The Couriers Read online

  The Couriers

  A BDSM Novel

  by Jurgen von Stuka

  ISBN: 978-1-942331-96-4

  A Pink Flamingo Media Ebook

  Revised Copyright ©2016 by Jurgen von Stuka

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers.

  For information contact:

  Pink Flamingo Media

  www.pinkflamingo.com

  P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083

  USA

  Preface

  In today’s high tech financial world, it is still necessary to move securities, valuables and even cash between institutions and individuals. In major cities, this work is often handled by non-descript couriers who walk sometimes no more than a few hundred meters from one bank or brokerage house to another.

  Imagine a global criminal organization abducting and training beautiful young women to help them steal from banks and financial institutions by ambushing these couriers, often right on a busy city street. The girls are taken with no warning, no indication of what lies ahead for them: training as criminal slaves.

  The targets of their crimes are the couriers who daily walk city streets, hand delivering valuables. They and the young women are both the victims of this unusual scheme.

  The cops are helpless. Even with all of our electronic gadgets and technical knowledge, the couriers on foot remain vulnerable players.

  Chapter One

  The First Course

  “The false belief that a woman can do as she pleases remains a challenge that we are glad to contest”......Emil Brillcart

  “You, my dear, are going to learn to do as you are told. Instantly, without even thinking about it,” Carlton muttered, paying more attention to recoiling the long horse whip than to the naked, sweating body stretched before him.

  “At first” the man continued, gently poking his subject’s right buttock with the whip’s rough handle, “when you are given an order, you will rebel, thinking erroneously that you can last this out, enduring the endless floggings and impalements.”

  Carlton continued to lightly stab with the end of the whip handle, delicately circling the exposed anus of his victim, not penetrating nor forcing, but just providing repulsive memories of her recent session on The Reminder.

  He had mounted her helplessly on the long and well-greased, cock-shaped probe. Her arms were bound behind her in leather straps, her thumbs cruelly encircled with rawhide thongs and pulled upwards to the steel collar. Her big toes were similarly bound and each supported a one kilo weight as she tried desperately to keep from slipping further down the probe’s serrated length. The steel shackles on her ankles did not help. Only at the last possible moment was the overhead chain attached to her upper body harness suddenly pulled tight, keeping her, for a time, from the horrible fate of being too deeply penetrated by the post. Lisle wept and struggled, praying that they’d lift her off the ghastly thing that had taken her anal virginity only a few days before and was each day going deeper and deeper inside as she slid slowly down its length.

  “Ah, yes, Lisle, you are remembering the sweet and lengthy butt fuck of the mahogany post, aren’t you?” Carlton murmured. “Such thoughts are common, but pointless. No one who comes to us ever, ever fails to obey. Sooner or later, perhaps after a great deal of discomfort that can easily be avoided, you too will cooperate. You will even come to enjoy it, the torture and torment that symbolize your commitment to doing what you are told. You will also perhaps recall the feelings of this whip or maybe the sting of the cane on your hardened nipples, or you’ll remain fixated on the futile, but fascinatingly fruitless struggle to keep the vertical wooden dick from slipping further up your ass. It will take time. You will be much happier if you simply accept ...this...”

  The grease and sweat-stained, braided rawhide horse whip whispered and sizzled through the air of the underground training hall. The last three feet of the whip landed on Lisle’s already well-marked hips, leaving a deep, horizontal, red streak that aligned precisely with earlier ones. She screamed. Or rather, she tried to scream, but the carefully designed bridle gag with its mouth-filling leather dick and sealing pad muffled the shrill scream and what was heard was more of a high-pitched whistle as the air forced from her lungs escaped through the feeding and breathing hole in the front of the gag. Her body twisted slightly in an effort to avoid the next blow, but her chain restrains held her in the position Carlton had selected and personally tightened himself. He was alternating between tormenting Lisle and sampling some tasty items displayed on a sliver tray, sent down to the dungeon by his chef.

  “These little sea food tarts look especially good,” Carlton said, mostly to himself, but knowing that in her always hungry state, Lisle would be further mentally pained by the aroma of the tray’s sumptuous contents. “It’s too late for High Tea,” Carlton added, sampling another tiny bit of sea scallop and bacon. “Our chef makes these just for me...a sort of first course to more inviting items, like your sweet little ass, Lisle. Later, we’ll have you join us for dinner, although, frankly, I’m not especially into that sort of thing. There’s always debate about the presentations and some of us even argue about whether to hang you up over the dinner table so that your toes dangle in the soup or to lay you out flat on your back with an apple in your mouth as a gag and other garden vegetables stuffed in your ass and cunt.”

  Lisle shuddered in horror at the idea of being used as a table decoration or worse, but Carlton, noting her visible anxiety, decided to elaborate.

