MADDY BECOMES A PONY GIRL [THE MADDY SAGA BOOK #1], page 1
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THE MADDY SAGA
MADDY BECOMES A PONYGIRL
A Renaissance E Books publication
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2006-7 Paul Blades
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.
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A Sizzler/B D Edition
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It was a typical Saturday afternoon at Grafton's Tavern. There were three sullen patrons at the semi-circular bar. The Tennessee game was on the television, and the home team was leading Miami by ten points in the third quarter. Four of the Baker Hill boys were playing pool, drinking Coors and doing the occasional shot of Wild Turkey. Their mildly profane shouts were the only noise in the place audible over the nonstop chatter of the game announcers.
Madeline stood behind the bar, the cheeks of her young, firm ass resting on the large, silver colored beer cooler. She was a tall, well built girl, about five feet eleven inches. She wore a peasant style skirt with bright calico swirls that descended to well below her knees. Her top was a bright red Moorestown Community College t-shirt, pulled taut across her chest, accenting her more than ample breasts. Her hair was long and brown, reaching to her waist. While working, she kept it bound tightly in a braid, a bright pink ribbon serving as a tie on the end. Madeline wore her low top cross trainers; she was conscious of her towering height and shunned anything that would add more than a quarter inch to her frame. The shoes were kind to her feet too. Along with her height came a comparable weight, although she dieted constantly. Broad shoulders and big bones separated her from the lithe, tall fashion model type, but she was pretty, had a distinctly feminine shape and was lively and fun to be around. Her face and arms were still brown from the her spring break foray to Florida and her arms were taut and well toned.
Two of the men at the bar were regulars. Danny ran the garage across the street, and on Saturdays he closed up at noon, or three, depending on whether Tennessee was playing an early or late afternoon game. He was in his late fifties, divorced, and had little visually to offer a young college girl like Madeline. His belly protruded over his blue work pants. His grease stained work shirt, of the same dark utilitarian color, spread open at the top to reveal a densely hairy, salt and pepper chest to match his scraggly beard. Old Grand Dad and Schlitz was what he drank. When the game was over, he would buy two sixes and head home.
Manny sat a few seats down from Danny. He was in his thirties, a lean, wiry fellow. He liked to think of himself as a lady's man and wore sharply creased beige pants and a bright yellow Izod shirt. His hair was slicked back in a mini pompadour and he liked to sport a day or two growth on his face, like one of those detectives on Miami Vice. He had money on Tennessee, but he had to give away seven and a half points. His eyes were glued to the screen and cursed Tennessee whenever the Hurricanes advanced the ball.
The third fellow was someone who Maddy, everybody called her Maddy, had never seen before. He was nursing a Bud draft and seemed preoccupied with himself. The man was in his mid fifties, maybe older. He wore a dark blue baseball cap with a Caterpillar bulldozer logo on the front, a short, dark green work jacket zipped up over a white tee shirt, blue jeans and work shoes. His hair was short and gray, almost a buzz cut. Maddy wasn't sure how tall he was because he sat kind of hunched over, as if he was trying not to be noticed. Neither Manny nor Danny seemed to have noticed him, and the Baker Hill boys were too involved in their afternoon away from their wives and girlfriends to have any interest.
Miami had just scored on a half back option pass that caught the Tennessee defenders flat footed. Manny cursed and pounded his fist on the bar. A quarter popped into the air then rolled off, over the sink and down onto the floor by Maddy's feet. "Jesus fuckin Christ on a cross!" Manny yelled. "Those stupid fucking hillbilly assholes!" Manny didn't bet much, maybe a twenty or a fifty on a game, but he was a cheap son-of-a-bitch and hated losing any money. He looked up at Maddy who had jumped at the sudden noise.
"Sorry, Maddy," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"That's fine, Manny," she replied in her soft, deep toned voice. "But don't break the bar, okay?"
"Sure, honey, sure," Manny replied. "Ah," he said to her somewhat meekly, "could you get my quarter?"
"A quarter saved is a quarter earned, eh, Manny," she joked.
"Yeah, I guess you've got that right." He watched Maddy bend to retrieve his quarter. "I know I'm tight with a buck, Maddy, but I don't mind spending it on the ladies. Now you, for instance, I'd spend that quarter on you in a New York minute, and a couple more too."
"Well, I'll just run home and get my pretty dress on, Manny. Where we going, the Piggly Wiggly or the Stop and Shop?"
"Honey, we can go anywhere you want as long as we end up at my place." Manny quipped back.
Maddy knew Manny was harmless. He talked a big game, but she had heard it from Sally James that he was a little light where it counted. Anyway, she could take a little ribald ribbing. It was good for tips and made her feel just a little more attractive.
She crouched to her knees to find Manny's precious quarter. As she did so, her skirt pulled tight around her legs and buttocks. Her finely tapered thighs were outlined by the cloth. The man in the bulldozer hat took especial notice.
She stood quickly and slapped Manny's quarter on the bar. "Here's your fuckin' twenty-five cents, Manny. Don't spend it all in one place," she told him. Manny was already glued back to the TV screen. Tennessee had fumbled at their own thirty-five yard line.
