Summer School & After School: The Ponygirl Omnibus Edition (22 page)

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After
her short and miserable stay at the cloister, Lucy disappeared into the
interior of the vast Asian continent. As it turned out, she was on loan as a
draft pony to obscure, wealthy and despicable parties who were delighted to
have her pulling four-wheeled haulage carts, in service to the owners and
operators of a vast silver mine, deep in the mountains of
Whateveristan
.

      
Doctor
Ernst von Holt, her father and a well known German industrialist who in his
time had successfully dealt with blackmailers, extortionists, petty thieves and
a cheating wife, was more convinced than the police that Lucy was the victim of
some sort of crime, but he really had no evidence of it. However, his personal
philosophy was that “with money, almost anything is possible” and he was
willing to pay any price to get his daughter back. His contacts at INTERPOL and
with other law enforcement organizations allowed him to share considerable confidential
information concerning their investigations of Lucy’s disappearance.
Unfortunately, this too yielded nothing other than proof that she bought a
first class ticket and was last seen boarding the train in Rosenheim, Bavaria.
But, because the trip required a change of trains in Munich and other stops
along the route, it was impossible, the cops said, to know if and when she
might have left the train before its arrival in Amsterdam the next morning.
Lucy’s whereabouts and liaisons prior to Rosenheim were also something of a
mystery. She was seen with different people in several different ski resorts
over the period of two or three months preceding her visit to the friend’s
hotel and restaurant in a small village not far from Rosenheim. The day she
left the hotel was the last time anyone remembered seeing her.

      
The
train crew, which changed in Munich and again in Stuttgart, claimed they never
saw or communicated with the woman who was booked in coach number 429,
compartment 6, as indicated on the ticket receipt that Lucy bought. Inspector
Ian
Granito
, who was assigned to the cold case mostly
in deference to Ernst von Holt’s influence in Berlin, after several weeks of
probing, remained of the opinion that perhaps the train conductor wasn’t
telling the whole truth, but that was the extent of law enforcement’s success.
As time passed, the trail grew colder and
Granito
and
more than a dozen other cops in three countries were quietly and diplomatically
removed from the case and given other, more pressing assignments.

      
Papa
Ernst, accustomed to exploiting his influential position as a mover and shaker
in the arms and explosives industries, was not satisfied. One snowy afternoon
in December, nearly a year after Lucy’s disappearance, he called Gregory
Casalo
, an old friend who worked deep inside Germany’s
Defense Intelligence Ministry and was supposed to have been one of the primary
drivers for GSG-9, the German equivalent of the US Delta Force.

      
“Gregory,”
Ernst began, knowing that his conversation was being recorded, “I wish to hire
someone who can pursue my daughter’s disappearance. I want someone you know and
trust who can handle this with utmost discretion, but who can easily handle
themselves if it gets ah…shall we say…complicated.”

      
“I
understand, my friend,”
Casalo
said quietly as he
scrolled through a highly confidential list of agents on his computer. “I have
someone in mind, but it may take a bit of convincing to get this particular
person interested in your project. After all, this is really a cold case, if you
know what I mean.”

      
“My
daughter’s disappearance is not a cold case to me or to her mother,” Ernst said
somewhat bluntly. “As you well know, there is not a shred of evidence that she
is dead. Produce that for us and we will rest. Until then, I want you to press
on with it.”

      
“Of
course, my friend,”
Casalo
said, trying hard not to
sound patronizing and knowing that his old friend had tremendous influence in
some of the more dimly lit corridors of Berlin’s political labyrinth. “Let me
explore this and get back to you. After all, the trail by now is at best
lukewarm and it will take a lot of digging to come up with anything new, I’m
afraid.”

      
“Excellent,”
Ernst said. “And I need not remind you of another time when you and your crew
incorrectly assumed the trail was cold and the victims dead, do I?”

      
“Of
course not, my friend. We all remember that case and we attempt daily to make
sure it never happens again.”

      
“Indeed,”
huffed von Holt, pulling on a freshly lit Havana and closing his eyes to try to
blot out the images of the three young women, abducted from their homes in Bonn
and given up as missing by the police. The case was closed, but over a year
later, two hikers in a remote area of the Harz Mountains discovered a hidden
concrete bunker where, to their shock and amazement, they found the three girls
locked away in cruel captivity. The hikers had a satellite phone and quickly
reported their find to the police who, expecting a siege, mobilized several
platoons of SWAT and anti-terrorism troops and swooped in by helicopter and
armored vehicles with all of their high tech gear. They were, however,
unopposed and saved the girls, but never found their captors. The entire case
was a great embarrassment to German law enforcement; first because they closed
the case prematurely and then because they overreacted for the rescue. Before
the rescue, von Holt, who even then carried considerable influence in Bonn, got
a lot of publicity in the media as he pressed for extending the search for the
girls and then for a more effective pursuit of the kidnappers. He and
Casalo
had exchanged insults, but in time resolved their
differences and became good friends.

