“Hey, Furio,” she said casually as she slid into the small wooden table. The café was packed and this seemed to soothe her immensely.

“Hello, Sarah,” he said. “I glad you come. I think maybe you wouldn’t, that you would stand me up,” he smiled lightly at her.

She just shook her head at him, and he could see an arousal deep in her eyes and heart that she fought to suppress. “Come on, let’s go order,” she said quickly changing the subject.

“Ah, ah,” he held up a hand in a gracious manner. “I not know how things go here in America? But I am bit of an old fashioned gentleman. You tell me what you want, and I go get for you. Besides,” he leaned forward with a conspiratorial wink, “if we both leave table, someone likely to take it, then we have no place to sit and talk.”

“Okay, okay. You have a good point,” she smiled and gave in to him. “A cappuccino with some vanilla or amaretto in it, and I am happy.”

He nodded and got in line. She didn’t know that he knew the owner of this establishment, or rather that this place paid protection to his boss. These people knew him and would do whatever he asked. In fact, working at the counter was a fellow illegal named Neapolitan. “Hey, Enzo,” Furio spoke in Italian to his friend. “Two cappuccinos and you add this to one of them.” He made it look like he was handing Enzo a ten dollar bill but inside were three small Rohypnol pills, a powerful anesthesia that was often known as the ‘date rape drug’ or a ‘Mickey’. “Just make sure I know which one you add it to, eh?” he joked with his friend. …

The coffee was good with the almond taste of amaretto just the way she liked it. And so far, Furio seemed very genuine about wanting to talk about horses, and he acted the perfect gentleman. He told her about spending time back in Italy learning to ride at his uncle’s farm and also working for a time at a famous training center for the fiery and proud Andalusian horses. While he didn’t know all the English names for things, she could tell he was quite knowledgeable in horses and all the various tack and training methods.

She loved listening to his voice. And even though his English was not that good, there was just something about him that seemed to draw her in like a magnet. A few times he would glance casually around as he normally did, as though he was always on alert, always attuned for any trouble, and she noticed that when he did, his eyes would get hard with a dark edge to them. A few times her inner warning voice tried to ring like a klaxon bell inside her; but, for some reason, she was beginning to feel very pleasantly euphoric, and so she pushed that annoying inner voice far away, shutting it out.

Time seemed to have no meaning for her, and her mind was struggling to stay focused. ‘Go home, something is wrong. You’re not well, you’re sick. Leave here.’  Her inner voice screamed at her, but she just ignored it. She could hear her own voice answering his, and then she noticed it was becoming harder and harder to talk, to even think coherently. All she wanted to do was sleep, to curl up and sleep for days on end. Once, a few years ago, she had minor surgery, and the feeling of going under the anesthesia was almost like this. A detachment of her body from her soul with a warm, comforting drowsiness as her mind just spun out of her control.

She struggled to keep her eyelids open. Were they drooping? Did ‘Foor-Eee-Oh’ even notice she was half sliding under the table? She tried to speak his name, but she felt like she had a wad of cotton in her mouth, felt as if her jaws weighed two tons each. She even sounded like him.

“Foooorr-Eee-Oh…” she spoke aloud, trying to tell him she was not well, that she needed to leave, but all she could do was barely slur out his strange name and an incoherent sentence about not feeling well. She could see him looking at her, looking through her. Was he not noticing? Was he blind that she wasn’t feeling well? But no, she once again felt a cold chill slide down her body a moment as his dark grey eyes locked onto her again, and she noticed the faint trace of a smile on his lips. Somehow she felt he knew exactly how she was feeling; she could see it in those dangerous eyes of his as if this was all going according to his plans. ‘Oh fuck, this isn’t right.’ Her mind struggled around the thought, and her world slipped away from her then.

“No to worry,” he said to one customer who had come to help. “My girlfriend, she having a tough time lately, a bit too much to drink, eh? I taking her home to bed now.” His eyes warned everyone to stay away, that he had the situation firmly under control, and that he, a proper gentleman, was merely escorting his girlfriend home who had drank too much before arriving here. His strong arms easily helped her up as he half carried and half steered her swaying body to his car. Once inside, he seat belted her into the backseat, and he could hear her heavy snores that assured him she was firmly under the affect of the sedatives. Now began the hour long drive out to the desolate Pine Barrens where he had set up everything just for this day.

