Welcome to the Horse Fair

Note from author: This story applies the adage, 'write what you know'. And of that I'll say no more... Except maybe to add that the London Horse Fair is a real event, inspired by its German counterpart.

This story describes bisexual, gay, and group sex activities and, so, should that not happen to be your thing, please feel free to move on, continue with your day, and pursue other more worthwhile endeavours. Truly, there is little of value to be discovered here. Otherwise, enjoy :)

The queue stretched around the building, snaked across the square, in through the lobby, and then down into the basement. I'd not expected this, I'd not imagined that this many guys - 50, perhaps more - would sign up for this. But now, waiting in line, the thought of what that might mean, what might happen after entering through those doors: my chest began to canter, lope, and then race.

Wait.

Hit pause, then rewind.

This isn't me. I wasn't looking for this. I stumbled across this place, this event, on a random Friday night. And, yeah, I was surfing porn. Nothing to be ashamed off there. Nothing strange about that. It's something we all do and so you know precisely how it goes.

Friday night, date night, movie, takeaway, and snuggling up to Sarah on the couch, trying to warm her up against the blue-white flicker of the TV screen. Sarah is against my neck, her hand on my thigh, just tracing the space between my knee and my hip with the straight of her finger. The scent of her hair, the arch of her neck, the smooth curve of her shoulder. And she's leaning into me, sipping at the Prosecco I bought on the way back from work. Leaning into me, my hand on her hip, my lips against her ear, it's been three and a half weeks and I'm needing this. Leaning into me, and the shift of her body suggests that she might want it too.

Then, 'Later,' she says, with a smile, as if it is no thing, and turns back to the screen. But she doesn't stop me, my hand against her stomach, under her top, and then stroking the round of her side-breast.

Credits rolling and I'm still kissing her neck, her shoulder, her cheek, tasting the corner of her mouth.

'Baby, can we do this tomorrow - I'm beat.'

Crushed, and she is pulling away and I know that she can sense it.

'I'll make it up to you,' she says with a stretch and yawn. 'Promise.'

And then she's gone, her feet against the staircase and the creek of bedsprings from above.

And me, down below, channel-hopping but finding nothing but static and white noise. My iPad against my lap, Facebook to Instagram to Twitter, doomscrolling until my right eye begins to ache. Then opening the browser to Reddit and its all downhill from there.

I begin with the straight stuff, and it's enough to get me hard, but it turns out that there is only so much cock that Tina can take before I begin to tire.

So I move on from Tina to some group action. Only, oh, look, it's still Tina, except now she's been joined by Cindy and, as fate would have it, Tina enjoys both pussy and cock. All of which being part of life's rich tapestry, I guess.

From there to serious group action. Three no longer being enough, I'm moving on to foursomes, moresomes, gangbangs, and full-on fuck-fests. Debbie may well have done Dallas. Turns out that Tina is more than capable of doing Darlington with most of Durham thrown in. Which leads me to the seriously twisted shit, cuckold, creampie clean-up, forced sissification, and, from there, we're practically a tiptoe away from full on man-on-man fucking.

And I know what you might say. That all this seems a little too convenient. That this all seems a little too rehearsed. Like, maybe - just maybe - the straight stuff, the threesomes, the foresomes, the moresomes, the fuckfests, all of it was designed to tease our way to this: man-on-man fucking.

And you'd not be wrong. I've been here before. Many times. And that Friday, like every Friday, had the force of gravity, destiny, inevitability.

Which requires a clarification.

I'm not queer.

Not that there's nothing wrong with being gay. Some of my good friends are gay.

I'm kidding. Although, yeah, some of my good friends are gay. Rather, it's 2023 and I've zero problem as to whether someone is into cock or pussy, cock and pussy, ass and pussy, in whatever permutation. It's a wide and glorious world and there's plenty of space for us all.

But it's just that it's not me. I'm not queer, not gay, not homosexual, I'm just not put together that way. Except, if we ignore for a moment that fact that actual men are fucking on the screen clutched against my chest, and if we overlook the fact I'm stroking like a crazed thing.

But seriously, I'm straight. I swear it. Down to the bone.

You get it, right? You know the score?

Sarah, upstairs and out for the count, and I'm down here, balls turning blue. And you know how it goes. I'll take what I can get, and I'll get it where I can find it.

But I digress.

