any strangers around the stables in the last two days?"
"No, sir! There were some lads from the pub wanting to look at the horses before they made their bets. I watched them real careful and they never went anywhere near any of the horses."
George stood silent for the moment. He watched Josefina tending to Prince Mojo's legs. She was bent almost in half with the tight riding breeches stretched to the limit by her heart-shaped bottom. Despite his good intentions and reflections on the meaning of the messages, he found his manly equipment beginning to rise with some anticipation of possible action. The girl's long black hair was up in a pony tail that was bobbing now with every movement of her deeply tanned arms. He wanted to grab her pony tail and tell her that he wanted so badly to make love to her right here on the pile of hay in the stall. George had to laugh at his own weakness and allowed his impressive stand to slowly shrink into a meaningless state of rest.
Josefina coyly looked over her shoulder and smiled at her boss. She knew the moment had passed but there would be more opportunities in the future. Wise beyond her years, she was confident in her ability to get Master George in the final approach mode for a soft landing in her womanly apple orchard.
The shadow of a tall form fell across George's squatting figure studying the white horse's shoes for any problems. He looked up and smiled at Lady D' Wynter standing above him in impeccable riding attire. She was the epitome of equestrian finery and her beautiful oval face looked like some artist's rendition of unobtainable beauty. George always felt a little bit like a bumbling village idiot in her presence and tended to mumble incoherently when she asked him a simple question. He did not see Josie standing off to the side glaring like a female lioness deprived of her prey.
"Is he all ready for the big race, George?"
"Err, I mean, yes, your ladyship. He is in fine shape and rearing to go."
George was certain his face was burning because from his position underneath, he was able to discern her female anatomy in the form of a long visible slit pushing against the soft material of the tight fitting riding pants. She obviously was not wearing any underthings but that was not unusual for females addicted to riding early in the morning.
"Can you give me a hand up on Princess Passion? She is a fine riding horse but she is so tall that I have trouble getting in the saddle."
George went quickly to her side and guided her heel into the stirrup. Lady D'Wynter now had one leg cocked up way up high in the air and the other still flat on the ground. There was nothing else for it but to boost her with a helping hand on her upper-class bottom. In a flash, she was mounted in the saddle and poor George stood with a burning hand still vibrating with memories and a noticeable bulge between his legs. Both Josie and Lady D'Wynter perused the shape and size with their own internal thoughts on the matter.
Lady D'Wynter trotted off, Josie resumed her horse washing duties and George walked back to the caravan attempting to hide his arousal as best he could under the circumstances. Neither his father nor his guest of the prior evening were in the tiny home so George stripped down and took a quick cold shower to "cool off" in more ways than one.
When he left the caravan, George saw a note taped to the outside of the door. He was getting a bit sick of these silly messages but knew he had to read it to see what it said.
"Either the rider or the horse will have a broken leg if the white horse is ridden today!"
Now that was a threat more specific than any of the others. George knew in his case it would mean a cast for a few months, but for Prince Mojo it would be a death sentence.
George knew he would have to go to Lady D'Wynter and inform her of the threat because it was her stable and her horse in danger.
The big mansion was solid as a rock. It seemed to stretch in several directions all at the same time. The number of workers startled him. Everyone seemed to know exactly what their job was and they all hid behind a noncommittal mask of distanced performance of duties. George recognized the formally attired butler as one of Josefina's male friends. He could help but contemplate that the handsome butler was too young to be a butler and too old to be Josefina's lover. Then again, age never seemed to know boundaries in such matters.
"Madame will receive you in the drawing room, sir!"
He followed the butler to the huge room filled with leather furniture and so many books that he was certain it should have called "the library" rather than "the drawing room". Lady D'Wynter was sitting on the soft white leather chaise lounge petting a very contented looking white cat purring in a steady beat.
"Err, Lady D'Wynter, so sorry to bother you but there has been a threat on your prize stallion Prince Mojo and I think we should do something to protect him."
The sweet smelling beautiful woman in her early 30s patted the lounge right next to her and invited George to sit down. The cat seemed a bit put out at his dismissal but stalked off to curl up in a ball in front of the fireplace.
"Please, George, don't call me Lady D'Wynter. In fact, my full name is Denise Prendergast Wynter, so just call me Denise or simply "D" if that is more to your liking."
"Your name is Denise?"
"Yes, George, I left you all those silly notes because I knew you would come to my side. I wanted to get to know you better and it seemed the perfect way to get your full attention."
George had to smile at her deviousness and never objected when she reached out and took his hand in hers and placed it in not so subtle familiarity on the inside of her soft beautiful long leg.
(To be continued ??)