      
Nevertheless,
Ernst still vividly recalled the videos and photos taken by the raiding cops.
They found each girl in a different, below ground cell, which was more like a
burial tomb than a prison, except for the instruments of torment kept close at
hand. The captors kept the girls as private entertainment, visiting them on
weekends or whenever they had time to make the drive up from Leipzig, where
they lived. Once freed, each confused woman had a quite different story and
description of the captors, their methods and appearance. The small amount of
accurate details led nowhere, but police files indicated that there were four
or perhaps five individuals responsible for the kidnapping and imprisonment.
Because each girl was secluded in a separate sealed tomb, they never saw or
heard each other and came to believe that they were alone. With their heads
encased in heavy metal helmets and limbs chained to the walls, the women
survived only because their captors came frequently and maintained ingeniously
rigged feeding and watering tubes that provided sustenance for about a week.
One of the kidnappers came more often than the others, perhaps once a week, and
changed the feeding and water arrangements, but made no other efforts to help
the women. Their sanitation facilities were appallingly simple and gross: pits
dug below their chained bodies. Inside the sealed rooms, deep inside a
mountain, the temperature was always the same; just warm enough to allow the
naked women to survive, but hardly humane. There was light only when the single
man arrived every five or seven days. Their treatment, as they eventually
described it and as indicated by the evidence in the prison, was a combination
of gross humiliation, painful torture and sexual aberration. The details of
what was done to them were never released, and since there was no trial, the
public was spared graphic specifics of the horrors the women experienced.

      
The
girls survived, but rehabilitation took months and one, who apparently gave her
captors the most trouble, lost her thumbs because she hung from the ceiling by
these digits until they became gangrenous. Von Holt would never forget the
photos of this poor girl when they found her, still suspended from her chains
with her dead fingers still clamped in the cruel bonds. It was the memory of
these images that drove von Holt to find his daughter.

      
“I’ll
await your call,” von Holt finally said. “And oh, by the way, Gregory. Whomever
you suggest must understand that this could take quite a while and I will
arrange any kind of deal they want…a contract, cash payment under the bar, full
time corporate employee. Whatever he wants.”

      
“I
never heard that, Ernst,”
Casalo
said. “But, good. I
understand. Give me a few days and you’ll hear back from me.”

      
“Thank
you. Good bye.” Doctor Ernst von Holt adjusted his steel rimmed glasses and
studied the desktop portrait of his daughter, Lucy, wondering if he would ever
see her alive again.

Irrigation

      
Lucy
was meanwhile enjoying the hospitality of the silver mine. Trained as a work
pony in Vermont and then getting a high-speed, advanced degree in torture and
sexual abuse at the cloister in Bulgaria, she nevertheless did not expect the
situation she now encountered in the snowy and barren mountains of Central
Asia. Her new captors took her from her travel crate and appropriately
freshened her up. They tied her hand and foot, installed a new and highly
efficient gag that was packed into her sore mouth and wrapped her up on a rug.
Lucy was then thrown over the back of a pack horse and taken to the home of her
new masters, the Marbella family, who owned and operated silver mines. Of
course, Lucy didn’t know that the
Marbellas
had, for
decades, more or less supported the VSR Cloister, not only with infusions of
cash, but also by plundering some of its more attractive assets from time to
time, especially when they discovered a gem such as Lucy among the rough stones
enduring the ministrations of the Sisters and Mother
Bolia
.

      
“Unroll
the carpet,” Sasha Marbella said to the deliveryman, without even looking at
the package. “I hope this is worth the price and the trouble. That troublesome
Bishop wanted a great deal for something we only saw in videos. Why
Orth
couldn’t import something from somewhere closer than
the states is beyond me. This had better be really good.”

      
“Yes,
Madame,” the messenger/delivery man said quietly, silently praying to Allah
that his mistress and her diabolical husband,
Orth
,
would be happy with the contents of the rug. He unrolled it and stepped back.
Sasha Marbella turned and stared at the naked, bound and gagged young woman
lying on the old carpet in her reception room. She was surprised that the girl
was as attractive as she was, given the long and toilsome trip from the
Cloister in Bulgaria to
Kapasta
International
Airport, (KIA), the country’s ramshackle capital and then the equally arduous
trip over narrow, rutted and twisting back roads from there to the mountain
mine.

      
“Take
out the gag,” Sasha said.

