The pick-up traveled through the dark mountains for two hours and then stopped at a slightly more modern airport with a shack and a tower with a red light on the top. Lucy’s rug was unrolled and she was introduced to a new crate, battered and well used, similar to the one she had escaped back at the Bulgarian airport. The plane waiting for her was the same make but a later model than the previous one, but this time the crate actually fit through the doors and she was soon off on the next leg of her long trip to nowhere.
With this intentionally obscure, undocumented and multi-staged transport plan, Lucy thus transited a large portion of Western Asia in her new bondage crate, rigidly held immobile with dozens of straps and locking bands. Gagged into absolute silence with a combination of flexible mouth stuffing and electronic, sound activated vaginal and anal probes, she rode on a crotch-splitting leather saddle that anchored the body probes and provided a constant reminder of her situation with each tiny vibration of the aircraft or a sudden change in the cargo plane’s altitude due to turbulence. Exactly where she eventually ended up remained a mystery that her owners and handlers had no interest in solving for her. For all she knew, except for the stink, which indicated poor local sanitation conditions, and the odd language, she might as well have been in the Alps or the Rockies. The initial welcome and thorough body irrigation and cleansing exercise made an indelible impression on her. She vowed that if she ever had a choice, she would never want to have anything more to do with Sasha Marbella.
Because she was well educated and certainly brighter than her many pony peers in the mining camp, Lucy decided that she was somewhere east of Europe and probably in the Caucasus Mountains. She reached this conclusion based on the decidedly arctic weather on the mountain, the unrecognizable dialect of her hosts and the fact that it was, by her own calculation, winter in the northern hemisphere. Thus, she hypothesized in the many hours of either torturous labor with the cart or while lying chained and gagged in her assigned cage, that no one was ever going to find or save her. With that bleak perspective, Lucy ruminated daily about the earlier time in her spoiled life, wondering if perhaps she was now going to spend the rest of it paying for her misdeeds, bad judgment and decidedly poor attitude. She considered that her initial abduction and the time spent in the two institutions that followed were but a prelude to what now seemed to be permanent slavery as a hauling pony.
The months at the Vermont riding school served as an introduction into a life of servitude and pain that she never even contemplated except perhaps in occasional erotic dreams or in books or movies that she saw. The concept of constantly being chained or tied in an uncomfortable position simply for the pleasure of an observer or owner was not beyond her imagination; she just had not thought that such a thing could happen to her. Hours and days in dozens of tormenting situations quickly changed her mental picture about such things. The stocks, harnesses, mechanical horses, hours and sometimes days bound and hooded in crates and cells, whippings and mindless fucking all remained parts of the school’s memorable training regimen. The Vermont riding school provided endless opportunities for what she eventually learned were BDSM exercises intended to hurt, provide seemingly merciless discomfort to her and likewise provide pleasure to those watching or participating in the activity. As the days wore on at school, she was constantly bound in rope and chain, stripped, strapped, gagged, stretched, stuffed, plugged, buggered and fucked in all body openings; impaled, hung by her limbs, ears, tits, nipples, fingers and toes. She had been screwed standing up and hanging upside-down and flogged apparently without design or mercy until she was beyond screaming. The only thing she learned other than the sadistic creativity of these multiple means of torment and torture was that all of it was carried out to instill a kind of dull acceptance; a bluntness to pain that was inflicted with a need to hurt but do no permanent harm.
She was whipped with New England thoroughness, but in such a fashion that the marks disappeared over time. She found this remarkable, given the deep and lasting scars she observed on other ponies at the school. Apparently, she was not destined to be physically scarred in this way, she decided. When the 20-hour days of torment seemed like they were to be a permanent fixture in her suffering, she was left for a week in a solitary cell, chained by her neck to the wall, hands manacled behind her, ankles closely chained together. She was hooded in an insufferably tight leather helmet that only allowed her to breathe through the nose holes and eat when the rubber gag plug was temporarily removed. The rest of the time, she was sightless, unable to speak and heard very little. On oddly timed occasions, she was removed from the cell, given a bath and other hygienic treatments, then videotaped and photographed for an hour or more, then taken back to her cell, rechained, hooded and left for perhaps another few days. This treatment, although she could not at the time know it, was fundamental in implementing her eventual sale to these pigs who ran the mine.
