The Couriers

by Jurgen von Stuka

  Whereas Pony Liz thought she was going to become a riding pony for a child, her true fate had been sealed in the following Mercedes during the passage from one country to the next. Her buyers, Karl and Hillie, had discussed what they really would do with a new pony before the purchase and before Hillie had been taken away and mated with the automatic fucking machine. They argued and the woman won the debate.

  “I want to see her punished and going to a riding stable isn’t enough,” the woman said, sipping a small glass of sherry from the bar behind the front seats as they drove towards the farm where she too would eventually be kept.

  “Punished for what? I thought you wanted her for yourself,” the husband said. “We can get a farm creature for a lot less than a quarter million Euros.”

  “True, but I think a few weeks as a milk cow will change her attitude. She probably has equine potential, but she needs to clearly understand what will happen to her if she fails to meet my standards as a saddle pony. I’ll deal with her, Karl. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Good. Her prior training should enhance what the brokerage agent did with her and the dairy at home should speed up the process. I have another vocation in mind for her however, but let’s see how she makes out in the next few weeks.”

  “Of course, Dear,” Hillie said. “Of course.”

  Karl continued: “I have enough to worry about besides how to change the attitude of a misbehaving Austrian pony. I must admit though, that I was hoping to see her in the milking barn anyway. She must have great tits, as you well know. So, my dear, she’ll be all yours, but I will exercise my co-owner rights with her now and then, as you may well do yourself.”

  “Oh, Karl,” his wife had said, rubbing his crotch enthusiastically with her gloved left hand. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Let’s get her set up for the dairy routine and then you and I can visit her some evening and double fuck her until she is simple. I have a brand new strap-on that I am dying to try out. It’s a deep-double dick with accessories you won’t believe.

  “Accessories?” her husband asked, trying to maintain some level of concentration on his driving while his wife vigorously throttled his cock which she had liberated from the confines of his trousers.

  “Oh, there are all sorts of gadgets. It’s a very complex device. For example, I can fire a jet of heavy cream or yogurt or whatever at the right moment of inspiration and she’ll feel it all the way up to her tonsils. I can inflate one or both ends, turn on an adjustable vibrator, make the thing bend and turn like a roto-rooter and some other refinements that I can’t recall right now. I must confess I already tested it on Felicia, the maid, and she went nearly nuts. I had her tied to the bed frame and it was a good thing because, unknown to me at the time, the pressure on the jiss jet was turned all the way up and when I erupted, I think it blew off the top of her head. She screamed into the gag for nearly a whole minute. Quite a performance, I must say.”

  “Is she alright now?” Karl asked, recalling that he had serviced that same maid from time to time and found her more or less incapable of an orgasm, but that she gave better head than his wife was currently attempting.

  Hillie raised her head from his crotch, removed a small hair from between her front teeth and mumbled. “She was okay the last time I checked on her. I left her tied and well gagged in the cedar closet with instructions to Haley to feed and water her but not let her go until I got home.”

  “Good. Got to keep them on their toes, eh,” Karl said as he came in his wife’s warm mouth.

  “So,” Hillie said, wiping her mouth as if she had just finished a tasty meal. “Let’s buy her and take her home and double fuck her next weekend.”

  “Agreed,” said Karl, visualizing Pony Liz, tightly tied and harnessed, suspended from an overhead beam in the barn while he and his wife plunged their eager cocks into their new pony.

  And that was how and why Liz ended up in the milking stall, surrounded by a dozen other milk cows and wondering what the Hell had happened. She was deeply in over her pretty head, but she had no idea what was to come later, after Karl finished with her.