I'm there, lit blue from the light of the LCD screen, I'm right there. Troy is choking on cock, a finger in his wet boy-hole, and he's groaning like a fucking whore. And I'm waiting for Brett to take him by the hair, bend him across the couch, open him up and pound him balls deep. And I'm imagining what it might be like to be Troy, in that moment, and I'm fucking hard, I'm fucking dripping, I'm fucking close. Because it doesn't take much imagining.

Except there is the banner, just beneath the video, pulsing in violent neon.

London Horse Fair.

Three words framed by hooded twinks, heads tipped down, hands bound before them, sweat slicked, muscles rippling, compliant.

I click and the link takes me through to an events page and the events page takes me through to a portal selling tickets at £15 a head.

The Horse Fair, and the entire idea of it just seems implausible. That anyone would sign up for something like this. That anyone would want this.

I've done threesomes - two guys and a chick. One time I got to watch two chicks go at it, and Heather - she was a friend of a friend - then sucked my cock while the other girl watched.

'Not fair to keep a guy hanging,' she said, with practiced magnanimity.

But this, this was a whole other thing, both improbable and unlikely, this was pro-level shit. The kind of thing I would never consider, not even for a moment. The kind of thing no one would ever want.

Except, I'm flicking back, I'm scrolling, I'm studying the photos, and I'm harder than solid rock. I click on the events calendar and see that there is a Fair scheduled for two weeks time. And I can feel it, a pressure build and then race towards something like release. I hit, 'More Info,' and, as I do so, I swear, I cum with the force of a hurricane, spewing hot sticky jizz up across my chest, onto my shoulder, and over the back of the couch. Just the thought of it, enough.

But it was just fantasy shit. Not the kind of thing I would ever do. Not the kind of thing I would ever consider for real. Except...

Okay, okay, full disclosure. What I said before was true, solid, you can take it to the bank. I'm not gay, I'm not queer.

But I have tried cock. But that was before Sarah. Just once or twice. You know how it is, we all experiment, just to say we've tried.

Okay, okay. Scratch that.

And I know what you are going to say, and, yes, I am a total shit, but I'm going to be honest with you. I owe you that. And so, yeah, I have, on occasion, tried strange cock on the sly. No big deal. It didn't mean anything. Just a one time thing.

Okay, maybe not a one time thing. Perhaps it was a couple of times. But the principle applies. Never twice with the same guy and it never meant a fucking thing.

And it really is no big deal. And I'm not a cheater. I don't fuck other women. Ever. End of. Because with guys it's different, it's pure and physical, something to scratch that itch, something to feed that need, something to relieve that pressure. It nothing beyond that physiological impulse and physiological release. And that is it and that is all.

But, again, I digress.

The London Horse Fair, some seriously fucked up shit, and what do you know, two nights later I'm back again.

This time Sarah was out with friends

'Don't wait up,' is what she said, making it clear that she was intent on taking us a full four weeks without sight or sound of even the suggestion of a pity fuck.

So what would you do? Same as me, no doubt. I fired up the iPad, unspooling as I navigated from fuck site to fuck site.

I reacquaint myself with Tina, this time taking a cock from either end. Tina, slicked with sweat and cum and cunt-cream and I'm fucking aching with need, wanting to taste her, wanting to lick her clean. Tina, eyes rolled back and gone, mouth contorted, howling like a banshee as she takes thunderous fuck-stroke after thunderous fuck-stroke, her legs, her thighs, her belly, her tits rippling with the force of it. Tina, taking cock balls deep, frigging at her clit like a thing possessed, slopping fuck juice across her belly, chest, spraying as far as the camera. Tina, tensing, tensing, tensing, and then releasing, squirting violently in her cum, a fountain of fuck-juice, a thing of genuine beauty.

Except all I can see is cock. His cock.

7 inches, thick, cut, with the perfect amount of curve, now slick with Tina's cunt juice and his precum.

They are flipping Tina over, cock still deep in her cunt, and the second guy, he's 8 inches, and so a little bigger, but thin. And when it comes to cock, I'll take girth over length any day. But that's an aside. Point being, he's long, he's thin, he's lubed up and taking aim at her ass.

And all I see is cock, his cock dripping, his cock throbbing, his cock twitching with need. And I'm beating furiously, I'm lapping at my own juiced up hand, imagining that I'm tasting him, sucking his cock head before taking him throat deep.

Only there it is. Vivid neon, pulsating and restless, drawing me in.