At first she thought she was in her own bedroom back home in Pennsylvania. The strange dreams that she could not remember began to clear as did the cobwebs of sleep. She tried to get up, to roll over, to do anything, but her body was still not fully cooperating. “Wake up, Sarah. Everything is okay now, eh?” A strong male accented voice cut through the fog of her mind. Who was this man? Didn’t he have some weird name like Fooey—Oh? Furio…Furio, oh, shit! Wasn’t she supposed to meet Furio for some coffee? Did she fall asleep?

“Come on, wake up for me, eh,” the voice pushed at her more, and she felt a large, strong hand gently shake her shoulder.

She slowly opened her eyes and saw him sitting there on a chair right next to her. “Furio??” she hoarsely asked. Now she was confused, fear began to pump through her veins like ice water. Where was she? She didn’t recognize this place. She was on some small, threadbare couch in a small, dusty smelling shack, and there was the darkly dressed Italian sitting across from her. What had happened? The last she remembered was that she was supposed to meet him for coffee. That she was at her apartment getting ready.

“I know you have many questions.” He held his hand up silencing her before she could open her mouth. “Maybe in time I will answer. But, for now, is enough to know you are here, with me, and you will stay here. First, we go over some simple rules…”

“What the hell?!?” her green eyes blazed, and her fear pushed her to full consciousness now.

Instantly, his hand had come out of nowhere and struck her across the face in a heavy, openhanded slap. Her world spun for a moment, and she was totally stunned.

“I said be quiet,” he ordered darkly and those dangerous eyes of his seemed to bore into her. “I trying to be a gentleman, but if you piss me off, I no be nice!”

She reeled back from him in fear, pressed against the couch with nowhere to go.

“Now, as I saying. You are here to be my cavalla, my little ponygirl. You no have a choice in the matter; the more you cooperate, the easier this go.” He got up from the chair and pushed it away as he stood there looking at her.

He was mad, she figured. Stark, raving, off the wall insane. But worse for her, she knew she had very little she could do against him. He was far stronger than her; he was a dangerous adversary to piss off; and, worse, she had no idea where she was or how she got here. Right now, even though fear was thrumming along her veins, so was the sheer instinct of self preservation and survival. She just stared at him and figured she would be quiet and work out a way to somehow escape from her dark captor.

“First is very simply rule.” He had turned briefly and had pulled out a dog collar. “When this is off, you can talk; you will be treated as human, and you act as yourself, eh.” He idly swung the collar. “However, when this goes on, you no longer human in my eyes. You are horse, pure and simple. My mare to be owned and trained and worked. I expect you act like animal while you wear this collar; if no, you will be punished. Don’t test me in this.”

For a moment, she just shook her head not following any of this. What was he telling her? That she was going to be his horse?!?

He walked forward as he opened the buckle on the collar. “Time to corral my mare,” he said as a dark, grim smile played along his hard features.

She moved then on pure instinct, trying to get off that couch before he could get hold of her, but he was far to fast. He pounced on her in an instant, one strong forearm pressing into her neck, his knee jammed into her roughly. “In time, you learn to accept willingly, eh; but, for now, you fight me, I treat you like a disobedient cavalla!” he growled.

And fight she did. She tried to bite him, to screech in panic, to flail at him; but it was just panic, and he was a skilled and strong fighter. He held her down and had that collar around her neck within a matter of seconds. As soon as it was on, he snapped a lead rope to it and backed from her, giving her space.

At first her hands flew to the collar as though trying to claw it off. “Take this off me, you asshole!” she squealed more in fright than anything else.

With lightning speed, he moved in on her. This time, one of his strong fists caught her hard in her midsection as he yanked down on that collar. Almost simultaneously he followed up with a hard knee to her gut that dropped her to the ground like a lead weight.

