by Paul Blades
* * *
THE MADDY SAGA
Book II
THE TRAINING OF A PONYGIRL
By
PAUL BLADES
A Renaissance E Books publication
ISBN 978-1-60089-089-5
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2006-7 Paul Blades
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.
For information contact:
[email protected]
A Sizzler/B D Edition
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
In the basement of the a whorehouse known as "La Papaya", literally referring to the succulent tropical fruit, but colloquially translated as "the slit" or "the cunt", a young, naked, pale skinned, American girl peers out from a tiny cage set in the wall. She is wearing a thick black leather gag and her hands are bound behind her. She has little idea of where she is.
What she does know is problematic enough. She had found herself rescued from the clutches of fiendish slavers by a nice little man in wire rimmed glasses. He had called himself Irving. He and a slender but powerful man that Irving referred to as Jake, had found her locked in a cage in a dungeon like prison under a barn near a farm house located somewhere in Eastern Georgia.
Irving had explained to her that she was safe now. He had helped her shower and provided her with clothes. The girl had been treated horribly in the "hole", as it was called by her captors, and she believed that she had been abandoned to die when the man and his cruel wife's bodies had been unceremoniously dumped by unknown assailants into the hole one day. She had seen the trapdoor shut and began to believe that she would starve to death locked in her little cage well before anybody ever found her.
It was with joy that she had found herself liberated. Irving had explained to her that she could not go home quite yet because it would endanger their 'mission' to save another girl named Maddy who had passed through the Georgia farm on her way to sexual slavery. They would find a hospital or sanitarium somewhere where she could be held incommunicado until the 'mission' was completed. Irving promised that he would come to get her himself.
An ambulance had come and she was hustled off in it. She was given a shot to "calm her nerves". The next thing she remembered was that she was lying in the back of a van, naked, gagged and hooded. She surmised that she was in Mexico when she was finally removed from the van and hustled into a warehouse. The unmistakable sounds of Spanish surrounded her as her body was poked and prodded. Despite her futile protests through her gag, she was raped repeatedly and then thrown in a cell.
After about three days, the girl found herself packed in a big wooden crate and back on the road. In the next warehouse, the cells on either side of her were occupied by frightened Russian girls. The one on her left spoke a limited English, and the girl was given to understand that her two companions had thought that they were going to be smuggled into the United States to get jobs as maids.
The three girls were, after a few days, packed into small cages that were lifted on the back of yet another truck. Naked and locked in their tiny steel prisons covered by canvas tarps, the trip took what seemed like forever. The truck bounced and jerked over pothole filled roads at an agonizing pace. The women were fed and allowed to go to the bathroom at various intervals, paying for this service with their wide open lips or their widespread thighs. On the evening of the third day, the girls' cages were unloaded from the truck and brought into the basement of the mansion in which she was now resident. The Russian girls were jammed into small cages alongside her.
* * * *
Irving Ostroff sat next to his boss, Jacob, or 'Jake', Haesler. Their eyes were focused on a large steel door located in the side of an industrial uniform company located in the port section of Elizabeth, New Jersey. They had been watching the door for an hour. People were on their way, nasty, cruel people. When they got there, Irving and Jake and the other members of their 'team' would have a surprise for them.
Irving was the fidgety type. He was the 'tech guy' of the outfit and he had rigged the door last night so that, once all the bad guys were in, Jake and the boys could make their move. Jake was just the opposite from Irving. He was like Paul Newman in 'Hombre' where he plays the half breed character that can sit and watch the horizon for hours without moving. Jake possessed that character's temperament, too. He was silent and strong. He could make people afraid of him real easy. And he was just as capable of dealing out death when he had to.
"Hey Jake," Irving asked. "How do you think Maureen's doing?"
"Who's Maureen?" Jake answered, his cool grey eyes never leaving the door.
"You know, the girl we saved back in Georgia. The one with the ambulance, you know."
Jake had wanted to leave her down in the underground prison where they found her. She was not part of their mission, and the mission was all. They had not aced the old couple who had been collecting slaves for sale to the very exporters he and Irving were now watching. For some reason the man and woman had outlived their usefulness to the international gang. But Irving had insisted. He had reluctantly agreed to let the slavers they were watching take away three beautiful young girls to whatever dismal fate awaited them. But he had drawn the line at leaving Maureen to die of hunger locked in a subterranean cell. So Jake reluctantly brought the girl out and called his employer, Matthew Bertman, a wealthy industrialist and financier. Bertman arranged for an ambulance to take the girl away somewhere where she could be held incommunicado. Bertman said he would find a place to stash her a little while.
"Oh, her," Jake answered taciturnly. "She's probably ok.'
"How do you know?" Irving asked.
Jake looked at him. "Because Mr. Bertman told me so. Now let's keep our mind on the job at hand. You can collect Maureen when this is all done."
