MADDY BECOMES A PONY GIRL [THE MADDY SAGA BOOK #1]

by Paul Blades

  Feeney addressed the slave girl. "Rub her cunt while she sucks me off," he told her. Maddy, the man's long cock fully in her mouth, felt the black haired girl's body press up against hers. She felt her hand snake between her thighs and seize her nether lips. A long, boney finger pierced them and drew itself along the length of her slit, coming to rest on the little nubbin of pleasure at the apex to her sex. As she felt the girl gently tickle her clit, Maddy moaned with unexpected pleasure.

  Maddy tried to concentrate on her unpleasant task. She bobbed her head back and forth, teasing the shaft of Feeney's cock with her tongue. Her sophomore boyfriend, Buddy, had taught her how to suck a cock, and she had built on the knowledge gained from him over the years. She liked to use her hands to coax the hot sperm from the little sac and hold the shaft steady while she swirled her lips and her tongue over the bulbous head. Even without the use of her hands, though, she soon had Feeney moaning with pleasure.

  The black haired girl's efforts were having their effect on Maddy, too. She could feel the girl's breasts rubbing up against her arm as she pleasured Maddy's now moist and soft pussy with her hand. Maddy tried to suppress the heat creeping up from her loins. She didn't want to come for this cruel bastard. She wanted to preserve some dignity, but it wasn't to be.

  Maddy felt a surge of heat roll over her. Her eyes were clamped shut in an attempt to block out her dismal surroundings and the image of the man whose cock was invading her mouth. Feeney placed his hands on her head and began to thrust into her. He ruthlessly rammed his cock against the back of her mouth. Bit by bit, Maddy's blood rose. Finally, all else was forgotten except the pleasure she was receiving from the hand on and in her hot gash and the hard meat in her mouth. Maddy started to cry out, short, high pitched cries. When her cunt began to throb and contract, her orgasm upon her, she moaned and thrust her hips forward. Her body shuddered, her breasts swayed and jerked. It was too much for Feeney and his cock began to spurt its hot load into Maddy's mouth. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" he cried, as the shocks of his climax reverberated through his body.

  Feeney patted Maddy's cheek lightly. "Good girl," he said. He nodded to Allison and she pulled Maddy back over to her cage. Maddy's eyes were filled with tears as the gag was reinserted and the hood descended over her head. She allowed herself to be pushed back into the cage.

  Maddy went through several cycles of being washed and fed. Once a day she was taken to the rear of the room and given an enema. Her hands remained constantly confined to the leather belt that encircled her waist. Allison fed the women once a day, which necessitated the removal of the hood and gag. On the second day, Maddy noted the cage next to hers, the one that had contained the skinny blond, the screamer, was empty. The next day it was full again.

  The days were long and enervating. Maddy could hear the muffled sound of what appeared to be random activity in the cellar dungeon, but had little clue as to what actually was going on. For what seemed hours at a time, there was no sound at all, as the plugs in her ears blocked the stifled murmurings that emerged from the prisoners' gags. Once, she thought she heard the screaming of a woman in pain, begging and pleading for mercy.

  The only real activity was when she was washed and fed by the black haired 'trustee'. Maddy didn't make the mistake of speaking to her again, but she couldn't help crying each time the girl proffered back the heinous gag and reinstalled the evil hood that blocked out all sight and almost all sound. Back in her cell after being washed and fed, Maddy scrunched her body into the smallest ball she could make and sobbed.

  On what she took to be the fourth day, Maddy was dragged from her cage. She felt the presence of men around her and she could hear their low toned voices, muffled by the plugs in her ears. She hadn't been used since her first day in this hellhole, but she knew she was helpless and somehow her kidnapping and cruel imprisonment was a prelude to her eventual rape and ravishment. Why else would she be caged and isolated amidst other naked and bound women? She realized the men who had bought her from her kidnappers were slavers. Where and whom she would serve was unknown to her, but the reality of her dismal future had sunk in over hours of silent, enforced contemplation.

