Training a Pony Girl: The Maddy Saga #2

by Paul Blades

  It had taken Quicksilver two years to break into the upper ranks of 3000 meter sulkies. But this year she was in top form and expected to take first place at the Nationals in July. As she cantered past the reviewing box, the crowd gave a raucous cheer. They knew a great champion when they saw one.

  * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jake had been in Kalikastan for about three weeks when Bertman flew in. He met him at the airport and had a car waiting. Bertman was all business.

  "Is the meeting all set up?" he asked.

  "It's all set up," Jake answered. "It's at 9 tonight. I've got us a little place outside of the city. I've had it sweeped so it'll be okay to talk there."

  "Any bugs?"

  "Of course. There were the ones they knew we'd find, and then the other ones. It's clean, I'm sure," Jake told him.

  "So who's there now?" Bertman asked.

  "I've got Leon and Curley there. Martinez is doing some snooping around for me and this is Tucker, driving. I don't think you've met."

  Tucker, a blockbuster kind of guy looked up into the rear view window and nodded. To say that Tucker was taciturn would be to overstate his eloquence. He spoke mostly with his meat cleaver sized hands.

  The traffic on the only road from the airport was a cacophony of reckless vehicles going every which way. Three times the big, black Lincoln swerved, pushing Jake and Bertman onto each other in the back seat. After five or so Grand Prix type miles, the traffic ground to a virtual stop. There was a choke point where the airport traffic entered the city and the men spent a long time inching forwards.

  Bertman looked around at the car. "Why a Lincoln?" he asked.

  "Why not," Jake inquired.

  "Because a Mercedes is about 200% more comfortable."

  "Well," Jake answered, "this is the way I see it. We're Americans, everybody knows that. We're not going to get anywhere by pretending we're Germans, or English or anything else. We've got to come on strong and confident. So we drive an American car, perhaps the American car. Besides, it's easier to follow."

  Bertman quickly looked behind them and peered out the back window. "Followed? We're being followed?"

  "Of course," Jake answered.

  Bertman, a 55 year old tall and trim man, had short black hair, meticulously groomed, a suave face and broad shoulders. Thirty years ago he would have mixed it up with any guy in any bar in America. But then he got filthy rich. He had scooped up in a bankruptcy sale a patent to a key component in personal computer systems, all of them. The part, an electronic chip that regulates the flow of electrons to the coprocessor, was cheap to make and was apparently the only way to make the damn things work at over 200 mgz. A markup of $7.50 for every computer made in the U.S., and Japan too, and, well, you get the picture. His patent infringement claim against the Chinese government was still pending with the State Department. Rumor had it that an exchange of stock was in the works. From computer chips, he had branched out to a wide variety of investments, from a huge international construction company to an Angola diamond mine. He had vast wealth, but he didn't have what was most precious to him of all, Madeline, his niece.

  He was stunned by Jake's casual acceptance of their being tailed. "What do you mean, 'Of course'?" he asked Jake, ready to rip a bumbling employee a new asshole.

  "Listen, Mr. Bertman," Jake answered, a slight hint of annoyance in his voice, "they're going to watch us no matter what we do. In fact, there's more than one group of folks interested in what we're doing. You want we should do one of those 'French Connection' scenes right here in Dlitski? First of all, Tucker doesn't know the city so every few blocks we'd have to stop and get directions. Second, we'd be liable to run somebody over and that somebody would be related to a guy related to a guy related to a guy, you know what I mean? And third, we've got nothing to hide. Everything's above board. You've got a visa, I've got a visa, I've got a residence permit, you've got a residence permit. And tonight we're meeting with the Minister of Trade, who's a member of, let's call it 'the Chamber of Commerce Round Table', a kind of commission that settles gang disputes. Also there will be the Minister of the Interior (read: secret police), and the undersecretary of a relatively obscure agency called the Ministry of Strategic Imports. He regulates the slave trade. And we're slavers, remember?"