Matthew Bertman, Fortune Five Hundred member, uncle of Madeline Bertman, the girl that Jake and his team were hunting for, had been pissed when Jake had called him. The last thing they needed was reporters flocking to the home of a poor southern white girl freed from nasty slavers. It would spook the guys that had kidnapped Madeline. He made a couple calls and arranged for the ambulance to pick her up. He had told the people he had hired that he didn't give a fuck what happened to the girl as long as she didn't show up on the news. Well, why waste a nice commodity like a young white girl, even if she was a little zaftig, if you could get another $10,000 or so for her in Mexico. This way, you got paid on both ends. And no girl shipped off to be a whore in Mexico would ever show up on the ten o'clock news.
* * * *
Three thousand miles away, on a large estate set on the western plains of Kalikastan, a former republic of the Soviet Union, a former Red Army colonel stood in the open doorway of a large, white barn, watching the teeming rain as it splattered onto the red brick path that led to the building. It was late, about 10 p.m. It had been raining all day. There was no training for the ponygirls when it rained like this. A slip in the mud, a turned ankle and for six to eight weeks all they would be good for is fucking. He had been after Grobgy, the owner of the vast estate, to build a pavilion for bad weather training for two years. It was something that the Soviet security apparatchik now turned murderous pirate had kept putting off even though he could, with his many millions in ill gotten gains, well afford it. "A whole day's training gone to waste," Drabik thought to himself. "Shit!"
Behind him in the barn were six or seven of the other trainers and handlers. They had been drinking all day. They were all drunk as Volga boatmen by now. They had been gambling, fighting and fucking and tormenting the ponygirls all day. Actually, it sounded bad, but standing in their stalls
, anxiously listening to the anguished whinnies of their fellow female beasts, gave the ponies something to do. And it made them more eager to get out and train on other days, even when the weather was bad. But on days like this, when the local streams swelled and the track was a huge circular pond, well, there was nothing that could be done.
The trainers had one of the ponygirls out now. She was a broad shouldered blonde, used mostly as part of a nine pony team. She had little grace and no speed. But she was, if you'll forgive the expression, strong as a horse. She was naked but for her leather accouterments and her neoprene hood. All of the ponygirls wore, like the blonde pony did now, dark blue, neoprene hoods that covered the head down to the steel collars around their necks. The hood had an opening for the nostrils for air when the pony was gagged and so that the large gleaming gold ring that pierced the septum could be exposed. The opening for the mouth was large enough so that the pony's lips were bared. The blonde had a leather bridle around her head holding a thick leather bit in her mouth. When not wearing a bridle and bit, the ponies wore a mask that encapsulated their jaw and the bottom half of their faces. Inside their mouths would be a thick leather gag attached to the inside of the mask. There were tiny dime sized holes for the eyes that permitted limited sight.
The hood served as a tight, form fitting covering for the ponygirl's face, eliminating all signs of humanity. Around their necks they wore a thick, black, leather collar, higher in front than behind, so that their heads were constantly tilted upwards. Their wrists were enclosed in wide leather bracelets that were clipped to a strap that descended down the back from the collar. They also wore thick, leather, calf high, shiny, black boots. Their labial lips sported two golden rings, with golden disks hanging from them, which pierced the nether lips at the bottom, close to the perineum.
The game was simple. It was a drinking game of sorts. One of the men would serve out to the pony a shot glass full of vodka. She would be made to drink it back and then dash around the corridor that ran along the inside of the exterior walls of the large barn three times. When she came back, she would be served another shot, et cetera. The point of the game was to bet on how many shots she could drink before she got too drunk to proceed. And it was no use for the girl to fake it, because she would be savagely beaten each time she fell and made to resume her feet. It was only when she was literally too drunk to stand that the game was over. She would be dragged away to sleep it off in her stall.
Each time the pony drank back a shot, the men would give a big cheer. She would be slapped on the ass and made to run. The men would chant and sing as she made her three voyages around the barn interior. She would pass the stalls of her fellow ponies, who, with the stall doors closed, could hear but not see, the ponygirl make her rounds. Most of them were standing, chained to the wall, fearful that they would be next. For the game sounds fun, except that, when the pony started to lose the ability to stand, the losing betters would not give up until they were certain that she would respond no further, urging the game master to beat and whip her, cursing her forbears. The short lived fight that had broken out that day had been between the trainer of a particular pony who was being abused like a dead horse, and the man on the losing end of a bet, not willing to give up.
The name of the pony that was running now was Snowflake, a somewhat inappropriate name for such a well muscled animal. But she had pale white skin and hair so blonde that it was almost white. Like all the other ponies, the only hair left on her body was a long pony tail that emerged from the back of her hood and cascaded down her back. She had deliciously plump breasts that bobbed and weaved as she ran. Her thighs were thick, but graceful. Her stomach, which contained the tattoo of her owner's crest, the yellow, rampant wolf, was flat and taut. All of the excess fat had been run off this pony long ago. Her name, in Russian, was tattooed in blue Cyrillic letters across her upper chest.
The excitement of the small crowd of men was rising since she had just finished her tenth shot. She had fallen several times on her last go round, bumping into corner posts, tripping over her own feet. It would have been easier if she could have jogged slowly around the warren of pony stalls, but that would not have been in the spirit of the game. If the men thought that a pony was lagging, she would be subject to severe discipline. And it was not something that would be soon forgotten. Snowflake and the other ponies saw the trainers, and were subject to their whips, every day.
