Summer School & After School: The Ponygirl Omnibus Edition

by Jurgen von Stuka

  By now, the first guy was back on his feet, still gasping for breath and Bibi was backing away, realigning herself to deal with the next threat. Now Bibi was in her element. She brought up her left leg once again, faking a high kick, but at the last moment dropped the leg, went to her knee and straight-arm punched him in the left kidney. As the man retreated, staggering from the kidney punch, Bibi followed, kicking him again with a telling blow to his shoulder, making him spin around from the impact. He brought up his hands as if he wanted no more, but Bibi was having none of it. She followed through with a left hook to the eye and as the man’s head snapped back, chopped his Adam’s apple with the callus hardened edge of her right. Now all three attackers were on the ground, moaning and begging for mercy. Bibi whirled away and backed off, facing the jumbled heap of three stunned men. That was when everything went black. She felt the impact of a hard blow to the back of her head and that was all. No pain, just a sudden blackout.

  The next time she was conscious she was spread eagle, naked, with her bare butt pressed against a cold cement wall, sturdy metal clamps holding her wrists, arms, knees and ankles in a fixed and wide spread position. They had taken all of her clothing and her watch. It was the loss of the watch that really made her mad. Her head was tightly sealed in a leather hood with a soft leather ball gag stuffed into her mouth. She heard some faint sounds, but could neither speak nor see. As she tried to grasp what was happening, someone was adjusting yet another clamp around her neck, over the bottom of the hood. When this was locked, she was totally immobilized, clinging to the wall like a spider. She could flex her fingers and toes, but nothing else moved. The fastenings were such that she was suspended above the floor so that her weight was distributed among the multiple clamps. How long she hung there was not clear, because she was in and out of consciousness, perhaps from the residue of whatever drug they had used to initially subdue her in the alley outside the truck rental office.

  Whether she had actually hit a hidden nerve in her more or less random search was a big question in her mind. Had she accidentally discovered some connection to Lucy’s disappearance or, more likely, she thought, had she just stumbled into something else even more sinister? While the truck rental firm had seemed marginally legitimate, she saw only a few small vans in the parking area and the office did not look like it was doing a lot of business. The woman clerk had said she had no records of rentals from the time period in question, but seemed a bit nervous when Bibi told her that she was investigating a kidnapping and showed her Lucy’s photo.

  In any case, Bibi, never having been in such restraint before, wondered why the elaborate bondage and how long they were planning to keep her in it. In one dark corner of her mind, she considered that this shackled to the wall arrangement seemed more like a bondage/sadism scene from a movie and less like the reaction of some criminals who might be kidnapping women, stealing trucks or high jacking cargo.

  The next thing she felt was someone or something touching her sex. The touch was soft and exploratory, and although she could only move her hips a bit, she struggled to avoid the inevitable penetration by what became a cold, rubber-covered finger as it pushed her lower lips aside and wiggled slowly into her pussy. The owner of the finger was obviously skilled and knew what he or she was doing. The probing continued with more and more contact to her clit while a second and then a third finger entered and explored her cunt.

  Bibi found herself responding to the unwanted and constant stimulation; first with increased respiration and then with an unconscious and spontaneous rotation of her hips, grinding her ass into the cold hard wall behind her, thrusting forward and attempting to engulf the probing hand. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly while she wiggled and pushed against the tireless fingers. The person doing this suddenly shifted the hand and, pressing the thumb against her clit, drove a finger back a bit and entered her ass. The tension and response from Bibi was automatic. She wailed into the gag hood, banging her head back against the wall, crying out for some sort of release because the fingers knowingly shifted each time her breathing and movement seemed to indicate she was nearing an orgasm. Bibi was now pleading into the soaked leather plug in her mouth, pleading for whomever was doing this to her to bring her off, to finish it, to give her something, anything to complete the continuing elevation of her senses. There was a head close to her ear now, and a soft voice, that of a woman, murmuring into her ear.

  “Hey, sweetheart. You want to come, huh? You want to get off?”

  Bibi screamed a gag muffled “yes, yes, please.”

  “Who sent you?” the voice whispered, while the expert hands, now both of them, worked at Bibi’s dripping apex, one at her asshole and one still buried in her cunt.