  Maddy had thought of how she might be saved. She thought of her rich uncle in New York. Maybe, somehow he could discover what had happened to her and purchase her freedom. Maybe the police, the FBI, someone, would track down her kidnappers and save her. Maybe she could find some way to escape.

  During her confinement, Maddy went over in her mind time and again, the last moments of her freedom. She could still see the face of the old woman smiling at her, and cursed herself for a fool for having gotten out of the car, for not calling the police. She cursed herself for her weakness in failing to fight off her kidnappers, then for abjectly sucking that man's prick, the one who had bought her, and not biting it off.

  The days were long and incredibly lonely. The only face she saw was the stone hard features of the black haired girl. She yearned to talk to someone, share her sorrow, her hopelessness. She couldn't even use her hands to scratch herself when she itched. She didn't know whether it was night or day. She could only count her feedings, and she couldn't even tell how many times a day she was fed or whether she was fed at regular intervals.

  When Maddy realized she was being taken somewhere by strange men, she felt her stomach turn. Was this to be the moment of truth where all would be revealed? Or was she merely being led to some torture chamber where she would be abused unmercifully?

  She felt a strong, masculine hand on her arm. Her ankles were rehobbled and she was led from the room, shuffling along like a convict on a chain gang.

  The frightened girl was led back into the receiving area where she had been unloaded from the van. There her hood was removed, and she saw before her what appeared to be a long, silver coffin. Its lid was off and there was no question but that it was meant for her.

  Maddy, for the first time in her captivity, began to struggle in earnest. She didn't know that five of the caged girls had gone before her and their aluminum containers were already stacked on the truck. All she knew was that they were going to lock her in a coffin.

  The men who were handling Maddy were well prepared for her resistance. All of the girls reacted the same way when they saw the foreboding coffin-like object. The men held on to Maddy's arms and pulled her toward her apparent doom. In fact, the coffin was a shipping container. It had a series of straps and belts meant to keep its occupant quiescent. A specially designed mask would serve the salutary purposes of silencing the packaged woman and maintaining a flow of oxygen.

  Maddy was unceremoniously dragged to a small padded stool and pushed to her knees in front of it. The poor girl was wailing and sobbing like there was no tomorrow. From Maddy's point of view, from what she could discern, there would be no tomorrow. Her strange journey and stranger confinement was about to end in a burial alive!

  The men pushed Maddy down over the padded stool and held her still. Due to her frantic state, it took three of them. She felt a jab in her right buttock and the sensation of a drug being injected into her body. It took only a few seconds and the girl's head began to fog. She was held down over the stool for several minutes. By the time the men released her, her limbs had gone limp and her eyes had rolled back into her head. Her excited and futile wailings had been reduced to a rhythmic, sonorous moan.

  When they were satisfied they would meet with no further resistance, Maddy was carried over to her awaiting shipping case. They released her ankles from the hobble, removed her collar and the leather harness and bracelets she had been wearing, and lay her inside the shiny crate's padded interior. Her gag was removed and a mask with a wide, solid mouthpiece that filled her oral cavity, was affixed to her face. It was similar to the mouthpieces used by scuba divers. Maddy's head was secured as was the rest of her body. The tube from the mask led outside the crate and was connected to a small oxygen tank.

  After the men made sure the mask was operating properly, one of the men brushed alco
hol on the underside of Maddy's left arm and slid a catheter into a vein. The catheter was then attached to a tube running from a bottle affixed to the lid of the container. An adjustment was made and a slow, steady drip of Demerol began to flow into Maddy's body. After checking her bindings and confirming the proper operation of the intravenous flow, the men fastened the lid, locking it firmly in place. When the top was secured, it formed a hermetic seal. Nothing could get in or out except through the narrow flexible tube connected to the mask.

  The coffin-like container was lifted onto the bed of the truck where it joined its mates. The air line was reattached to a larger tank that served all of the containers.

  After three more containers were loaded and stored on the truck, the signal was given to prepare to leave. A tarp was tied over the nine gleaming canisters and several dozen large boxes of work uniforms were loaded, covering and concealing the feminine cargo. The door to the outside rose and the truck pulled up the long, winding ramp to the street level.

