Preface
Fantasy novels are full of plots where American tourists end up in less than pleasant
situations at the hands of unscrupulous foreigners. Many of the tales are based on more
than a bit of truth. As long as they have been going East across the big pond, Americans
abroad have historically run afoul of the crooks, the con men, and deceivers that prey on
the innocent, ignorant, and stupid tourist.
The players in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is
pure coincidence. But the story also captures many elements of a saga I personally heard
from knowledgeable sources in Germany a few years ago. Long before it was possible to
digitally alter photographs, I saw photos, films, and videos that convinced me that the
concept of human ponies in various stages of sexual change was not only possible but also
quite real.
There is no argument among learned folks that pony men and pony girls do exist. There
are thousands, perhaps millions, in the U.S. alone and millions more the world over. They
occasionally meet for outings in secluded areas, and I have met many in fine hotels and
resorts around the globe. There is, I believe, a question of exactly how much of the pony
fetish is voluntary and how much is, shall we say, not coerced, but visited upon the pony
person by other influences. The participants in this tale are, it would seem, victims. But
not too far below the initial potential thoughts of distaste and resistance, there lies in
each of them and in each of us, a desire to indulge in what they accidentally become.
Take care as you read this. There is always the possibility that our darkest and deepest
desires may be brought to the surface, willingly or unwillingly.
Jurgen von Stuka
Munich, 1998
***
A Further Note of Caution:
When we were kids, we’d go to the movies on Saturday afternoon and see action thrillers
that often featured bondage scenes with the hero or heroine in grave distress, tied to a
chair, or chained to a dungeon wall. At times, we went home and emulated parts of these
movies alone or with others. Today, many of us still seek to reenact that which we know is
only fantasy.
A word of caution about such practices: Between informed, understanding, and mutually
consenting adults, much pleasure can be derived from exploits into the worlds and scenes
of fantasy that we all know and love. Three cardinal rules must always, however, apply:
• All parties must agree to what is being done. No exceptions. Anything else may be a
crime and most certainly is unforgivable in fantasy scene behavior.
• Safeties must be understood and agreed upon BEFORE play begins. ‘Enough’ means ‘stop’.
Failure to respect this tenant could be fatal!
• The real and healthful safety limits of all parties must be known and understood.
Jurgen von Stuka
DESPERATE
Part One
Chapter One
Losing it in the Swiss Alps
The bank in the small Swiss city of Gruslac was an easy hit. The two young male robbers
walked in just after the bank reopened at two in the afternoon, showed two 9mm MP5
sub-machine guns to the tellers, and took nearly 160,000 Swiss Francs in cash and some
gold coins from a display counter. They walked out and disappeared. Bank employees said
they did not see or hear a car, but Swiss canton police, who set up roadblocks within the
hour, quickly apprehended two Americans who fit the descriptions perfectly.
Attorney “Gus” Hines and his traveling buddy, Bill Ingram, were stopped at a
roadblock five kilometers east of the city. Their car and its visible contents were
inspected by police, and they were asked if they would allow inspection of their duffel
bags and suitcases. The two tourists fit physical descriptions given by the bank
personnel, and they had a large amount of Swiss Francs in their luggage. Their winter
traveling attire did not match the ski suits of the culprits nor were any weapons or ski
masks found in the car. “Open and shut case,” said the Swiss police, except they hadn’t
yet recovered the remaining 158,000, or so, Swiss Francs.
Protesting their innocence, the pair of Americans were handcuffed at the roadblock,
roughly taken from their rental car, and transported to a small farmhouse outside the
city. They were held in separate rooms by police plainclothes men and women; and, hours
later, without any interrogation or being allowed to make any phone calls, the pair were
blindfolded and loaded into two black Japanese SUVs. They were then taken on a three hour
drive southeast into the mountains of the Swiss Alps. Both men were warned not to
communicate with each other; and, to assure this, they were gagged, blindfolded, and
placed in separate cars.
Two female plainclothes women were assigned as guard and driver for each car. A third
vehicle, driven by two men, broke off the escort after the first hour. By that time, the
4x4 trucks were high into the Alps and climbing toward the border. They made one stop. The
two men were separately allowed to use a toilet in a tiny roadside building that was
apparently government owned; the men being allowed to enter the toilet alone but with
their hands cuffed in front of them. Back on the road, they were not permitted to speak or
move from the rear seats where they were seated, hands cuffed behind their backs, and feet
shackled.