  Bertman was not used to employees talking to him this way. He was speechless. But then he reminded himself that Jake was not an employee, he was a contract hire, a specialist, and getting results was his main product.

  "Okay," he conceded, not something he did that often, "I see your point." He looked around the car. "Where is all of this traffic coming from?" he asked.

  "There are three highways narrowing down to two lanes up there."

  "What?" Bertman exclaimed. "What's that all about?"

  "Well it's another reason we don't need to shake our tail. Nobody gets in to Dlitski or out of it without permission. Everybody's got to show a pass."

  "I didn't realize that internal security was so tight?" Bertman said.

  "It's tight all right. It has to be. There about 5000 young ladies in the country who would like to be someplace else, about half of them in the city. There's all kinds of smuggling going on, most of it government sponsored or approved, and everybody needs to keep an eye on everybody else or else there'd be civil war, or a gang war anyway."

  "Jeeze!" was all Bertman said.

  They pulled into the courtyard of a three story grey stuccoed building in a quiet residential section of the city. It had a red tile roof and tall, narrow windows in the front with black shutters. An elderly concierge with a bushy grey moustache and a peasant's cap opened the steel gate at the entrance so that the Lincoln could pass through. The house surrounded the courtyard on three sides. The grey day muted the colors of the large cobblestones and the gray exterior of the building. As Jake got out of the car, he noted a black Mercedes pull past the arched entrance and slide to a stop just beyond his vision. Their babysitters.

  Leon, a wiry, lean man with short brown hair came out to greet them. Jake waved him off and went to the trunk to retrieve Bertman's bags. When they walked inside, Bertman looked wide eyed at the stylish, modern interior. "I expected neogothic," he said.

  "And it's got all the most modern conveniences," Jake said in his mock estate agent voice.

  The entrance foyer led to long hallway with maple wainscoting. They crossed the hall and entered a large living area with two long, pastel green couches set in an el and a large pale green oriental rug with a cream colored border in front of hem. There was a white oak bar at one end of the room and a stone fireplace at the other. Kneeling in the center of the room, their hands resting palms up on their widespread thighs were two naked, young women. They both had long dirty blond hair and their pubic regions had been shaved leaving a small, wiry beard above their exposed slits. They bore on their taut bellies a tattoo of a green python, coiled, with snarling fangs and a long red tongue. They seemed like enough to be sisters. Even their breasts were matched sets of pale white half grapefruits sitting high on their chests. Their eyes were downcast.

  "What the fuck is this?" Bertman asked.

  Jake put down the suitcases. "They came with the house."

  "Bullshit," Bertman said, his eyes feasting on their pleasant forms.

  "No, no bullshit," Jake replied. "There's two more upstairs."

  "What are we supposed to do with them?" Bertman asked, obviously put off by the display of Kalikastan's main tourist attraction.

  "You're supposed to fuck them, Mr. Bertman," Jake said, exasperated. "Listen, Mr. Bertman, I can't emphasize this enough. You're in a nasty business. You knew you would be when we started this thing. This," he pointed to the two young women, "is the end product of our little enterprise."

  "You mean that these girls are from our…"

  "No, Mr. Bertman, they're not ours," Jake replied cutting his employer off. "Ours haven't cleared training yet. We shipped our first lot about five weeks ago. Take a week
off for breaking in at Khalid's, maybe a week for them to be selected by a retailer and four weeks of training. Our first girls should be coming out of the assembly line sometime next week. I can try and pick a couple up for you if you want."

  "That won't be necessary, Jake," Bertman responded coldly. "Just tell me where I can get cleaned up and then we'll talk."

  "Your bedroom is upstairs and to the left. It's the master bedroom. There's a slave girl in there. Her name is Peacock, or 'Pyacok' in Russian. She'll help you with your shower."

  "I don't need help with my shower, Jake. I'm big boy now," Bertman replied as he headed for the stairs. He had his suitcase in his hand.