  And Hillie had no clue that Karl was already finalizing plans to sell his wife to the horse auction as soon as Herr Werner offered an acceptable bid. The upshot of this was that Werner offered an even trade: Pony Chloe for Karl’s wife, Hillie. The deal was done quickly and Chloe soon joined Pony Liz at the dairy farm. The same van that delivered Chloe returned to the riding stable with Hillie in the back, her head encased in a strict discipline hood, her mouth stretched by an extra large and uncomfortable bit and her limbs joined to a leather body harness that forced her into a serious hog-tie. To keep her entertained, the van driver and groom in attendance attached two heavy, spring-loaded clips to Hillie’s jutting nipples and chained them to either side of the van. Hillie had a long and physically thrilling ride back to Hanover, alternately debating where she might have gone wrong with Karl and if this change in events might actually be fun for her. She lay in the prickly straw bedding on the floor of the van, her wrists tied to her ankles and her ankles tied to the body harness. The twin nipple clips were tautly stretched to the tie down rings on the van’s sides, so Hillie wasn’t going to do any thrashing about without possibly tugging off a stretched nipple.

  When the van reached the riding school, it was late and the driver and groom carried Hillie to the “Induction Room,” placed her face down on a large table and then stripped themselves naked, drawing straws to see which of them would get first shot at this young wife who had been such a bitch when she visited the school a few weeks prior. Hans, the driver, won, but good naturedly told his buddy that he could have his choice of cunt or ass. That issue taken care of, Hillie Bass was adjusted and tied further in a suitable position on the table with her knees pulled wide apart, ankles cuffed to upper thighs, and her crotch just slightly over the edge of the table. Additional straps around her waist and torso kept her from tumbling backwards off the table but made both ass and cunt readily available to her eager escorts. The van driver proceeded to fuck her ass madly until he came. There was a quick switch and the groom moved into position behind the hog-tied, mewing woman and did her cunt in the same exemplary fashion. Within the hour, both men exchanged places and improved their performance while the other flogged Hillie senseless with their belts. She alternately screamed and moaned into the gag that filled her mouth when it wasn’t engaged in sucking cock.

  Just before dawn, the exhausted trio adjourned to a newly prepared stall, locked Hillie’s head into the front gate stocks, released her from the hog tie and chained her arms behind her, then left to get some much-needed sleep. She was on her knees with ankles pulled wide to each side of the narrow stall. He heavy, swollen tits hung down, their abused nipples pointing angrily at the straw-covered floor. Hillie Bass struggled to clear her pain and exhaustion-fogged mind and considered that this was the sort of treatment she had been doling out regularly to her maids and ponies for the last few years, but that what she had been trying to do was find a way to transfer what she as doing to them to having it actually happen to her.

  This was a sudden and stunning realization.

  All this time, she thought, I’ve been doing to them what I wanted done to me. This is thrilling beyond anything I ever imagined, even with our stable boys doing me three ways at once. They were mere children and had no idea what got my orgasm-craving mind really turned on.

  Hillie was chained in such a manner as her upper body was pulled back, bent at the waist and with her ass thrust upward, exposing the leaking space between her legs and giving her the appearance of a bitch in heat, asking for another reaming like the ones she had just endured. But she was quite alone in the basement stall and no one was going to relive her aching need for hours to come.

  But something had to be done.

  Hillie strained to reach down the tilted curvature of her bare and belt scarred back until her center finger of her right hand was poised and pressing lightly on her recently
plumbed asshole. The slight touch brought a shudder to her body and her mind recaptured the multiple reamings she had recently endured, still mentally debating which fucking had been the most rewarding. The finger with its long, sharp, painted nail slowly explored, easily pushing aside the sore and stretched anal ring, seeking a deeper containment, a more exciting response. The heavy steel cuffs dug into the skin around each of her confined wrists; the connecting chain pulled tight, But Hillie’s finger probed deeper, using the sticky, slippery leftover cum to grease the way inward. She spasmed again, her head immobilized by the heavy, sweat-stained stocks. The finger plunged deeper and Hillie tried to bring her chain-spread legs together, hoping to grind the thighs and make a bit of friction to enhance the feelings she was experiencing in her ass. The harness she had worn most of the preceding twenty-four hours chafed under her arms and around her sore and swollen breasts, but Hillie discovered that instead of feeling pain, she felt a sort of sexual euphoria. She wished the nipple clips that had hurt so much before were back in their places, sending shocks of erotic pain to each dangling breast.