Snowflake once had a different name. She had once been a young German girl. She had had friends, lovers, a family, all the trappings of life that a normal, healthy nineteen year old woman should have. But that was almost two years ago. Snowflake now was no more a woman than a cow or a sheep. She was no longer the promising, happy nursing student that she had been when she had been taken that foggy Hamburg night two years ago. Physiologically, she was a human female. She had all the attributes. And she did retain the power to think and, technically, the power to speak. But it had been so long that either of these skills were called for that they had practically withered away. She was now a mere beast, a highly trained chattel.
When Snowflake had finished her third turn around the barn, she stood huffing and puffing in the circle of men. Each time, after forcing the shot of vodka down her throat, her bit was reapplied. It wouldn't do to tempt a pretty pony into speaking. And if she tossed her lunch because of too much booze and too much motion, at least she wouldn't aspirate it.
The game was getting interesting and the men were all excited. Snowflake's record (careful note was taken of these things) was twelve shots. The bets were pooled and the men who had chosen the next two rounds were getting nervous. Only one man had bet that Snowflake would do fifteen this night.
The pony's mind was dizzy and confused. She felt her bridle loosened and another shot of hot liquor poured down her throat. She shook her head as it clouded her eyes, causing the long, white pony tail that emerged from the soft blue hood at the rear of her head to swing to and fro. This was real vodka, over 120 proof. A hand plied at her hairless pussy, trying to stimulate her into awareness.
The faceless pony's bit was replaced and she was given a solid slap on her hindquarters. Off she went, her blue clad head leaning slightly forwards, her jug-like breasts swaying beneath her, her useless hands buckled to the strap from her collar behind her back.
Remarkably, the pale white pony made it through the fourteenth round. In the last round, she had fallen four times, once in the second lap and three times in the third. Her body was criss-crossed with angry red lines, denoting the encouragement that she had needed to complete her last few laps. Even the men who had lost their bets were excited. There were three men who had bet fourteen, and they were hoping that Snowflake would collapse on her next round. She could barely stand as she waited for her next shot. Some of it dribbled out of the corners of her mouth and there were angry demands that she take another. Cooler heads prevailed and the shot glass was only refilled half way. The pony's whole body seemed to sag. She had broken no speed records on her last laps, and there was no reason to believe that she would do so this time either.
After her bit was replaced, she received a sharp slap and she began to run. She was running so slow that the men were able to walk behind her as she made her circuit. The first lap she fell three times, crashing into the wall, stumbling over her own feet, clipping her shoulder on a corner post. She was barely conscious, driven only by two things: fear of the whip and a desperate need for obedience, something that had been beaten into her day in and day out for over seven hundred days.
There was a round of shouts when Snowflake completed her first circuit. As she reached the starting point, her whole body seemed to collapse. Her body struck the floor with a loud, "thump!" Not having hands to brace herself, her naked breasts and forehead took the brunt of the impact with the floor. The race master, the only one who had no bets and whose judgment was thus not impaired, gave her pale white rear and legs several sharp blows with the whip. The soused pony whined and moane
d as she was struck. Even through her drunken haze, she could feel the whip's sting.
It is tough enough to raise yourself to your feet with two hands when you are stupefyingly drunk, but consider how hard it is without the use of your arms. Snowflake's were bound up behind her. The muscles there had all but atrophied. But her by now nearly instinctual training pierced her drunken fog and she was able to push herself to her feet, using her strong legs. Off she trudged again. This time, her pace was reduced to almost a crawl. Some of the men protested and she was given a sharp "crack!" on her naked ass to encourage her to speed.
By the third lap, Snowflake was more weaving than running. No amount of whipping could make her go faster. One more fall would be her last. The man who had taken fifteen as his number shouted encouragement to her.
"Come, Snowflake, come!" he yelled in Russian. "Faster, faster!"
The poor pony had little volitional ability left. Her knees barely rose as she dragged one foot after the other. "Come on, Snowflake, you can do it!" the man yelled, walking next to her as she struggled to put even just one more foot forwards. She was 10' from the finish. Just before crossing the finish line, she fell to one knee. Her body wavered. She was trying desperately to move the last few inches forward. The referee had lain off the whip. The room was silent as the men watched the Herculean struggle of the naked and hooded ponygirl.
After pausing for at least twenty seconds, Snowflake dragged her back leg forward. She could not cross the finish line on her knees. That was the rule. The man who had the number fifteen was standing next to her, whispering into her ear. "One more step, lotchka, one more! You can do it! Lift your leg, raise it high!"
The former German nursing student, Louisa Schellman, now known only as Snowflake, pulled her left leg up. She raised herself to a crouch; her knee was off of the floor. She gave one last, powerful push with her right leg and she stumbled across the finish line, She fell literally flat on her face her body making another loud "thump!" on the floor. There was a moment's silence, and the men erupted into cheers. The man who had bet fifteen shots smiled broadly as he received hearty backslaps from his drunken fellows.