"God fuckin' damn it!" Manny yelled. "Of all the goddamn fuckin' stupid things to do! Jesus!"
Maddy returned to her perch on the beer cooler and looked around. The man in the bulldozer cap was gone. He left a thirty-five cent tip.
The man in the bulldozer cap was Herman Rusch. As he drove his battered, green Ford pickup from the tavern parking lot, he made a little note in small, yellow memo pad: "Maddy, twenty-one or twenty-two, tall, athletic. Pretty face, long, muscled legs, brown waist length hair. Grafton's Tavern, Marlsburg, Saturday, 2:30 p.m." He always took notes, although he destroyed them later. It took a careful, observant man to ply his trade. Patience too. He pulled the truck out on to Cooperstown Road and headed south.
He had been looking for a girl like Maddy for a while. Three or four girls he had found had come close, but this one was just about right. He would talk it over with Louise, his wife, and work out a plan. They would need to know more about the girl: where she lived, what her habits were. Was she living at home? With a boyfriend?
There had been four pick up trucks and a small Ford Escort in the parking lot. Inside the Ford was a stuffed animal and a woman's sweater. There was a decal from Moorestown Community College on the rear window. The man felt it a safe assumption this was Maddy's car. He took the license plate number.
The other tall girls he had scoped out were more like string beans. He wasn't looking for the willowy type. The girl he was looking for had to be strong and pretty – and tall. Maddy was all three. Her torso was long and sleek, but her hips were wide. Her arms were far from delicate, and her thighs and ass were ample. She would do fine.
Five hours later, Herman pulled off Route 265 in Canterville, Georgia. It was dark and he was tired. It was a lot of driving, but you couldn't shit where you ate. He had made many a long distance drive in his pursuit of female flesh, once even all the way to Pennsylvania, but he liked to keep his business
As he pulled up his long, gravel strewn driveway, Herman thought about Louise. If he didn't need that fat old witch to help snatch the girls and take care of them until they could be sold, he'd have put her in a hole a long time ago. When they were younger, she was a pip. She loved to fuck and raise hell, but now she cussed him and snarled anytime he put his hand on her. Was it any wonder he had his way with the girls from time to time?
Herman pulled up to the porch of his ramshackle house. It was an old wooden frame structure, with rotted out gutters and weeds sticking up all about the foundation. He and Louise had made plenty of money over the years, but they had to hold on to this decrepit shithole of a house if they wanted to stay in business. There was an old red barn in the back. They needed the barn. The location was hidden, at least two miles from the main road. Where could they ever find another place like this?
Louise heard Herman pull up and shot back the inch and a half of Southern Comfort she was drinking out of a jelly jar. "A little bit more money," she thought, "and I'll fix that asshole's wagon." Louise harbored her own resentments against Herman. She knew he liked to fool with the merchandise. That didn't bother her. It was more the way he looked at her with disdain. Sure, she had gotten old, what the fuck did he expect! But her pussy still worked at fifty-four years of age and she had the old urges from time to time. Now, when Herman was out prowling, she often forced oral delights from the girls locked in the cellar beneath the barn. In fact, just about an hour ago she'd had a little session with that cunt, Sharon. She had a good, long tongue and preferred using it to the blast of a cattle prod.
Herman trudged up the front porch and entered the living room. Louise was right where he knew she would be, sitting in the easy chair in front of the TV. The jelly glass didn't fool him. He knew where she kept the hootch, and besides he could smell it on her breath. "Goddam drunkin' sow!" he thought.
"So wadja get Herman?" Louise asked him. "Any luck?"
"Yeah," Herman replied, removing his cap and throwing it onto the brown, threadbare couch. "I think I've got a winner." He read off the description to Louise. She nodded.
"Seems like the one we need all right. When can you get the plate run?"
"Tomorrow. I'll call my contact and get her address in the morning. You should take the car up in the afternoon, see what you can find out. I'd like to get a picture, send it in. There's not much of a market for these big boned girls and I want to make sure she fits the bill before we spend too much time on her. Meanwhile we got that girl in Daleysville we could pick up, or the one in Jackson." Herman sighed, his exhaustion slowly beginning to overwhelm him.
"There's some meatloaf in the fridge and some potatoes on the stove," Louise proffered. "You want I should heat em up?"
"Nah," Herman replied. "I'm going to go check on the cunt down in the hole then get to bed. I'm pretty tuckered."
Louise knew what "checking on" the cunt in the hole meant. Herman would get a blow job then go to bed. Well, fine by her.
"As you please," she replied.
Herman strode through the kitchen and out the back door. The barn was located behind the house, about twenty yards back. It was an old, weather beaten structure, with faded red boards and peeling roof shingles. He knew he should get up there and fix them before the heavy spring rains set in, but he had been thinking lately, maybe they had enough dough to get out of here. A couple more scores and they would have over two million dollars. He would put a bullet in Louise's brainpan, dump her in the hole and take off for South America. Two million would go a long way there, and there was plenty of cheap pussy.