Her multi-leg trip from the cloister to the mine was marked by almost absurdly paradoxical events and her inability to know the time or even the day of the week. It began with the nuns cleaning her up, grooming, feeding and then locking her in the traveling crate at the cloister. The by now familiar restraints were fastened to keep her perched on the small leather saddle with its twin impaling plugs, the invasive and mouth-sealing gag hood, the redundant chains mated with thick leather straps holding her head, torso, waist and legs tightly in place. But then the size of the crate interfered with the shipping plans and Lucy was quickly released and bound to the plane’s floor for the first three hour flight. In all, the preparation and actual transport took nearly 24 hours. She arrived at an unknown, intermediate destination only to be given food, water, a toilet break and incoherent instructions enhanced with blows from a flail and cane. She saw nothing and understood not a single word before being re-bound and sealed again in the crate, which was transported over terrible roads for another two days before she was released, tied and rolled into a rug and deposited at the feet of Sasha Marbella. The whipping and internal cleansing followed. Finally, she was herded into the mine’s dank and rock-bound cell.
Thus, Lucy ended up on a stormy mountain in the middle of nowhere. Kept in a new set of heavy chains that connected ankles, waist, neck and wrists behind her, she was fitted with a semi-permanent metal gag that locked behind her head and placed in a rockbound cubicle in a cave deep enough so that in spite of the outside air being near freezing, no heating equipment was needed. Like many deep mines, this confinement den was so deep in the earth that it was always warm. With the exception of the violent episode with Sasha, her life at the mine was more or less uneventful. Lucy decided that Sasha probably had the same sort of one-way interview with every new arrival, if only to make clear that she was in charge and that dire consequences would follow any misbehavior. The odd thing was that Lucy had to infer all of this from the multiple forced water cleansings punctuated by the merciless whip. A woman of lesser mental capacity, faced with a similar treatment, might have difficulty drawing the same conclusions.
Her new role was simple. She wore a sort of harness that wrapped old and worn leather fittings around her body. Her metal gag came out and instead she got a leather bridle that held a cruel steel and rubber bit inside her mouth. They adjusted her chains to accommodate the harness and bridle. One key element to the harness was a crotch-cutting strap that featured twin steel phallus probes inserted into her ass and pussy with a vengeance. Once inside, the probes remained there, held by a thin chain that circled her waist and split her crotch, driving the unlubricated metal plugs even deeper. The cleverly designed anal probe allowed most of her solid excrement to pass around it through small troughs machined into the metal. As long as her diet of garbage remained liquid, she was able to pass solid waste matter without any additional discomfort. Whatever she lost through this gross process, she was required to clean up immediately. Liquid waste left her body in a similar fashion and thus she wore the steel plugs constantly.
The bridle and bit were als
o permanent. Whatever food she ate had to be passed around the metal bit crossing her mouth and the rubber plug filling most of her oral cavity. Eating was an unpleasant chore, but if she did not consume all of it, she was whipped and then force-fed while straddling a sharp metal-edged saw horse device that split her already split sex further and brought only pain. When she could, she ate quickly, stuffing the sour and often rotting vegetables and soup through her bitted mouth as quickly as she could. For variety, on the occasions when her harness and probes were unlocked, she was gang raped by whoever happened to be interested in her that day. Given the choice, she decidedly preferred the steel dicks up ass and cunt to the sickening and demented gang fucking she got from the guards and handlers. So, life, such as it was for Lucy von Holt, went on. She slept on the rock floor of the cell in the mine, ate and drank what they gave her and pulled her cart. Nothing changed until the day that Fabian showed up.