London Horse Fair.

I click the link without thinking it, not intending to do so, not wanting to go further, but then finding myself tumbling over and over and over, deeper and deeper, down the rabbit hole, hitting bottom at the store front.

£15 a ticket and they accept PayPal. £15 a ticket, a small enough amount not to be missed. And PayPal, PayPal making it too too easy.

Not that I'm going to follow this through. Not that I'm not going to do anything with it. Not that I'm going to add my name, email, address. Not that I'm going to hit complete.

Only then it is done. Without thinking or intending it. It's done. And I'm stroking at my cock all the while.

My phone chimes as the confirmation email and e-ticket lands in my inbox. I stroke my cock once, twice, grunt, and spurt with an almost painful intensity. Without thinking it, I'm scooping up the cum from my stomach, my chest, and then I'm lapping it up out of the small of my hand.

The next day, Sarah is down in the kitchen heating up coffee, and I'm in the bathroom on my phone. The e-ticket is still there. I don't know what I expected, but it's still there. Only now there are testimonials. Now there is a video, just fifteen seconds, but enough. A video of guys, hooded, in line, one after the other, sweat slick, submissive, and bound.

'Do you dare the Horse Fair,' reads the legend.

And I've still no intention of following through. But I'm hard and I'm aching and I'm needy and I want this.

Because, despite my scepticism, despite my ignorance, this might actually be for real. The kind of thing that might actually exist in the real world. And I'm stroking, I'm stroking, and I'm stroking myself sore. And then I cum and, instead of release, only frustration, want, and desire.

Later I'm back. Sarah is out in the kitchen doing god knows what, and I'm looking for deals on hotel rooms. Not because I intend to follow through, but because I'm curious to see how far this thing might take me, what it might do for me, and what it might cost.

It's a work thing. I've booked the hotel, and so that's what I tell Sarah. And I wish I could say otherwise, I truly do, but the lie came easy and tumbled out fully formed. And Sarah took it at once, with a shrug, with a smile, with a casual indifference. And, all the while, my heart kept steady and true.

From then to now, from there to here, and now I'm queuing with a straggle of strange guys, all of them trying hard to appear non-descript, all of them working hard at inconspicuous.

Yet still I could walk away. I could turn and no one would even notice. I could just go, back to the hotel, back to the train station, and back to Sarah. And, for a moment I consider it, and for a moment I even think that I might.

Only now the line is moving with the weight and sense of inevitability, we've made it around the building, we're snaking across the square, and I draw up my hoodie. It's nine at night, but we're just off Covenant Garden, and so the place is restless with tourists, and sightseers, and theatre goers, and locals, but none of them see, and none of them care, for there is no reason why they might.

And now into the lobby, lit in dull neon blue, and the door to the club lolls into blackness. Then stairs. Precisely 22 stairs. I count each one. My eyes adjust as I hit bottom. There's a cubicle and a gate. I flash the e-ticket to the guy in the cubicle.

'Enjoy,' he says, as he lets me through, casual, bored even, 'cos whatever else, he's clearly seen all of this before.

In through the doors and into a huddle of strangers, the air thick with chlorine, fresh sweat, and aftershave. I'd read on the website that, by day, the venue is a men only spar. Tonight, it's dim lit and sleezy and taking us somewhere else entirely.

We're ushered off to the left, banks and banks of lockers stretch from floor to ceiling.

'Keep your boots and socks on,' someone says. And, without thinking it, I strip down with the rest, down to my jockey shorts. I then hesitate - but it's a fleeting thing - I take the waistband, peel my shorts down to my ankles and then all the way.

We're directed out and through into the bar area, the room lined with guys dressed in dark pants and white t-shirts. Stable Boys. These are the Stable Boys, and we are the Mares. The website explained that much. And I also know that the Stallions are to come. And the Stallions always arrive late.

Mares. Stable Boys. Stallions. It's a simple idea really. Mares. Stable Boys. Stallions. And tonight I'm a Mare, as if I could ever be anything else.

The room fills and, the realisation hits me again: I am naked save my white sport socks and boots. Guys to my left, to my right, in front of me, lining up behind, they're all naked, unabashed and unashamed. The realisation, like a cold shudder, and I cover my cock with my hand, conscious that shaved myself, cock, ass, crack, and balls, completely bare. I shaved bare myself for this and I'm now both conspicuous and unimpressive.