Her wind was completely knocked out of her, as was any struggle. She could only lay there desperately trying to catch her breath as her world swam in pain and dizziness and danced on the fringes of unconsciousness. A few seconds later, her breath caught up to her, and she lay there curled on her side groaning in pain as she breathed in lungfuls of air.

“Listen very closely to me, Sarah,” his voice was almost unnaturally calm but with a very deadly edge to it. Sarah glanced up and saw him pull a gun from inside his jacket; and, as he clicked off the safety, he aimed it directly at her chest. She froze with terror.

“This like baseball,” Furio continued. “You get three strikes. That strike one; that was mild punishment, just gentle rebuke,” he glared harshly down at her. “Second strike is, I beat you senseless and hurt you very, very badly. Break some bones, maybe you teeth, either way you no like strike two.”

He paused and knelt down a bit; the nine millimeter gun now centering even closer to her, just a few inches away from her trembling body. This time his voice, while still calm, held a very final tone to it. “Strike three is simply I kill you and find me another schiava.” He stood up and replaced the gun inside his jacket. “You understand choices? I put the collar on you, and you talked. I already told you that when collar is on, you nothing but my beast of burden, my horse, my cavalla. Cavalla’s no talk,” he smirked slightly. “They neigh, they snort, they paw the ground, but they no talk.”

Still shivering violently in fear, she just nodded. She dare not do anything else.

“Now,” he continued, “when you in human form, we can converse in English just like this. But when you in collar and harness, I speak only in Italiano to you. After all, a real horse, she no understand any spoken word, does she?” he tilted his head in that almost playful way. “Do you think when you go to work and talk to horse, they understand spoken word? No, they hear ‘blah, blah, blah.’ You can train horse to understand some commands because they learn to associate word with action over time. You will learn the same way.”

He stood away from her again, taking up some of the slack in the lead rope. “I think you get the hang of this very quickly, trust me.” And after that, he stopped speaking in English to her.

She lay there trembling as he backed up, taking up the slack in the rope. He began to say something in Italian that sounded like “Cal Mar See.”

“Shhh, stare calma, mia cavalla, calmarsi.” His voice had become surprisingly soothing and gentle, calm and centered. He moved closer and, using leverage, began to pull up on the rope indicating she should stand.

She knew she had no choice. Either she got up on her own, or he would hang her. So she got to her two feet trembling with terror and fear, not daring to talk, not daring to piss him off.

It made no sense to her how, just a few moments ago, he had been so harsh and violent; and, now, she was seeing a side of him she had never seen at all. His eyes held a steady calmness and even gentleness in them. He was speaking in a soft, soothing voice to her as if, indeed, she was a terrified and frightened horse. Her mind spun in confusion as he slowly walked forward, and she walked backwards away from him.

For a moment, she cringed, certain she would be punished for moving away from him, but she saw something else in his eyes, an almost playful sense of approval. Still he kept up his calm, soothing banter in Italian even though she had no earthy idea what he was saying to her. Every time he would move forward, she would take a step or two back; until, finally, she had no place to go. She had backed herself into the wall and was trapped. She had no choice but to stand there or try to bolt forward past him.

Still he showed no anger or displeasure. Instead, he slowly moved forward, taking up the slack in the lead rope a bit at a time, until he was but a few inches from her. Again, she could smell the faint scent of his cologne, could see the powerful muscles in his chest beneath his black T-Shirt as he began to reach up towards her face with his open hand.

Again she pulled back, certain that he was going to slap her, or worse, but he moved slowly, soothingly. Finally, his hand reached out and touched her cheek, his warm finger gently tracing along her cheek and neck. “Molto bene, cavalla,” he soothed, “Calmarsi, calma,” he kept repeating over and over. He slowly withdrew his fingers; and, once again, after a moment, slowly bought his hand up, as he kept talking to her in a low calming voice.

She could tell by his eyes and his mannerism that he was not going to strike her, so she simply stayed pressed against the wall as he began to allow his whole hand to caress her neck, her shoulder. Now he was almost right against her; she could feel the warmth of his body, the deep timbre of his voice, the elegant accent as he continued talking and soothing her. The whole time his one hand was caressing her, not lewdly, not sexually, but the very same way she had soothed nervous horses. Gently, as though offering assurance and quiet confidence.