Chapter Nine
Contract
Former Federal Investigator Jean Groff wasted little time once she obtained the contract she specified from Lucy’s father. Her plan was simple. Initially, all she wanted to do was retrace Lucy’s trail and see what, if anything, caught her attention in terms of the unusual. But she arrived in Amsterdam having observed nothing new and realized that she would need to go at this a different way. When she gained access to the surveillance tapes from the Amsterdam train terminal, she realized that if the girl had in fact been taken from the train, it was unlikely that she would have been caught on tape. The only thing that stood out as unusual to her, as she reviewed the tapes for the third time, was the incongruence of the small German band of four young men and a woman that disembarked from a First Class car, the same one that Lucy booked for her overnight compartment.
That’s odd, she thought, stopping the tape and rewinding it yet again. They don’t look much like a real band.
The group seemed to be dressed more as a military unit than as a band. Indeed, they weren’t carrying much in the way of instruments, except for a drum case, a trumpet and a tuba in its outsized case. It also dawned on her that, properly done, the tuba case could have held a small person. This suspicion was borne out by the fact that four of the men struggled to unload the case from the sleeping car, with the help and oversight of the same conductor who told police that he had not seen Lucy. He said that when she failed to show up, he allowed the band to take the compartment for a sum that included the actual fare of over three hundred Euro plus a nice tip for himself. Groff knew that German Rail, Die Bahn, unlike the airlines, had strict rules about selling more tickets than they had seats. The rules were quite clear. A bought and paid for compartment was to be left vacant for the entire trip, no matter what. There was always the possibility that the original booking party would show up at a station along the route and the compartment had to be available to them if this should happen. Of course, the Dutch National Railroad had different rules and passengers who transited the various EU borders were sometimes frustrated by the conflicts these different rules posed.
Puzzled enough by what she saw on the video tape, Agent Groff inquired further about the band. When she confronted the conductor a few days later, he steadfastly maintained that no one had been in Lucy’s compartment, although he admitted that he had seen the band members in the car and helped them disembark with their odd-sized luggage.
“Didn’t you think it unusual that these people hadn’t been seen by anyone else on the train?” she asked him.
“No. Many people board, go to their compartment and just go to sleep. As long as they leave the tickets within my reach, I don’t bother them,” he insisted.
“And you have never seen this woman?”
“Never, except in the papers since then.”
“I will be talking with your bosses at Die Bahn later,” Groff said, turning on her high-heeled boot and walking quickly away. She wanted the conductor, Herr Kannic, to think about what he had told her. Perhaps when his supervisor confronted him he might have second thoughts, but Groff doubted it. She was almost certain that he knew more than he was telling.
Later that day she visited the headquarters of the musicians’ union in Amsterdam and established that no one there recognized any of the band members from photos she showed them. She also sent the photos to other unions and music organizations in Germany, getting the same result.
“Time for some professional research help,” Groff thought.
“Bibi,” Groff said when the phone in Berlin was answered on the second ring. “I need you for a few days. It may be longer, but right now it looks like a week at the max. Can you spare the time?”
“Are you kidding, Jeanie? I’ve got nothing to do but my exercises, Suduko and play solitaire on the PC. Every evening I run from here twice around the Tiergarten and know every animal in the zoo by their name. All of those activities are making me nuts. What do you have?”
“Something that may turn out to be interesting and it could be dangerous. Suffice to say that right now we need to figure out who kidnapped a young woman from an ICE and where she is now. Interested?”
“Of course. I’ll pack for ten days, just in case.”
“Good. Come on over to Amsterdam. Fly if you can. I’ll reimburse your expenses and pay you the usual daily rate, plus a danger bonus.
“Meet me at the Yellow Barge Hotel at 11 tomorrow. It’s not The Four Seasons and very low key, but it’s comfortable and out of the tourist tracks. I’m staying there for a while and they have a package for Bibi Lynx. I will tell you more later. Bring your walking boots, body armor and enough clothes for that cute body to stay a week. Okay?”
“Can you tell me what I’ll be doing?”