  "Oh, you'll want the help when you see her, Mr. Bertman," Jake called up after him.

  About an hour later, Bertman came down the stairs. He had changed from his grey, tailored business suit into a pair of light tan trousers with a yellow sports shirt and a brown herringbone sports jacket.

  "How was the blow job, Mr. Bertman?" Leon asked, smiling.

  "Never mind, asshole!" Bertman shot back. "Where's Jake?"

  Leon tried to suppress a snigger. "In the shithouse," he said.

  "When he comes out, I want to talk to him."

  "Sure, Mr. Bertman," Leon responded. "Why don't you wait in the study, it's down the hall to the left."

  Jake joined Bertman about ten minutes later. Bertman was looking out the narrow window that faced the street. "They're still out there," he said.

  "Don't worry, Mr. Bertman, they won't bite."

  "Okay, okay, Jake enough with the funny stuff. And tell your friend Leon I don't appreciate his humor."

  "Listen, Mr. Bertman," Jake answered, just a degree below boiling, "these guys are here to protect your life. They're here risking theirs. Sure, they get paid a bundle, but they're worth it. You go tell Leon he has to mind his manners and he's on a plane back to St. Louis. And if he goes, you can kiss Curley goodbye because they always go together. And the…."

  "All right, Jake, all right, I get the point. I'll just have to toughen my skin a little bit. "

  "No problem, Mr. Bertman," Jake replied. He paused and started to smile. "By the way, how was the blowjob?"

  Bertman leaked out a smile. "It was damn fine," he said. "Actually," he said, "I never experienced anything like it. It was if I was some kind of God to her. She…, well…, I mean I kept thinking that I could do anything I wanted to her. It was amazing."

  "Just remember why we're hear, Mr. Bertman," Jake told his boss. "Don't get carried away. It would be very easy for a man like you to get sucked in here. Try to remember that they are real people and that they aren't playing a game."

  "I know why I'm here Jake," Bertman replied. "I don't need to be lectured."

  "It's just that these people are expecting you to make a huge financial commitment here. Your money could be tied up here for many years. These guys aren't school boys. If you fuck with them, wherever you are and no matter how much protection you have, they'll get you one way or the other.

  Bertman looked hard at Jake. "I am aware of everything you've said. Now let's get down to business."

  The meeting was held at a small restaurant in the central part of the city. Martinez had been there for a few hours, checking out the security. It was purely a formality, since if the criminal rulers of this anarchic country wanted them dead, they would be dead.

  The restaurant was called 'The Hideaway', and was decorated along the lines of an American twenties speakeasy. It was closed for the night for a 'private party'. When Jake and Bertman arrived, driven by Tucker and accompanied by Leon and Curley in a separate car, Martinez was at the door showing one of the local security men some of his knife tricks. He was a connoisseur with a knife, and he was flipping and dangling his 7" switchblade all around his body. The Kalikastani secret policeman responded by pulling out what looked like an 8" butcher's knife and tossing it across the street, embedded it in the trunk of a small, spruce sapling. Martinez whistled with admiration. He threw his knife and it landed about three inches higher on the tree. Both men laughed.

  The entrance to the restaurant led down a set of winding stairs to a partially refinished cellar. There were twenty or so large round tables covered with red and white checkered tablecloths. Waxed over Chianti bottles sat on each one with partially melted candles set in their open necks. There were Rock Hudson and Doris Day movie posters on the walls. Jake had never seen a room filled with such mixed metaphors. They were waived towards a door in the rear of the restaurant by a short, fat bald headed man wearing a frayed tuxedo abut a size and a half too big for him. They proceeded through the doorway and found themselves in a small, modern room with salmon walls and a low, white ceiling. Along one wall, sitting on a raised dais, was a semicircular table. At it were sitting four men in business suits, all with short black hair and wearing stylish Italian suits. A fifth man sat at the end of the table. He was wearing a black turtle neck sweater and black pants. He had short, black, receding hair and wore round wire rimmed glasses. Jake and Bertman were invited to take their places, Bertman in the middle of the four men, at the center of the table, Jake on the other end.