  Hillie bit down on the massive rubber penis gag, enhancing the multiple impulses now coming from her ass, her empty cunt and the many contact points of the body and head harnesses. He eyes were tightly closed and she knew, as she madly rotated her finger in her now well-opened rectum that IT was coming. Without even knowing it, a second finger, the index of her right hand, slipped unresisted into her ass and joined the middle one in twirling and jabbing the inner lining of her rectum and beyond. Hillie was sweating, moaning into the mouth- filling gag, sucking on the damned thing as if she might gain some sustenance from the soft rubber. She jerked on the chains that held her legs still wide apart, hammered her hand against the cleft in her ass and attempted to get her thumb into the hotly leaking lower portion of her cunt slit. Accomplishing this seemed impossible in her strained position, so, after a moment of semi-lucid consideration, Hillie jerked the two fingers out of her ass, shoved her thumb into the gapping orifice and reached for her now closer cunt with her two well lubed fingers.

  The tableau was now set. Hillie Bass was bent at the waist with her head locked in the stocks at the front of the stall, her feet spread wide by chains connected to rings on either side, her thumb as deep as it would go up her ass and her two fingers exploring her recently rummaged cunt, the middle one stretching upwards towards the begging clit, the shorter index finger already as far up into her vagina as it would reach. Her left hand was pulled sharply against her left ass cheek and, without thinking, Hillie began to pinch and then tried to slap the left buttock with that hand. Pinching turned out to be more effective and the now screaming, sweating woman was jumping about within the stall, held in position by her neck and ankle chains, her breasts bouncing and jiggling as she finger-fucked herself from behind. She was so far gone in sexual ecstasy that nothing would have changed her focus or gotten her attention until the waves of pleasure and heat slowly passed through her brain and settled back into her crotch. While her captors assumed that she was experiencing Hell, Hillie Bass was in heaven.

  Chapter Twenty

  Motorcycle Incident

  “They are winning and we are looking like idiots.

  The media has already labeled us The Blind Cops.”

  As the courier thieves became more brazen, they demonstrated their skills and creativity by constantly altering and improving their tactics. Each incident was more audacious than the last. The motorway hold-up was a perfect demonstration of the robbers’ ability to coordinate several elements and bring off the robbery without any losses or mistakes.

  The chosen location was new: the A13/E45 high-speed motorway that ran south from Germany, through Austria and into Italy. It was a toll road and heavily traveled. One spring afternoon, an armored courier truck from Augsburg was proceeding south and had just passed through a control point outside Igles, Austria, when the driver and his two guards noticed that they were being hotly pursued by two German police on BMW motorcycles. As the cycles approached the truck, the lead cop politely signaled the driver to pull over into a roadside rest area that was designated only for trucks. The bike cops had not used their flashing lights or sirens, so the armored van team assumed it was a courtesy stop. The armored car did so with the shotgun guard radioing his control that they were being stopped by police at such and such a location. The lead motorcycle proceeded into the rest area and directed the three trucks stopped there to leave at once. This order was grudgingly obeyed by the Italian drivers who were engaged in some activity that they decided was better not seen or investigated by the cops and in a few minutes the armored van and the two motor police were alone in the area.

  As their SOP required, one guard exited the truck and approached the second cop, but he didn’t close his door because, as he later testified, he wanted to be able to get back into the truck to keep their schedule and he expected that the cops had some sort of message for them, that was all. The second cop was still sitting on the police bike, but waved some sort of paper at the guard who assumed it was highway information about a detour or some other emergency. As the guard approached, the cop pulled out a taser and shot the guard twice, once in each thigh, just as the lead cyclist pulled open the unclosed truck door and similarly shot the driver and the second guard in the rear area. In seconds, the two cops looted the truck, taking three small pouches containing diamonds and cash, stuffed them into their bikes’ panniers and drove off, leaving the guards and driver to slowly recover in the rest area.