  “Are you a cop?”

  “Nahhh, nahhh,” Bibi yelled into the leather plug.

  “Did Luther send you to spy on us?”

  “Nahh, oooh, nahhgh,” Bibi cried, still struggling as another finger penetrated her ass and roamed around inside her now stretched rectum. “naghaha…..”

  “Are you sure?” the woman said more loudly, emphasizing the word ‘sure’ with a double thrust of both hands into Bibi’s cunt and ass.

  “Uhu, huhhh,” Bibi yelled, shaking her pinioned head wildly.

  “Okay. I believe you. You are too dumb to be from Luther and I don’t think the cops would send a girl to do a man’s job. So…..” and she rapidly began to massage and tweak the girl’s swollen and aroused clit while digging deeper into her ass. It was only a few seconds until Bibi, already at the threshold of climax, went rigid and shook, her extended fingers and toes shaking and vibrating as she came and came and came.

  The violating hands stopped their action, one cupping Bibi’s liquid cunt and the other slowly withdrawing from her ass. The woman tormentor worked Bibi like a fine musical instrument, removing the digits of stimulation so slowly that the girl experienced yet another orgasm as the fingers in her ass eased the knuckles through her clenching sphincter and lightly tickled the edges of the aperture, while all the time slowly withdrawing.

  Bibi slumped in her bonds; totally exhausted and still trying to get a mental grasp on what was happening. Somewhere, something she had done had triggered this extreme response on the part of these fools. People didn’t abduct an inquiring woman just for the hell of it. And who the hell was Luther?

  The photo was probably the key to all of this, which meant that she had found someone who knew something about Lucy’s disappearance and was not troubled in the least about kidnapping Bibi as well in the interest of security. These people apparently had the daring and the motivation to take her and interrogate her and, it suddenly occurred to Bibi, kill her if they were so inclined. Why? What had been the trigger for this overt action? Perhaps these were the same people who abducted Lucy and she had, just by chance, discovered them. Was that possible? If so, it was certainly a very long shot. Bibi tugged again at her clamped wrists and ankles, then relaxed and, oddly enough, fell asleep, still pinned to the wall like a collected bug. Above her in a small metal shed, the three men who had attacked her sat around nursing their wounds, drinking Dutch beer and watching, for the fourth time, the videos they took of Bibi chained to the wall. The one with the broken jaw was still in considerable pain even after his visit to an emergency clinic and dental surgeon where he told them of his accidental collision with an opening steel door. The second man had his ribs taped up and was not feeling much better either. The third, a taller man with a shock of light blond hair, was still wondering if he would ever have sex again if and after his balls were back to their normal size. Sitting against the metal wall of the shed was the fourth member of the group, the young woman who, arriving on the scene in the nick of time, clubbed Bibi with a lead sap, hitting her just right behind the ear and knocking her out cold. She resourcefully bound and gagged Bibi, helped her injured colleagues back to their van and then loaded Bibi into it as well. As soon as they were moving away from the scene, she took the large-faced Bell & Ross
watch from Bibi’s left wrist and administered a sedative to make sure she wouldn’t cause any further havoc. If Bibi had been able to see them there in the light, she would have immediately recognized the ompah band members who got off the train with the tuba case.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gstaad

  By the following Tuesday, agent Groff was becoming concerned that she hadn’t heard from Bibi for three days. She was sure that this meant something, but the last contact the two had did not indicate that anything was wrong or that either was any closer to finding a clue to Lucy’s fate. On Wednesday, Groff flew, at client expense of course, to Gstaad and visited the major hotels. She was not surprised to discover that Lucy and Fabian had in fact stayed at one of the top hotels, the Palace, not the Grand, as Ernst stated. She was even more pleased to discover, after offering a substantial incentive of a hundred Swiss Francs, that Marian Garano, the hotel photographer, recognized Lucy and her handsome male partner. Groff wasn’t surprised either, after she saw the photos, as to why the photographer remembered the couple so well. It was Fabian who caught the female photog’s attention, not Lucy. Garano, a full-blooded, large breasted, Italian in her early twenties, zeroed in on Fabian and simply caught Lucy in her pictures as a necessary accompaniment. The photographer said she was certain that she had some more proofs of the couple and for another hundred CF, dug into her digital files and came up with three more photos showing Lucy and an attractive, tanned, movie-star type young man. One shot was in the hotel dining room. The two were elegantly dressed, Fabian in an Armani tuxedo and Lucy in an extremely revealing, black sequined dress that displayed her more than adequate cleavage and stopped an inch short of her crotch. They sat at a table for two with a nearby ice bucket prominently displaying a magnum of Roederer Cristal Brut champagne. Three leering members of the restaurant staff were serving what had to be a near overdose of caviar with all the accompaniments.