  There were introductions all around and several toasts. Naked young women, their breasts decorated with little bells hanging from their nipples came out of the kitchen with large trays of delicacies. The women all bore a stylized red rose with small leaves surrounding it atop a thick thorny stem tattooed on their bellies and wore collars around their necks and thick leather bracelets around their wrists.

  There was eel, pickled eggs, marinated goat, numerous cheeses, some dried beef sausages and a large assortment of olives and nuts. After three rounds of Vodka, several bottles of a locally grown wine were produced and served. It was dry, but with a fruity flavor, reminiscent of peaches. A new round of toasts followed. Each time Bertman tried to bring the conversation around to business, he was waved off and a new course of food was called for.

  After a spicy beef dish served in a sour milk sauce was consumed by the group, the lights in the room flickered and a high pitched, zither type music began to flood the room. Their attention was drawn to a stage set on the wall opposite side them. A spotlight shown down on it, illuminating it fully. Suddenly, a line of beautiful young women, in actuality, the waitresses who had been serving them, came dancing out onto the stage. They were wearing short, black, diaphanous skirts that reached down to mid-thigh.

  The girls quickly ran around the stage gracefully, their shoeless toes pointed, their bodies erect. When all five had entered the stage, they came together in the middle, their hands held high over their heads and brushed their bodies together. They were all very well endowed and their naked breasts rippled and swayed as they moved. Their eyes were lined with kohl and their succulent lips were painted blood red. They broke apart and assumed positions on the stage facing the banquet table, two in front and three staggered in the back so that all of the girls were clearly visible. They all wore the red and green rose tattoo on their bellies and when they started to move their hips to the music, the flowers began to jump and dance.

  The young slave girls were moving slowly and languidly to the music. The stage was about fifteen feet from the banquet table and Jake and Bertman had an excellent view of the girl's assets. As the music encouraged them, the girls spread their hands over their bodies, proffering their pleasant, full breasts, running over their taut bellies and over their rounded hips. All the girls wore shoulder length hair that was loose and free on their heads and when they swayed their pretty necks, the hair followed suit, accentuating their graceful movements.

  Suddenly, the music changed pace and four of the girls formed a semi-circle around a buxom blonde one. She smiled demurely at the dinner guests and slowly, her hips swaying to the leisurely beat, began to draw her short, translucent skirt down over her hips, past her knees and then to the floor. Her labia, imprisoned by a large golden lock that pierced them, were decorated with the same dark, blood red coloring as her lips.
The inviting flesh was surrounded by a border of neatly trimmed, wiry blond hair.

  The girl ran her hands along the sides of her sex and her face was posed in a seductive pout. She danced off of the stage and, her hips moving quickly to the staccato beat of the music, circled around the table and approached the millionaire. His eyes were glued to her gyrating pussy. She knelt beside him and, opening her mouth, stuck out her long, delicate tongue. On it sat a small, golden key. Bertman looked around him and, encouraged by the gestures of the Kalikastani hosts, gingerly lifted the key off of the girl's proffered tongue. She rose to her feet, her breasts dancing on her chest, her hips writhing frantically. She opened her legs and pushed her sex invitingly forwards. Bertman, looking nervous, took the key and undid the lock that pierced her nether lips. He carefully pulled the lock free of the holes in the girl's sex and looked up into the girl's face. She smiled at him and ran back to the stage.

  One by one, the dancers freed themselves seductively from their dainty skirts and presented their loins to the American. Each pussy was outlined with a thin line of hair, enough to emphasize what lay between. The redhead, when she presented her cunt to Bertman, as he was undoing the lock that imprisoned her loins, leaned over and brushed his face with her stiff nipples. When he reached out to embrace her, she twisted away and joined her fellow dancers.