In this hot stable-side encounter, it’s the diminutive jockey that gets ridden, though it’s the side bet that holds all the action.
NOTE: This story appears in Rob Rosen's best-selling collection, Short Spurts.
It was the morning before Saturday’s season opening, full-capacity crowds expected. In other words, for the lucky few, big fucking pay-offs. Hence my arrival the day earlier. The owners allowed the colts to be viewed by the heavy bettors. Good for business to spark some interest, they figured. Show off their wares. Get some major money riding on their investments.
Fine by me. Though it wasn’t the horses that were doing the sparking. Least not for me, anyway. Well now, not totally. Sure, I admired the animals for what they were. Top of the line, best of the best, and all. Still, it was the riders that really interested me, got me down to the stables at that ungodly hour, put a bulge in my shorts.
Yeah, truth be told, I dig short guys. Perfect miniatures. Pint-sized men. Guys that can bounce on daddy’s lap. Needless to say, this peculiar penchant of mine, plus my predilection for the ponies, makes a perfect fit.
And the early hour? Beat the rush. Ringside seats. Well, stallside, at any rate.
The jockeys arrive early, too. Checking out the next day’s racers. Making sure they’re in tip-top shape, giving them a good brushing-down so that they shine for the cameras. Strange sight to see, really, these elfin men alongside their relatively giant steeds. Strange and sexy, to be certain.
I strode along the earthen path, popping my head inside each of the cubicles as the colts got their rubdowns, their massive haunches quivering in apparent delight. My cock quivered right along with them as each diminutive jockey came into view, determined looks on their angular faces, sinewy arms pumping back and forth against satiny hides. Too fucking hot, despite the morning chill.
With each stall I past, my prick grew harder, steely against my cotton briefs. And then I reached the final one. I glanced down at the half-door. Jersey Boy, it read, printed across a wooden plank. I poked my peepers inside. The horse was a brilliant black save for a pair of white circles around the rump. It looked up at me, shaking its head in greeting.
“Morning,” I said to it, a smile now wide on my face.
“Morning,” came the surprising reply, just as the jockey emerged from around the other side, wearing little more than a pair of denim shorts and knee-high boots. I gulped at the sight of him, at his muscle-tight, tiny frame, coated with a dense matting of curly, black hair that trailed down before disappearing inside his shorts, only to reappear along his equally hairy, sinewy legs.
“Oh, hi. Sorry, didn’t see you there.”
He smirked, revealing a glorious set of pearly whites. “Yeah,” he replied. “I get that a lot.”