  “We like to use a different decoration every evening,” he said. “Since there are plenty of you girls around, that’s not hard to do. But, as you might expect, some of us old timers here prefer our tits and ass in the dungeon, (as you are now), and would like to eat Chef George’s superb cuisine without having a nipple here and a clit there while we eat. Why, just last week, one of the newer guards took a liking to the fresh turnips displayed in the center of the table and insisted on jamming a couple of them into the vagina of one of your buddies who was seductively arrayed with her legs appropriately splayed wide and her little pink nipples wired for a bit of electrical stimulation. Even though we had given her a couple of especially nasty enemas that afternoon and fed her nothing, she persisted in making so much noise that we had to throw her back in the cellar. Chef was mega-pissed off.”

  Lisle was no longer listening to him. Carlton’s narratives often actually lulled the girl to a semi-conscious state and this was one of those times. Her head was down, her chin resting on her chest. Her breathing was slow and even...until Carlton decided to rouse her by taking a decorative, especially large carrot from the food tray an unceremoniously inserting the larger end into Lisle’s ass.

  The girl started, tried to twist away and then went limp as the huge vegetable violated her nether port and was slowly urged up into her colon.

  Carlton stuffed about seven or eight inches of the carrot into its new home and then left the narrow end dangling out, looking like a vestigial tail peeking from between the girl’s rounded buttocks.

  “Carrotass,” Carlton said. “I think that is a fitting name for you. And I doubt you’ll succeed in getting that monster veg out of your butt,...but...just in case, let’s add the little pineapple as an accompaniment.”

  Carlton picked up one of the mini pineapples on the tray, ran it’s prickly surfaces up and down the inside of Lisle’s spread thighs and poised the fruit’s rough base between the girl’s whip swollen lower lips.

  Lisle twitched and again tried to dodge what was coming, but Carlton, with his usual
persistence, pressed the pineapple hard and slowly it began to enter the girl’s pussy, pushing the lips roughly and painfully aside and borrowing into the warm, wet cave.

  “Lisle, Honey. I know you can take this fruity thing. Last week Carlos fisted you twice without any trouble, and I know Carlos has a very big hand. Come on, Honey. Take the fruit. You’ll love it. Those little spines on the outside will tickle your twat nicely.” Carlton pushed harder. The pineapple entered, moved slowly inside and the vaginal lips and muscles slammed the door shut, once again leaving the even more abrasive, spiny green leaves sticking out between Lisle’s thighs.

  Satisfied with his efforts, Carlton again turned to the whip. He still had an hour to tenderize the evening’s dinner time attraction.

  Chapter Two

  Learning Curve

  “One of the great beauties of the human female body is that it has so many interesting places where things can be attached.” ...Graf Wilhelm Salmon

  On this particular afternoon, Lisle was not only hurt and hungry, but also totally exposed. Her modesty long abandoned. She was stretched into a cruel X pattern with her shackled ankles pulled tautly to the iron rings on the floor and her similarly cuffed wrists chained to widely spread adjustable hooks in an overhead beam. A heavy steel bar served as a leg spreader between her lower thighs, just above her knees.

  This was week number two for Lisle, but she had already lost all track of time. Her days were punctuated by painful subjugation and torture on the horrible impaling post. Sometimes it was in her ass and on other days it was thrust up her cunt. The result was always the same. She would sweat and struggle to find a bit of a foot hold on the greasy post, sliding slowly down the polished, elongated cock until gravity was inhibited by either the upper body harness or the combination collar and head brace attached to the hanging chain and winch. These training sessions were annotated by different routines with her strapped to the operating table while Carlton or Caske worked on her body with tools and devices she had only faintly imagined in nightmares before she arrived here at The Town House.

  In time, she too would learn. Lisle was an intelligent young woman. Her university education and life experiences at twenty-four had already taught her that most unpleasant encounters with other humans had some sort of reason behind them. After a few days with these people, she realized that they were not going to do any real damage to her, but that what they did do would hurt a great deal. She had decided that ransom as not their game and that most likely, based on the little conversations she had with them, they would groom her as a sex slave and sell her. In the meantime, she would serve as pre dinner entertainment for The House and this included tonight’s corporate gala in the lavish and elegant dining room of the mansion. Lisle suspected this would involve something unpleasant.

  She was right. Lisle was scheduled to be the first course, or, more likely the amuse bouche, that complimentary, pre-appetizer offering by the chef as a sample of his creative work. Never having been in a haute cuisine restaurant, she had no clue as to what this would entail. Surprisingly enough, Chef George, a master of fine cuisine, didn’t know about this either, but was at that very moment, fuming as he got his orders from the owner.

  “I don’t want her on the menu, George,” shouted The Graf, Count Wilhelm Salmon, who owned and operated the facility that housed Lisle, three dozen other “trainees” and Lisle. “Just have the captains, (not the dolt servers), bring her out before the first course.”

  “But I’ll need to know what you have in mind,” Chef George argued. “The table settings, the accompanying beverage, if any, and so forth. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Mine Graf, you always pull this and it makes my already troublesome life here even worse. You recall, I’m sure, the last time you insisted that one of your trainee bimbos accompany the flambé desert, chains, discipline hood and all. Christ, if my number three line cook hadn’t been there with the fire extinguisher, we would have all been toasted, and I do not mean with champagne. Putting the Baked Alaska and Bananas Foster between her legs was gross stupidity. The woman thought she was about to be set afire and she nearly was.”