“This is getting a bit out of hand,” Gus thought, as the 4x4 swerved around yet another
curve on the steep mountain road. He could feel the truck climbing the mountain incline,
and his ears told him they were moving still higher. It was also getting much colder in
the truck, despite the heater and defroster going full blast. His two escorts, both women,
said nothing. The radio, tuned to the national police frequency, kept up a low level of
official chatter. It was going to snow again later in the day, and the two officers
briefly talked to each other in German Swiss about what a long winter it was going to be.
Slightly behind Gus’s truck, the second vehicle with Bill and two guards made the same
climb. At the rest stop, Bill tried several times to talk with the two women officers and
was told to shut up or they would gag him. He steamed and chafed, but there was little he
could do. Mentally, Bill calculated the size of the legal suit he planned to bring against
them, the canton, the Swiss government, and the bank. This kept his mind working and
allowed the time to pass. Neither American was given a chance to contact the US Embassy or
consul; and, when they insisted, they were simply ignored.
“Bank robbery in Switzerland is a very, very serious offense,” one of the arresting
officers shouted at them. “This is not like America. We take robbery very seriously, and
you have no rights until we decide to give them to you,” she said. “You may get your
chance to contact someone later on if you behave. Otherwise, we can and will keep you as
long as we wish.”
Bill and Gus were astonished to learn that the bank employee had identified them, and
that they were even considered part of the charade. Their girlfriends would be amused, Gus
thought. Sherry Winters and Carol Thompson had traveled to Europe a week behind them and
agreed to meet them in Munich two days from now. The two men took advantage of the week of
freedom to hit nightclubs in London, meet some other young women, and then take a
hovercraft to France. There, they rented a new Peugeot and drove southeast, stopping in
Paris and Lyon. They dined at several Michelin three-star-rated restaurants booked months
in advance and stayed at small, expensive hotels they had found in the Relais and Chateaux
guide. It had been a fun week, and they had spent the last night in Geneva then headed
east towards Munich early that same morning. They passed through Gruslac at noon, stopping
for a long lunch. They were leaving the town when the robbery took place. The rest was a
puzzle to them both.
“But people are expecting us in Munich,” Gus had whined at the farmhouse. “We must let
them know.”
“Perhaps later,” was the only answer he got.
Back in Gruslac, a brief conversation took place between Canton Police Commissioner Trog
Logus and Dr. Zinkol Braskloe, a director of a private international firm known as The
Consortium. The gist of their meeting was the settlement of fiscal obligations stemming
from the recent unpleasant incident at the bank. Both parties agreed that it was in
everyone’s best interest to close the case quickly, leaving the two American suspects in
the doctor’s care. They’d let the national bank insurance program adjust the missing funds
quietly, as was often done when such reprehensible acts marred the calm demeanor of the
Swiss banking community.
“Zoë, mine fruend,” said Commissioner Logus. “You will see that the sentence any court
would impose will be automatically carried out at no cost to the state?”
“But of course, Herr Doctor. Und you will see that the records reflect nothing about
this unfortunate incident?”
“Done.”
“Done. This briefcase holds the proceeds due your department for its hard and brilliant
police work. I trust the follow-up will be carried out when necessary.”
“Of course. We think the solution will come up in Munich or perhaps Frankfurt, but I’ll
keep you informed. We like to tie up the loose ends quickly. Anyone associated with these
criminals will be carefully investigated and turned over to you if necessary. Good
afternoon, Herr Doctor. I’ll see you at the Schloss Radgatz sometime in the late winter.”
Thank you and good afternoon, Herr Commissioner.”
Chapter Two
Interrogation
“Strip,” was the command. It came from a small, compact and very fit looking young woman
who stood in front of both Americans. She was dressed in heavy black mountaineering boots,
black stretch tights that fit like a second skin, and a short black leather motorcycle
jacket that reached just below the waist. Under the jacket was a white ribbed turtleneck
jersey, equally as tight as the leggings. Her waist was belted with a wide black and
studded black belt, giving her an excellent hour-glass figure complimented by high, well
separated and pointed breasts that thrust the jersey and jacket towards the two men with
typical Swiss arrogance. She had dark brown eyes, a patrician nose with a slight upturn at
the end, and a tight, thin-lipped mouth that did not smile very often. Bill thought she
was probably in her mid thirties but found her attractive in a dominant sort of way. Her
dark brown hair was cut short in the type haircut that Bill often called a ‘butch buzz’:
clipped close in the back and cropped off the same length all around just below the ear.