  Two kilometers south of the rest area, the police cycles approached a slow- moving truck with Bavarian state markings and trailer. The rear overhead door of the trailer was open and two long ramps were trailing behind on rubber tired rollers. Without hesitation, but demonstrating long practice, the two cops ran their bikes up the ramps and into the trailer. The trailer ramps were immediately retracted and the rear door shut. The truck and trailer exited the autobahn at the next exit and disappeared.

  When the incident was investigated, it was found that the police bikes, truck and trailer had all been stolen in Italy week before and repainted in suitable colors and indicia. The armored truck driver and guards all agreed that while it was hard to be sure, the two motor cops looked like females, being smaller and shorter than their male counterparts. However, when shown photos and videos of female highway patrol cops, the armored car team became less positive, saying that it was really impossible to tell.

  The courier crime teams in Berlin and elsewhere chalked this up as a stunning advancement in the robbers’ tactics and circulated additional bulletins warning of the possibility of similar incidents in the future. Most courier trips were curtailed and those that did take place were now dispatched under heavy guard. The robbers never attempted to take on these armed units.

  “Clearly,” remarked Chief Inspector Gregory Casalo. “They are winning and we are looking like idiots. The media has already labeled us The Blind Cops.”“

  Chapter Twenty One

  More Training

  “Bras are instruments of enslavement.”

  “The worst,” as Marianne imagined it, was nothing compared to what they actually did that morning after releasing her from the hanging cage. The session of the previous week when she was hung by the breast chain bra had been as far as Marianne was prepared to go in terms of terrible tit torture, but now it looked like her chest works were once again the objects of her tormentors’ attention. The twin metal bands that were slowly and meticulously wrapped around her abundant, ringed, jutting breasts looked far too small to fit. Their shining circles of polished metal were much smaller in diameter than the two shapely white globes of female mammary flesh which were so firmly attached to her chest. How could these small circlets of steel possibly enclose her magnificent boobs, Marianne wondered as she stood before the dangling chain, waiting for the Graf and his silent helpers to begin the torment.

  Her tits always puzzled Marianne for two reasons: First, she could
not fathom why she, of all people, should be both blessed and condemned to have these twin, funnel-shaped protuberances mounted on her chest in such a way that they were apparently unaffected by the forces of gravity. In other women, the breasts were almost always the first body part to obey gravity and demonstrate a true need for uplift and containment. Second, she wondered when, if ever, she too would experience the terrible, (from her perspective), experience of having to don unwanted and undeserved support garments too early in life. For these reasons, and others, Marianne found little pleasure in wearing the bras or corsets that seemed to her to detract from the attraction and appearance of her tits’ natural, unharnessed state.

  “Bras are,” she often said to her young and obviously jealous friends, “little more than an instrument of enslavement, invented by cruel women who have no muscle tone and probably never really recovered their figures as they aged or after childbirth.”

  Having never been pregnant and certainly not yet into middle age, these sentiments were more of a demonstration of Marianne’s ignorance and selfishness than anything else. The statements also went against her secret philosophy that women were meant to be submissive and to be dominated throughout their life and that such experiences would be erotically rewarding if the women would just give in. When shopping for clothes with her girl friends, Marianne always looked for garments that emphasized her fine upper chest works. She found the occasional corset that came half-way up each breast, just below her nipples, to be exciting and worthy of the stares she got from men and other women. Similarly, kinky bras with a hole that allowed the nipples to more than just peek through were useful instruments of male torment and her less well-endowed girlfriends encouraged her to try on the most extravagant lingerie, perhaps for the vicarious thrill of seeing how these arcane items of clothing should actually be worn.

  Now she stood shivering, without a single thread of fabric covering her body, arms bound up behind her in a reverse prayer-like position, feet tied apart to rings on the floor, waiting for the inevitable torment that was to come. Her ringed nipples were already hardened from the chilled air in the underground room. Their somewhat unusual length, which she often considered to be excessive, was fully demonstrated now.