      
The
deliveryman removed the gag and managed to get a quick feel of Lucy’s right
breast and rigid nipple in passing. Sasha saw the move and, stepping up to the
edge of the rug, swung her riding crop up and across the man’s weathered,
bearded face, catching him with the full force of the blow and slicing a piece
of face flesh neatly from mouth to eye. The man howled and rolled away,
clutching his bleeding face and dodging a second and third blow to his back and
ribs.

      
“You
filth. How dare you touch and manhandle my property. Hassan,” she screamed.

      
A
tall, swarthy servant with huge moustache, a red turban and a black and white
robe ran into the room, his woven straw slippers making grating sounds on the
polished stone floor. Quickly, but unsurprised, he surveyed the screaming
deliveryman, the seemingly paralyzed, bound girl on the rug and Madam swinging
her crop wildly at the cowering deliveryman.

      
“Get
this pig out of here,” Sasha screamed, still flailing with her crop. “Secure
him in the cellar and then call
Achmed
at the mine
and tell him this filth dared to handle my new acquisition. I want a hand, one
of his hands, at my dinner table tonight. Cut it off and then throw him off the
mountain”

      
“Yes,
Madam,” Hassan said, bowing and grabbing the bleeding man by his collar and
hustling him out of the room.

      
When
they were gone, Sasha Marbella walked over to Lucy, knelt down, lifted Lucy’s
chin in her hand, and stared into her tear-filled eyes. “Well, my tasty little
sweetbread, how was your trip?” Sasha laughed and began to untie the ropes
around Lucy’s hands and feet. “That pig is going to regret touching you, you
can be certain of that. Perhaps you’d like a warm bath to get the road dust off
your lovely white skin?” Lucy nodded carefully, having discovered long ago,
(and relearning it painfully at the VNR), that speech was usually not
permitted, especially in the presence of an owner or other controlling person.

      
“Hassan,”
Sasha yelled.

      
Hassan
once again appeared instantly, as if he had been hovering just out of sight.
His feet were now bare.

      
“Draw
her a nice bath. Have the women clean her up and prepare her. I want her to be
perfect, so make sure they don’t miss any nooks and crannies. Take her only as
far as the women’s quarters.”

      
“Yes
Madame. It shall be done.”

      
“And
the pig is gone from this house?”

      
“Yes,
Madame. He is in the firewood shed, bound properly and awaiting transport to
the mines.”

      
“How
is he bound, Hassan?”

      
“As
prescribed in the house orders, Madame. His hands are behind his back and tied
up to his throat. His feet are bound behind him and to his hands. He has been
stripped and his privates are tightly bound to the overhead rafters. He is
gagged with a foul, shit-soaked piece of pine wood and blinded.”

      
“Excellent,
Hassan. Take her with you,” Sasha said, pointing to the cowering Lucy, now
sitting up on the rug rubbing her chafed wrists. “Tell
Achmed
that I have changed my mind about the hand.”

      
“Yes,
Madame. You wish a different punishment?”

      
“His
privates in my soup tonight. Make sure he survives.”

      
“Yes,
Madame,” Hassan said without any inflection and in a totally neutral tone. “It
shall be done. Do you wish to be present?”

      
“No.
Cut them off with a very dull and rusty blade and make sure all servants are in
attendance. I want to hear him scream.”

      
“Yes,
Madame. It shall be done. You are merciful.”

      
“I
am not merciful, you dolt. I am merciless. Allah is merciful.”

      
“Yes,
Madame.” Hassan withdrew, bowing and sliding his feet soundlessly backwards,
thinking that it was only through the mercy of his God that his own privates
were still intact. Sooner or later, he was sure; his mistress would probably
have them removed as well.

      
Hassan
led Lucy on a short leash to the baths where three young female servants in
tiny leather thongs met them and escorted her to a brilliant white tiled room
with an assortment of odd-looking furniture. Lucy thought that much of the
furnishings that she saw were typical of the hard, tiled chairs, sofas and
hassocks sometimes found in the steam and cool down rooms in lush private clubs
she visited. These furnishings were permanently mated to the tiled floor and
covered in the same smooth white tile as the floor and walls. Some were ordinary
chairs for one or two persons and some were more exotic benches, allowing the
occupant to lie or sit in a variety of ways. Lucy also noted with concern that
all of the items had straps with heavy brass hardware attached. It was easy to
see that if one were to sit in a chair, the straps could be used to keep one
there. This wasn’t an altogether pleasant prospect, although the room looked
harmless.

      
Perhaps this is for infirm people
, Lucy
rationalized to herself, although her recent experiences made her realize this
was an absurd assumption. She had, since the first day on the train,
encountered enough erotically adapted devices and gadgets to have a wide
spectrum of experience with things that other people used to control and punish
their subjects. Some of the fixtures in this room were items that Lucy, even
with her vivid and creative imagination, could not identify, nor could she
imagine their possible functions. On one side of the room were there shining
stainless steel carts, like those used in clinics and hospitals, loaded with
various formidable-looking machines with hoses, meters, switches, tubes, gauges
and dials on them. None of them looked like anything Lucy wanted to encounter
close up.