“Sure. You are going to interview every rental car and truck operation in the Netherlands and maybe some in Germany as well. You can do it any way you want, including hiring a car and driver if you want. Or you can sit on your ass in the hotel room and call and fax them. I don’t care, but I want to find out if a certain group rented vehicles a few months back.”
“Great. Sounds about as interesting as Suduko. See you at eleven.”
“Right. Thanks. Bye.”
Bibi, whose real name was Bibita Wolf Lynx, 25, easily could have walked away with the Miss Germany title any year she entered. She was exactly what most foreigners thought every German Frauline should look like. She was nearly six feet tall, medium boned, with a well-muscled body devoid of fat. Men immediately focused on her rather large and assertive 38DD breasts that more often than not were unbridled by anything as pedestrian as a bra. These assets were complemented by a narrow waist, no visible belly, reasonably wide, but well proportioned hips and long legs that tapered up to meet her shoulders…or at least seemed that way. Bibi usually scared off prospective suitors just by looking too good. Most men assumed that anyone who looked like her could not possibly be interested in an ordinary man unless he matched her looks and poise. So inevitably, she often dated men at both extremes of the spectrum. On occasion, she ended up with the glamour guys who were married to their mirrors, deeply dedicated to their own looks and wanted a prize package of a woman on their arm. Now and then, really for fun, she accepted the invitations of rich men or even the occasional royal who assumed that they could buy anything or anyone they wanted. Most often, she sought out the smart, quiet guys who were computer wizards, math or physics majors in the university and who thought dining out meant having a meal at the hofbrau house every six months or so. None of these choices suited Bibi and she spent a great deal of her personal time traveling when and where she could afford it, riding her pride and joy 1500 cc Yamaha road bike and staying fit. For hobbies, during the warm months she would visit nudist camps and beaches where she was usually left alone, again intimidating those who figured that she was out of their class. To balance this, she studied several different types of martial arts, intent on protecting herself and others around her if the need arose. She had enough belts of various colors to impress anyone except herself and a
lways figured that self-defense was really only last ditch defense. Her instructors teased her, calling her a “studio manikin” because they felt that although she was good at drills and competition, they doubted she had the mental conditioning to use the killing arts on anyone for real. She continued to practice and amazed most instructors and her peers with her strength and ability to smash things with a single blow. “It’s not strength,” she would say. “It’s the ability to focus.” Few people were ever inclined to test this theory with Bibi.
Bibi packed a small duffel bag with a pair of jeans, a Lycra body suit that even had feet in it, an armored vest with the highest available protection rating, two shirts and sweaters, walking boots, some underwear and a minimal package of cosmetics. She put on a warm cotton sweater, her leather cycling jacket, a pair of tight, designer leather jeans, boots that went over the jean legs and a seaman’s black watch cap. Her only concession to style was an expensive Bell & Ross watch that she bought in Frankfurt a few months before after an especially successful stint as a personal bodyguard to a touring Italian movie starlet.
The woman, who initially disliked Bibi and told her so, warmed up mid way through the tour when Bibi intercepted and disabled three Roman paparazzi who thought that they could easily overpower the German blond. All three ended up in the hospital, two with broken legs and one with a broken arm and a portion of his camera needing to be surgically removed from his rectum after he suggested that Bibi suck his dick. Not amused at his rudeness and his aggressive swings at her body and face with a tripod, Bibi broke his right arm in two places with a swift chop of her right hand, threw him over her knee and ripped off his belt, tight Italian trousers and underwear in a flash of motion. She then took the lens from his Nikon and jammed the narrow bayonet fitting on the back of the telephoto lens up his ass and left him there, crying and bleeding on the street while the starlet and her escort watched in stunned fascination. There were enough witnesses who willingly testified that the starlet, her boyfriend and Bibi were violently assaulted so that no charges were brought against them. The police were amused at Bibi’s defense and more than cooperative in making sure the photographers would see jail time after they got out of the hospital. The starlet doubled Bibi’s daily pay and handed her a ten thousand Euro bonus at the end of the tour.
Summer School & After School: The Ponygirl Omnibus Edition Page 24