The half moon that was dodging through the clouds lit the pathway to the barn so that Herman was able to traverse the short distance without the use of a flashlight. He stepped into the barn and headed toward the back. A small pile of wooden pallets lay next to the rear wall. Herman picked them up one by one and moved them aside. A small trap door appeared. The door had a lock on it and Herman keyed the lock and opened the steel bolt that held the door closed. He pulled the door up and advanced down a wooden ladder built into the wall. When he reached the bottom, he turned.
This was 'the hole'. It was a veritable dungeon. It was lit by a single forty-five watt bulb in the ceiling in the center of the room. Along the right wall was a series of five cages. They stood about three feet high and four feet wide. Each cage had a wooden floor covered by a thin mat. In the first cage knelt a small, naked girl. Her silky blond hair was pulled back in a pony tail. She had sparkling blue eyes and pale skin. She was alert to the coming of Herman, her jailor. Her hands were connected by a short chain that led through a ring dangling from a steel collar around her neck. The chain held her hands in a prayer-like position, there being just enough slack for the girl to be able to cover one of her plump, firm breasts, but not the other, as the other hand would be drawn up close to her neck.
The girl wore no gag, it being unnecessary in this subterranean prison. The ceiling was insulated with sound deadening materials and the door to the below ground chamber was about six inches thick. You could set off a hand grenade in there and the only thing heard upstairs would be a dull thump, and that only if you were standing directly above it at the time.
Although not gagged, the girl knew enough to remain silent. She knew that this wasn't one of the regular visits from her captors, having been served her meager dinner only about an hour before. The beans and chopped up hotdogs had gone down quickly as the girl was fed just enough to meet her daily energy needs. Locked into a cage twenty-four hours a day, her needs were small. Most of the girls who were captured were a little overweight, and some caloric deprivation allowed some of that fat to burn off. Besides, it was better to have the girls' energy levels low. The less energy, the less trouble.
Not that they could make much. Their hands were rarely unlocked until the day they were displayed for their potential buyers. There was just enough play so they could hold a bowl to their mouths. They had to rely on the graciousness of their jailors to wipe their asses and cunts after discharging bodily wastes. Imagine trying to climb a ladder with your hands locked under your chin. Even if you could do it, the lock to the trap door, which relocked automatically when it was shut, was on the side of the door farthest from the wall. There would be no way to reach it with your hands confined and held close to your body. There was also an alarm button which rang at the house and sent a message to Louise and Herman's cell phones. Whatever happened to one of them while in the 'hole', the other would be alerted there was trouble. The keys to the cuffs were usually left in the house.
The girl's name was Sharon, her last name is unimportant. She had been collected by Herman and Louise two days ago. It was an easy snatch, done right outside her apartment in Altoona. She parked right next to the van and when she had locked her car and started walking to her apartment, the van door had slid open and she was pulled in. Herman was strong; no one-hundred-twenty-pound girl was a match for him. She was in the van with tape over her mouth before she knew what was happening. Louise had been standing by with the duct tape and, once it was applied to the girl's lips, jumped into the driver's seat and slowly eased the van out into the parking lot and away.
There had been no need to knock out Sharon during the ride from Altoona to Herman and Louise's farm. Herman quickly subdued her and had bindings around her wrists behind her back and on her ankles. There was a compartment built in the side of the van just big enough to hold a gagged and bound female. There was almost no room for movement and it was heavily insulated. A small pump blew in fresh air while a small exhaust drew it out. Even if stopped by the police, unless the van was searc
For two days the nineteen-year-old Sharon had knelt shivering with fear in the damp cold of her prison. She remembered well the sensation of being lowered head first down the stairs, her eyes covered with a blindfold. She remembered being stripped and collared, the bracelets affixed to her hands, the confining link between them established. She had cowered, naked, kneeling at the feet of her kidnappers, too afraid to beg for freedom. The first night all that had happened was that her breasts and belly were manhandled a bit by the man, his rough, calloused hands scraping her tender skin. She felt the bite of the cattle prod the next day when she refused to eat. She felt it again when she had broken down, whining and pleading to be released. She had felt it a third time when she protested, meekly, the need to use the small trough below her cage for her wastes. She had learned to avoid punishment at all costs.
On the second day, the man had dragged her head through a small hinged and locked window in the cage and fastened her by the back of the neck to the cage's top. He had pulled out his wizened dick and commanded her to suck it. With tears in her eyes she had complied.
The old lady had left her alone until this morning. It was the woman who wiped her ass and her vagina, three times a day. Her nerves had loosened her bowels to a liquid discharge. The old lady brought food and filled the water bottle strung above the cage's top. Just enough of a nozzle peeped into the cage that Sharon could fix her lips on it and suck the water out, like a hamster. It was Louise who had twice given Sharon a taste of the cattle prod.
This morning, Sharon sensed something was up. The old man had been in early and gotten a blow job from her. The woman, whom Sharon assumed was the old man's wife, was a hefty, almost corpulent woman. She had strong arms and legs and broad shoulders, as if she had done heavy physical labor all of her life. She had brownish gray hair, drawn back into a bun. Her eyes were sunken deep in a long and narrow face. Her chin jutted out and there was a huge mole on her face just to the right and above of her nostrils. Years of hard living had carved their punishment on her face.
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