Summer School & After School: The Ponygirl Omnibus Edition (25 page)

      
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 also 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.

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 always 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.

Thus armed with
only minimal knowledge of whatever Groff had planned,
Bibi
took a cab to Berlin’s
Tegel
airport, a small and out
of date facility that was being replaced by a more modern airport in the near
future. Four hours later, she was in Amsterdam and headed for the Yellow Barge
Hotel.