  The truck's destination was a small loading dock not far from the airport. When the truck backed up to the dock, two men emerged and, after unloading the boxes of clothing, placed the containers, one by one, on a dolly and wheeled them to a large air cargo container sitting on a flatbed truck. The interior of the container was built out to the length of the aluminum crates containing the drugged women. There were ten slots in it. The men took the coffin-like crates and slid them into the slots, feet first. They were a perfect fit. The crates were locked in and the air hoses were connected to nozzles that led to a large air tank which constituted the base of the storage unit. A heavy steel cover was affixed to the end of the unit and bolted on, effectively sealing in the women. The steel doors were slammed shut and a forged inspector's seal was applied. Two hours later, a heavy duty forklift loaded the air cargo container into the gaping rear of a large cargo plane. A few minutes later, the plane was in the air.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jake had questioned Danny, the mechanic, before he left for Fort Benning. Danny confirmed he hadn't work on any of Maddy's hoses when he tuned up the car a couple weeks earlier. He was affronted Jake would even consider him responsible for the car stalling or otherwise breaking down. "That car was in tip top shape when it left here," he said, angrily, upset at the challenge to his skills. "I like Maddy, she's real people. It'd be a real shame if anything bad happened to her."

  Nodding his agreement, Jake asked Danny if he had spotted anyone hanging around the bar where Maddy worked, over the last couple of weeks.

  "Ah, nobody goes in that place who hasn't lived here twenty years," Danny replied. He had just finished working on an engine and was wiping grease off his hands with a stained, red rag.

  "So you haven't seen anyone in there you didn't know?" Jake asked incredulously.

  "Oh, once in a while some good old boy will stop in for a quick one as a break from the road, but they never stay for more than a couple beers."

  "So no good old boys stopped in anytime over the last few weeks?"

  "I can't say as I remember any," Danny replied. "I wish I could help you. You know I…"

  "You like Maddy and she's real people," Jake interrupted. "I know. If you think of anything, please let me know. Here's my card. Call day or night."

  Jake flew a puddle jumper to a small airfield outside Fort Benning. He had an appointment with the quartermaster of the base. He got there around four in the afternoon. He sensed that the quartermaster, a fat, slovenly, sandy haired colonel, was anxious to begin his weekend. Jake was lucky to get an interview. Michael Bertram had pulled a few strings and the colonel had agreed to see him.

  "You mean a KTF stroke 7016," he said, when Jake mentioned the Raytheon miniature receiver.

  "Yeah," he replied to the distracted colonel, "the KTF stroke 7016. You've got an inventory of them?"

  "Sure, I checked. We've got fifteen. We had sixteen but one broke. We don't use em much. No call for them in an airborne outfit. Maybe the engineers…"

  "The one that was broken, can you tell me when that was?" Jake asked, his interest piqued.

  "Well, according to the SP47, Report of Casualty Loss Form, the piece broke on the twenty-first of January, last. Six months ago. A tow motor ran over the box."

  "Who signed that form, Colonel?"

  "Let's see," the colonel answered. "Yeah, Master Sergeant Drake. Jarvis Drake."

  "He's still here?" Jake asked.

  "Oh, yeah," the colonel answered grinning. "He'll be here for a long time."

  "Why's that?"

  "He got killed in a jump two weeks ago. They buried him in the base cemetery. He was qualifying for his jump pay."

  "Great," Jake mumbled to himself. "What about the tow motor driver? Does the form say who he was?"

  "Yes, in fact it does. A Corporal John Newsome. He's still breathing, as far as I know."

  "How can I contact him?" Jake asked.

  The colonel looked at his watch. "He's just about getting off duty now. If you hurry, you'll probably catch him. He stays late a lot."

  Just the kind of guy who might be taking government property out the back door, Jake thought. If Newsome sold the 'KTF stroke 7016', he might remember who bought it. Jake knew how to put pressure on a guy. Not many quartermaster corps guys wanted the Inspector General's people looking through their warehouses.

  Jake thanked the colonel and caught a jeep to the technology warehouse. Several soldiers were streaming out as he arrived. He asked for Corporal Newsome and was directed inside. The corporal was sitting behind a huge desk piled with paperwork. He looked up as Jake approached.