But at the same time, the thought of it, exposed, visible, vulnerable, triggers the kink, the thing that compels me to take cock on my knees like a whore, the thing the brought me here this night. Not the sex, not the fuck, not cum, not the spit, not the release. But something else. That feeling of being naked in a room and all eyes on me. That feeling of being pressed to the floor and taking whatever is given to me. That feeling...

The feeling takes hold and I'm light-headed with exhilaration and fear and anticipation and dread, and my shaved and unimpressive cock begins to swell.

The room jostles and the double doors swing shut. Stable Boys press in, herding us closer and together. To my right, a Stable Boy, young, fit, blonde, and trouble catches my eye.

'Later,' he mouths. He winks and turns away.

My cock twitches at the thought of it.

Out front, a middle aged guy, stocky, shaved head, dressed differently, clambers up onto a chair.

He asks us to raise a hand if this is our first time. About half the room wave back.

He lays down the rules.

We are Mares. Fucktoys. Fuckholes. Fuckbroods. And that's how he says it. Fuckbroods, only with a sneer.

The Mare's purpose is to serve the Stallions. We will be bound. We will be hooded. The Stallions will take us and use us. When the Stallions are done, they'll hand us over to the Stable Boys to enjoy. And we'll fucking take it, we'll take it, we'll take it all.

A shuffle of feet. A low murmur. Someone mutters, 'Fuck yeah.'

He raises his voice.

'If you remove your cuffs, you're done. If you remove your hood, you're done. If you say, 'stop,' 'no,' 'help,' 'it hurts,' - if you cry - no one will listen and no one will care. You'll take what is given to you.

He gives us the safe word.

'If you say the safe word, everything stops, and you're out.'

A shuffle of feet, and understanding of what this is, what this means, and how far this might go.

'And Mares,' he said, 'Trust me when I say this. Tonight you will enjoy more cock than most of you have taken in your entire life up to this point. And many of you will struggle to sit or walk for the next few days. But tonight will be the mindfuck of your lives. You'll never forget it. And so enjoy.'

He steps back and leaves.

A nervous shuffle. The blonde guy is eyeing me and smirking like a fucker. The Stable Boys close in and we're ushered into a large room with leather padded benches, couches, chairs, and tables.

We're corralled into two lines. Red hood and white hood. The split is about fifty-fifty.

I take red without thinking about it, and, as the hood is pressed into my hand, suddenly then I do. Red means bareback. White hood is covered only. But red hood means that I take it raw, something I've rarely done. And I worry and wonder whether I should turn back and change my mind. But it's too late, momentum, the force of the moment, the Stable Boys, all of it driving us forward and the thought of it, this, what might happen, what might come, causes me to ache with need.

'Hoods on,' someone instructs, 'And hands out.'

I pull the hood over my head. The world goes dark, and the room recedes into a muffled whisper.

I hold out my hands and wait as time grows elastic.

Somewhere to my left, someone laughs. Off and in the distance, the mutter of voices.

'Hands together,' someone says and the cut of plastic against my skin as the cable ties tighten.

'You can break them with a twist,' someone whispers. 'They're designed that way. But if you do, then you're out.'

'Steady Mares,' someone says and we wait.

I wait. Alone. In the dark. The room shrinking, tightening, the black revealing shades of pitch and purple and deepest blue.

'Mares, turn to your left.' An unfamiliar voice and I turn.

'Raise your hand and place it on the shoulder of the Mare before you.'

I do and feel warm, clammy flesh and, in turn, the weight of hands against the small of my back.

Without further instruction, the line begins to shuffle forward, and murmur, clammer, still indistinct, begins to swell.

And a sense of the room closing. Bodies pressed against mine, front, behind, to each side. Momentarily, my feet catch, I stumble and then steady myself. I stumble again and now hands, two, four, six, are holding me up.

A hand against my ass. Fleeting, and then gone. Now a flat palm against my shoulder, pressing then relenting.

Something brushes against my balls: a hand, at first fondling, then squeezing roughly.

Someone spins me to the left and then back again. Someone spreads my cheeks and I feel a course finger brush against my hole. I flinch.

'Steady boy,' a voice whispers.

Then against my chest, fingers pinching nipples. I cry out. Then a tongue lapping, soothing, the wetness of lips.

Then still. Myself alone in the dark. The quickening pant of my breath keeping count of the moments. The quickening thud within my chest keeping pace but threatening to race out and ahead.