      
The
girls led her over to what appeared to be a rigid, straight-backed bench with
no arms. It was more like a concrete park bench than a chair. The seat portion
was blended into the floor, so it was essentially a seat with a wide, straight
back and a curved top. To sit in it for any period of time, Lucy thought, would
be uncomfortable. The girls nevertheless coaxed her to step up to the back of
the chair, facing it, and bend over a cold, smooth, tiled fixture. There were
polished leather straps at the base of the back and more in the front where the
hard seat was. Lucy had a bad feeling about this rigid chair, but one of the
girls placed a heavy, fluffy Turkish cotton towel over the back and motioned
for Lucy to stand with her thighs and knees against the back of the fixture and
then bend at the waist over the top. Her legs were strapped apart at the
ankles, also just above her knees and once again at the tops of her thighs,
holding her tight to the back of the pseudo chair. Another thick strap went
around her waist and held it snug to the top and front. The women pushed her
head down further until she was doubled up, bent over the hard, upright hump,
her breasts pressed to the front and a strap around her neck holding her firmly
in place. Her wrists were bound with a leather thong behind her and pulled
downward, connecting to a ring mounted beyond her head at the foot of the
chair. This binding was pulled very tight, forcing her hands up her back and
towards her neck, but pulling them also away from her body. The tension made
her bend even more to fit the chair’s contours. The position was especially
unpleasant because it forced her ass and sex out and up into a highly exposed
position and Lucy was pretty sure that this indicated a flogging or something
worse was coming.

      
Lucy
had often endured difficult bondage positions in other places and at other
times, but she now found this position most ponderous and uncomfortable. A fat
rubber plug was forced into her mouth. When in place, it sealed her entire
mouth with rubber flanges holding her teeth and jaws widely apart and
additional flat, thin seals around her lips. She could not inhale or exhale
through her mouth and her tongue was uselessly pressed to the floor of her
mouth. Bound in place with a harness that encompassed her whole head, the
mouthpiece was the first intrusion inflicted upon her and Lucy was already in a
near panicked state. Lucy knew that all of this preparation meant that they
were going to do something awful to her, but she didn’t know exactly what. That
question was answered when the women rolled one of the wheeled carts over
alongside the chair and then, without expression, showed her what she instantly
recognized as a vaginal douche arrangement. They lubricated the giant head of
the nozzle at the end of the black, coiled hose and slowly eased it up into
Lucy’s pussy while she squirmed and wiggled her ass, trying to ease the
discomfort and accommodate the monster nozzle as it eased inside. Then, to her
surprise, the woman handling the hose operated a spring release at the base of
the nozzle and Lucy felt the spray head spring open, filling her inner cavity
and assuring that it was not going to come back out until this horrid expansion
head was released.

      
She
was further shocked when they produced a second hose with a different, equally
worrisome attachment at the end. This looked a bit like a collapsed mushroom,
but Lucy quickly realized that it was a monster inflatable butt plug with a
hose attached and that it was going up her ass. Again, the same woman greased
the head and parted Lucy’s ass cheeks gently, murmuring something Lucy didn’t
understand but which clearly was an instruction for her to relax and let the
fat plug enter with as little discomfort as possible. Lucy nevertheless could
not help but tighten her rectal sphincter in fear and try to pull away for the
cold, greasy plug that was being pushed gently against her puckered back door.

      
My God
, she thought.
That thing is never going to fit and if it
does, it would push the other one back out. Two of these cannot possible fit in
my pussy and ass at the same time
.

      
The
shoving became more insistent, Lucy pressed herself against
 
the towels and the tiled chair, praying that
the pressure would stop, but the woman was now more insistent, moving the plug
from side to side, applying more pressure, more force. As the rounded head
entered and stretched the clenching circle of muscle, Lucy screamed into the
rubber gag. Of course, since the mouthpiece sealed her mouth shut, the sounds
came out her nose and that was about all. No one seemed to mind. The attendants
had all heard that before.

      
“
Morsch
...
morsche
…,” the woman
said softly, still pushing. The others in the room also began the soft chant…”
morsche
,
morsche
...” The head was
now lodged halfway inside and the base with the attached hose was sticking up
most obscenely from Lucy’s invaded butt. With a suddenly violent effort, the
woman jammed the rest of the plug into Lucy’s tormented hole and she felt it
slide past the anal barrier and fill her rectum totally. The shock of pain and
then relief was stunning. Lucy was sweating from her entire body, but as the
waves of pain from the penetration slowly began to fade, she tried taking
deeper breaths and concentrated on relaxing her entire lower abdomen.