“Brava,” he smiled, and it was a genuine smile of warmth and approval that seemed to light up his whole face. His reward to her was to step back out of her space, leaving the lead rope slack between them.

Her mind reeled for a moment; she couldn’t believe that he had reduced her to her most primal animal instinct for safety and acceptance. It was indeed as if she wanted to make him happy; and, of course, she did. She had no want of his anger; she wanted him nice and calm and happy. Was this what the horses she had worked with all these years felt as well? A desperate attempt to simply avoid punishment and to seek acceptance by those Masters and Mistresses that owned them? Was this why some people seemed to be born ‘horse whisperers’ and other people seemed to inspire terror in a horse?

He made a gentle clucking noise as he took up the slack in the lead rope and simply turned his back on her and began to walk, leading her away from the corner she had pinned herself into.

At first, she tried to resist. But he didn’t even glance back; she could hear that same warm chuckle in his voice, almost as if her rebellion and spirit pleased him, and he simply walked until she had no choice but to walk behind him or be dragged off her feet. She slowly began to follow him.

“Brava, cavalla,” he said in a pleasant, rewarding voice without looking at her. “Molto bene.”  He stopped in the middle of the room and began to fiddle with something on a table and then slowly turned back to her. Again, his eyes held a sense of warmth and security as though conveying there was safety in simply submitting quietly to his wishes.

He began speaking again, holding his hand out and walking towards her.

She was not trapped in the corner and knew she could try and pull back, and she did indeed take one step back, but he tightened the lead rope giving her no slack this time. The voice was still calming. She stood stock still then, determined to just let him be done with whatever humiliations he was going to do to her. Again his large, warm hand sought out her shoulder and began to caress and soothe it as he worked his way up to her cheek, began to caress her hair the way someone would playfully tousle a horse’s mane and forelock.

She was beginning to feel awful inside that she was actually starting to enjoy and crave his touch. A part of her had fully expected he was simply going to rape her, beat her, and kill her, but whatever strange thing he was doing was throwing her so off guard that she simply gave into it. At one point, his other hand came up nearly under her nose and slowly opened, and she looked down and almost had to stifle the sound of surprise. He held a single sugar cube in his hand. He nodded his head as though giving her permission; slowly, he rubbed it softly against her lips as though she had never tasted sugar.

She blinked in utter astonishment at this most simple and gentle action on his part, and she felt torn. A part of her felt touched by the tender reward he was offering her, the approving look in his eyes. And a part of her felt utterly humiliated. She was being reduced to nothing more than a horse, a creature seeking the base instinct of pleasing its owner and the joy of such a simple reward.

He was speaking different words in Italian now, encouraging words, and she was certain he was trying to encourage her to eat the peace offering he was giving her as his other hand continued its pleasant and soothing caressing of her.

With a soft sigh, she reached up with her hand to take the sugar cube, and he quickly closed his hand and moved it out of her reach. His voice was a quiet chiding, not a harsh punishment, but the shake of his head and the disproving look in his eyes was unmistakable. She was only going to get one other chance at having this sugar cube; and, if she wanted it, she was going to have to take it as a horse would. For a brief moment, green eyes met stormy grey eyes as they locked gazes. She could feel his dominance over her, but also his safety and protectiveness of her. A feeling of both vulnerability inside her and yet of his gentle persistence in trying to gently bridge a gap.

Again the hand came up and opened, offering the sugar cube. His eyes danced with amusement as though he knew exactly what inner struggles she was battling. She bent her head and, quickly, using her lips, scooped up the white square and munched it half contentedly. A part of her felt like striking out and kicking Furio like a horse; but, somehow, she felt that would only amuse him more, and he would simply move out of the way. He had not been lying when he said he had experience with horses; he seemed to instinctively know exactly how a horse’s mind would work, or hers.

As soon as she ate the sugar cube, he simply reached up and removed the collar and lead rope from her. “Very good, Sarah,” he spoke again in English. “Now, was that so very hard?” Again his eyes held a trace of amusement and something else she could not quite read.