  “Yes, yes, Chef,” Salmon almost whined. “I know and again, I apologize for that misstep. I had been assured that she was to be totally restrained. It was a mistake. The idiot fools who allowed that to happen are now, I am happy to report, decorating the courtyard of a small Abbey in the Carpathians. Their tongues and other assorted accessory appendages have been slowly removed and they are being otherwise served and reminded hourly of their errors. The Bimbo, as you called her, nevertheless fetched a price that was equal to your annual salary. Again, I am truly sorry.”

  “You think, my dear Graf,” Chef George continued, turning his back on his boss. “That I give a damn about how you punish your staff? I must admit that the occasional side show in the basements gets my cock exercised and I certainly appreciate your allowing me, my Sous Chef and other key members of the kitchen brigade to pretty much have any one of the trainees we want, but I would greatly appreciate your leaving my kitchen out of your games.”

  “Understood, Master Chef,” Graf Salmon said contritely. “This time it will go exactly as planned or heads shall roll and you will be cooking up soups from the remains of the miscreants if they fuck up,” Graf Salmon, who was the sole heir to multi-billion Euro fortunes he suddenly inherited soon after the downfall of the most recent Russian Empire, looked almost pleadingly at the Chef, knowing full well that if he lost this fantastic master cooker, life as they all knew it at the House and The Center would end abruptly and painfully. Salmon’s boss was a monster, but also an astute, picky gourmet who never tolerated anything that interfered with his colossal and lengthy dining engagements, so The Graf had good reason to be as cooperative and patronizing as he could be when it came to Chef George and his staff.

  “Now,” said Chef George, his tone a bit more controlled. “What do you want to do with this cow and when will I get her. We will need prep time, you know.”

  Chapter Three

  Courier

  “Using bonded couriers is a practice that cannot be eliminated. Therefore, the present crisis involving their being mugged must cease,”...Frau Lisa Strom.

  He was an older man, probably in his late fifties, but tall and walking briskly, occasionally looking left and right as he headed down the crowded pedestrian walkway. He looked very official in the black jacket with all four buttons fastened, starched white shirt, black tie and a red pen in his breast pocket. He looked exactly like what he was: a middle management bank official on an urgent courier run. Perhaps it was the somewhat battered, but carefully secured case he carried in his left hand, as any businessman would. But the small titanium bracelet on his left wrist, although hidden by the jacket’s long cuffs, was attached to the case by a black metal chain and he did not carry a key.

  As he rounded a corner, heading east from Frankfurt’s famous pedestrian zone, The Zeil, two tall, hooded figures in black cornered him, one clamping a strong hand on is right bicep and the other doing the same on the left arm, and pulled him into the doorway of an empty shop. In an instant they were through the door and the old man was down on the floor while one of his abductors held an ice pick-like dagger to his neck and the other took a pair of bolt cutters from the floor of the shop and cut the black metal chain as though it were no more than a toothpick. No one spoke. The courier, having often considered that if just such an event happened, he was likely to have his hand cut off, sighed in resignation and relief. Hoping to escape with his life, he cooperated with the darkly clad figures as the one with the cutter severed the retaining locks on the case, dumped the meager contents onto the floor and pawed through the stack of sealed envelopes and small packages, taking only one and leaving the rest where they were spread out onto the dusty floor.

  They patted the old man on the back and then slipped silently out the back door of the empty shop, leaving him lying on the floor, wondering when it might be safe to get up and resume his journey
to a nearby branch of his employer bank. He dreaded having to tell them that he’d been robbed in broad daylight in the middle of the city. Even though he was a conservative man of the old school where communication was a personal thing seldom carried out by electronic means, it suddenly occurred to him that he still had the company cell phone in his trouser pocket. His first call was to his supervisor and then, as instructed, he called the police.

  When the cops came, he was still sitting on the floor; afraid to touch anything for fear that he might destroy evidence.

  “What did they look like?” the first officer on the scene asked quickly.

  “In black. All in black,” the courier said. “With black wool stocking caps over their faces. They cut very small holes in the caps to see.”

  “Tall, short, fat, skinny?” the cop asked as he wrote.

  “Tall as me. But thin. No fat. Strong too. Very athletic build. They pulled me against them, pressed me into the doorway. One had a spike, a dagger maybe. Very sharp, he cut me,” he pointed to the small wound on his neck.

  “Shall I call a medic to look at that?” the cop asked.

  “No, thank-you,” the courier said, pressing a clean handkerchief to his neck. “Not unless you plan to keep me here. I’ll have this looked at by the bank’s doctor.”

  “Okay,” said the cop, still writing. “Did you notice anything else about this pair of blacks?”

  “I don’t think they were Negroes,” the courier corrected.

  “Yeah?” said the cop, looking up from his notes “How do you know that?”

  “They smelled good. Clean,” the courier said after a moment. “And the holes in the hoods were very carefully cut and stitched with, what do you call it.....binding? There were no other holes in the hood. Just two for the eyes,” he added.

  “Oh great,” said the cop, who had a northern accent, probably from the Koln area. “We start a search for two guys who sew and smell fresh.”