She wore no makeup except for heavy black eye liner; but both men, if asked, would have
said she was very attractive. On the broad, silver-studded black leather belt were three
pouches, two on the right and one on the left.
Five people stood in the windowless white room illuminated by dozens of the bright,
cool, green florescent lamps typically found in many European institutions. The overhead
lights gave the room a slightly sinister glow because they were not as bright or as close
to sunlight as florescent lights were in the U.S. The only furniture was a tall, stainless
steel floor-to-ceiling cabinet against one wall and two white enamel gurneys covered with
white hospital sheets on the opposite wall.
Noting the polished steel rings mounted on the floor and walls, Gus and Bill looked at
each other in astonishment. Gus began to protest, “You can’t do this. We have some rights.
We didn’t rob the bank, and we want to contact the American Embassy at once. We were
pass...uhg, uh...” He stumbled and fell to the white tile floor as a stun baton, pressed
into his ribs from behind, sent a strong electrical charge through his body. One of the
guards had reached forward and stuck the baton into his ribs. The force of the charge sent
him to his knees.
“Strip. Now,” barked the woman in black, as her left hand moved to open the longest of
her belt packs and remove a similar short baton which she extended towards Bill, pressing
a button on the base. The four-inch stub of a handle sprung to life and became a tapered
silver wand nearly two feet long and capped with a small silver stud. She waved the baton
slightly in the air, and it made a swishing sound, and the tip passed within inches of
Bill’s groin. Both men hastened to remove their winter clothing. The parkas and boots were
first, and then socks, sweaters, L.L. Bean chamois shirts and jeans followed.
“Amazing,” hissed Bill, glancing over his bare shoulder at his partner as he hurried to
get off his plaid cotton shirt. “They never searched us at the arrest or at the farmhouse.
These people aren’t police!” The guards ignored him. Gus, struggling to recover himself
and remaining on the floor, moved more slowly, and the guard stepped forward again, ready
for another shot with the baton. “Don’t,” Gus blurted. “I’ll do it.”
Bill was undressed even as his friend was gathering himself together on the shiny white
flooring, not wanting to experience the same electric motivator. In a few seconds, they
were both down to their jockey shorts.
“OK?” Bill stammered hesitantly, looking at the woman in the leather jacket out of the
corner of his eye while keeping his gaze on the guard with the electronic baton. Guard
number three stood against the left wall, in an “at ease” position, hands clasped behind
her back. She wore the same uniform, but her hair was longer and light blond, almost
white. She watched the men carefully, somewhat appraisingly, but said nothing. If she was
armed, it was not apparent to the men.
“No. Everything,” was the response from the leader. The shorts came off.
Bill was the bigger man, standing about five foot ten in his bare feet and weighing
close to 190 pounds, his dark hair in the fashionable long style worn by New York
professionals of the time. At 32, he carried the usual beginnings of a spare tire in the
middle and didn’t do much about it except swim occasionally at the midtown health club he
was paying $14,000 a year to belong to.
Gus was smaller and more compact. He weighed 165; and, while he didn’t work out, he did
enough work around his house and with his girlfriend’s horses to keep in good shape.
Sherry had gone “veggie” three years ago, and Gus had tried to get into the habit but was
still into his steaks and French fries whenever he could talk Sherry into letting him eat
them, in their apartment or at a restaurant. Both men had been engaging in ‘illegal’ meals
while on this trip, and they knew that, as soon as the girls hooked up with them, the good
food would end, and it would be back to fruit, fiber, and ‘fairy food’, as Bill called
it.
“Good. That’s better,” said their hostess, waking both men from the momentary shock of
being naked in front of total strangers and, worse yet, in a foreign country and being
charged with a major felony.
“Hands behind you,” the woman commanded. Both men slowly complied. It was apparently too
slow a response for their guard, and each received a sudden and painful shot from the
baton. Again Gus went down, and Bill staggered under the impact. Handcuffs were quickly
and efficiently double locked behind both men. The guards arranged the men’s hands so that
they were palm out, back to back and then checked the fit.
“This is inhumane torture. You can’t do this.... It, it’s against the Geneva
Convention...or something like that,” Bill babbled excitedly as he tried to recover his
balance and struggled with his hands chained behind him. The guard, who was standing over
Gus, reached down and pulled him to his feet by his hair, holding the stun baton close to
his face. “You vant zis again?” she hissed.
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