  The second shot was in the hotel lobby with Fabian holding a long, smoldering cigar and Lucy in a very tight-fitting ski jumper with front zipper opened to the waist, smiling broadly at the camera and once again showing plenty of tanned breast and leg. They looked like they had just come in from the nearby ski slopes. The third shot was of Lucy alone on the hotel porch, in tight Tyrolean sweater, black Lycra leggings and knee-high fur-lined boots. She looked less than pleased and, based on the finger she extended, was telling the photographer to take a hike. For a mere seventy-five CF, Groff purchased copies of all the photos, instantly printed on the photographer’s laser color printer.

  So, thought Groff as the chartered Pilatus Turboprop flew her back to Frankfurt. We now know whom she was seeing and that could be a breakthrough.

  That afternoon she called Ernst and told him of her discovery, then faxed the photos to him. Von Holt said he did not know Fabian but would do some research on his own to see if anyone in his large private and corporate circle knew the young man. Groff cautioned him to the effect that they didn’t want to tip off any possible conspirators and requested that he not circulate the photos beyond his immediate family quite yet. Von Holt objected, but agreed to follow Groff’s guidelines.

  Meanwhile, Bibi still had not checked in and Groff was now concerned. She phoned Mickeal D’Assandro, another associate in Amsterdam, gave him the list of rental firms that Bibi was supposedly working and warned him to be very careful on the possibility that Bibi had stumbled into a hornet’s nest. Mickeal was a former Dutch Infantry captain, skilled in firearms and martial arts and knew how to handle himself, but he took Groff’s caution seriously and, before heading for Utrecht in his Audi A4, armed himself with a .40cal Glock automatic and several full magazines. He also put a black gun with collapsible stock and 250 rounds of ball ammunition into a locked compartment behind the rear seat. He was licensed to carry a gun, as well as a black handled MAKORA, an intimidating, illegal, out the front (OTF) automatic knife, which he kept in his boot.

  The second stop he made smelled bad to him. It looked more like a junk yard than a rental agency, it was in an area that was unlikely to attract much business and the signage was almost non-existent, as though whoever ran it really didn’t want anyone making stops or inquiries. These same elements which had alerted Bibi too late made him drive past twice and then park further down the road and approach the building with caution. He walked in and said he wanted to rent a large truck and was told by the jerk at a beaten up old desk that none would be available for a week. He asked if they had another location and was told that their renovation and repair facility was in the southern part of the city, but that he’d get the same answer there. He thanked the clerk anyway and drove to the location, discovering that it was on the site of an old windmill. What remained was the stone foundation with a small corrugated building on top of the base. The original tower was gone. The fenced in yard contained the skeletons of several vehicles, most of them in various states of cannibalization. One newer looking Mini Cooper S looked oddly out of place and Mickeal considered that Bibi was supposedly driving a Mini when Groff last heard from her. That was enough to get Mickeal’s interest renewed. He photographed the car from a distance, took more shots of the rest of the place, and then, lacking anything else to do, wandered into the rusting sheet metal building. Going through the unlocked door without knocking, Mickeal found himself in a poorly lit room populated by three young men, all sporting bandages, cuts and bruises, sitting on folding chairs with a deck of cards, some paper money and half empty beer bottles in front of them on an old wooden table. Dozens more empties surrounded the trio on the floor. Clearly, they were all in various stages of drunkenness and did not seem to appreciate Mickeal’s company.

  “We’re gshlosed,” one of the men, the tall blond with long hair in his eyes, slurred at Mickeal.

  “Oh, really?” said Mickeal, moving inside the door and looking around, then putting his back to the wall and staring at the blond. “I’m looking for my partner, Bibi. Cute girl. Big tits. Eyes like a cat. Tattoo on her left tit. Seen her?”