  "You must be Mr. Haesler," he said. When he saw Jake's surprised look, he added, "The colonel called. Told me to wait for you. You have a question about a KTF stroke 7016, right?"

  Jake nodded his head. His investigation wasn't going to get very far if everybody else was one step ahead of him.

  "Corporal, this receiver unit that was damaged some months back, the Colonel tells me you were driving the forklift that ran over it. Is this true?"

  "Listen, Mr. Haesler, lots of stuff gets damaged in a military warehouse, and I don't particularly remember this one small part."

  Jake decided it was time to take a different tack. "Corporal, my recollection of the military tells me corporals don't usually drive tow motors and expensive electronic components are not usually stored on the floor. I'm involved in a very serious investigation, one that may mean the life or death of a young woman. The uncle of this woman is a very powerful man. A corporal hoping to replace a dead master sergeant as chief quartermaster for this warehouse may just want to play ball with me. The fact is whoever stole that receiver is probably the guy who kidnapped my friend's niece."

  The corporal looked up at Jake with concern. "I can guarantee you, Mr. Haesler, that receiver unit was not involved in any kidnapping."

  "Listen, Corporal," Jake said, his voice rising, "I'm from Missouri, I've got to find things out the hard way. I need proof, not a 'guarantee' from someone who's probably trying to figure out right now how much loot he can scoot out the back door of this place before the next inventory. Your master sergeant's untimely death is a golden opportunity for you. Anything missing will be pegged to him. I could make a lot of trouble for a guy pulling a scam like that."

  The corporal paused, reflecting, then looked up at Jake. "Okay, okay. But you'll have to come with me."

  Corporal Newsome commandeered a jeep and drove Jake across the base. They exited the main gate and drove about forty-five minutes along a two lane county road. Jake fingered the Beretta in his pocket. If Newsome was in on the snatch of Madeline, he might try to ice him to buy time for a getaway. Jake would put a bullet in the corporal's brain pan first.

  After about thirty minutes, the jeep pulled into a condominium complex. It skirted the buildings and was brought to a halt in the back, adjacent to a single car garage. The two men hadn't spoken the entire trip. Jake was in no mood for chitchat a
nd neither, it appeared, was the corporal. Jake was sure he hit a nerve when he talked about the probable prospective and ongoing looting of the warehouse.

  Newsome opened the garage door and stepped inside. In a few moments, he emerged with a large box. He placed it on the ground and opened it. Inside was a two-foot long scale model of a P52 Mustang, the 'Cadillac of the Skies'. Newsome removed the fighter plane from the box and brought it over to a small field that backed up to the condo development. He placed the plane on the ground, pulled a remote from the box and, in a moment, the Mustang came to life. Ten seconds later it was taxiing down the field and took off into the air.

  Newsome smiled at Jake. "Custom made. It's got the best small receiver made, a KTF stroke 7016, otherwise known as a Raytheon model 2240 miniature receiver." He proffered the remote to Jake. "Want to give it a try?"

  Jake smiled and shook his head. For about twenty minutes he watched he corporal take the Mustang through its paces. The show ended in a perfect three point landing. The Fort Benning angle was a dead end.

  * * * *

  Kalikastan is a small country the size of Montana, consisting of approximately one hundred fifty thousand square miles. It is located just north of the confluence of the Don and Pfiester Rivers. While the northern part of the country, bordering on the Republic of the Ukraine, consists of vast wide open steppes, the southern half consists of gently rolling hills running westward and leading up to the foothills of the Urals. Its capital city boasts a population of one hundred thousand people. Its principal exports are oil, coal and wheat.

  The country's strategic location between the southern border of the Ukraine and the long southeastern arm of the Russian Republic, has guaranteed it a pivotal role in the economies of those two countries. Black market goods pour over its borders into its large, powerful neighbors. Its capital, Dlitski, serves as a haven for the criminal classes of both countries. It's considered neutral ground, a rule harshly enforced by the efficient Kalikastan secret police.