  “No broads here,” said a dark man in the corner, reaching for his beer but picking the bottle up with the base turned outward. “The last bitch left an hour ago. Now get out.”

  “No way to treat your customers, fellow,” Mickeal said, putting his hand in his pocket and slipping the safety off the Glock. “If you haven’t seen Bibi, what are you doing with her car in your lot? Huh?”

  The Dark Man got up from his chair, knocking it backwards and smashed the bottle on the table edge, holding onto the neck and coming forward with it poised as a weapon. Mickeal noted that he wasn’t moving very fast and then saw the tape around his ribs and the open shirt.

  “I wouldn’t do that, man. I really wouldn’t,” said Mickeal as he removed his hand and the Glock. The man kept coming.

  His first shot caught the Dark Man in the left leg, just above the knee, but close enough to the joint to cause him to tip over backwards and begin to scream as he dropped the broken bottle and grabbed his shattered leg.

  “Where’s the girl?” Mickeal asked, moving the gun toward the Blond.

  The Third Man, the one with the heavily bandaged jaw and who had stayed very still throughout this time, waved his hands in front of him and mumbled something unintelligible through clenched teeth.

  “What?” shouted Mickeal, moving the Glock from one man to the next.

  “She’s downstairs,” said The Blond.” We didn’t mean anything. She came snooping around and we thought we’d teach her a lesson. She’s okay. She’s here, in the basement. Don’t shoot me, please,” shouted The Blond. The Dark Man continued to scream.

  “Get her up here now,” Mickeal shouted. “And you,” he said pointing the gun at the screaming Dark Man, “shut up, unless you want a matching hole in the other leg.” The Dark Man stopped screaming and settled down to a continuous low whine.

  The Third Man got up cautiously. Mickeal aimed at The Blond, saying, “Not a twitch out of you.” The man froze. “You got handcuffs?”
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  The Blond nodded slowly and slowly produced a set from his back pocket.

  “Cuff yourself to the radiator pipe over there. Slowly,” Mickeal ordered. The man complied and Mickeal walked over, tugged on the cuffs and the pipe, satisfied that the Blond would stay put while he went to the cellar. “And you,” he motioned to the Third Man. “Don’t do something stupid as I would be delighted to put a few more ten millimeter holes in all of you. Move nice and slow because I’m right behind you.”

  The Third Man nodded his bandaged head, keeping his hands up and moving towards the door to the cellar. “Ay oodendt tink of it…” he hissed through a wire jaw.

  Bibi heard the shot, even though she was well below ground and more or less insulated from the rest of the local sounds. She was thinking of the last few days and wondering if someone was finally coming to save her. The experience of being a kidnap victim wasn’t new to her and neither was the bondage. When she had nothing else to do, she and a few other girl friends often ventured into Berlin’s underground S&M scene and even though Bibi considered herself a neophyte, she had been through enough encounters with both men and women to know the ropes, so to speak. That past spring, on one of their adventures into the old eastern bloc of the city she and another girl, a ravishingly beautiful redhead, had mistakenly agreed to a one nighter with two cute and apparently harmless guys who said they were from a local university. Too much alcohol, plus too much foolish trust and drugs resulted in the girls finding themselves abducted by a youthful gang, tied up and thrown into the back of an SUV. They were driven into the countryside somewhere further east and taken to a large old house where they were strung up by their wrists in the main room, stripped, gagged with their own underwear in a very creative fashion, and left standing on their toes for the night. After stuffing panties into their mouth, the men used the girls’ bras to hold them in. The bra was wrapped twice around the head over the mouth and then clipped, forming a unique and effective sound-stopper as well as erotic head bondage. The bra shoulder straps were pulled up over the top of their head, placing the bra cups over their eyes, making an imperfect but partial blindfold as well. Their captors used ordinary rope to tie their hands over their heads, tight enough so that they had to stand on tiptoes to ease the strain. Their ankles were tied together and a longer rope was fastened between them, restricting any possible leg action or kicking. Struggle as they could, neither girl got loose, they stayed where they hung, silently weeping and cursing into the panty, and bra gags.