Border Crossing by Sogo

The 18-wheeler pulled up to the customs booth, and the customs agent stepped out and called up to the driver.

“What’s your load?”

“Ponygirls,” growled the burly, bearded driver with the Bettie Page tattoo.

“Pull into the inspection station, please.”

The driver nodded and maneuvered his truck over to the designated area. He shut off the engine and stepped out. As a seasoned trucker, he knew the routine—he handed the binder full of forms to the agent and dug out the keys to open the back.

As the one door swung open, the agent hoisted himself up into the trailer. It was a hot night, and cool air swept over him, accompanied by the loud drone of the AC unit up in front. In the dim light of the overhead fluorescents, he could see two rows of closet-sized stalls running along the sides of the interior. He proceeded to the first stall.

The naked blonde stood there, harnessed, bridled, and booted, held in place by straps leading to the sides, top, and back of her three-by-three-foot stall. A catheter was connected by surgical tubing to a gallon jug clamped to the floor between her feet. The jug was almost half-full of urine. A tube led from a bottle of fruit drink, in a holder bolted to the wall, to the center of her muzzle. The agent was glad to see that all regulations were being followed, so that the girls didn’t succumb to heat, dehydration, or panic.

The short, full-figured girl looked up at him, her green eyes pleading. He had seen that look hundreds of times before—many still held out hope that they would be rescued at the last minute, unwilling to face the cold, hard reality of their future.

He pulled the ID gun from its holster and held it under her nostrils. The girl flinched, not knowing what it was, but unable to move away due to her immobilized state. From the minute cells expelled by her breath, the gun was able to confirm her identity through DNA, as well as detect any drugs in her system. As widespread and accepted as the ponygirl phenomenon was, it was still illegal to acquire girls by doping and kidnapping them. KELLY ANN CURTISS, 19, DRUGS: NONE DETECTED said the small screen on the gun. The purchase form in the binder confirmed her identity and legal status.

He moved on to the next one, a six-foot athletic blonde. She growled her displeasure and fought her restraints, the metal rings and leather straps snapping sharply in the enclosed space. The agent smiled—a fighter. He set the binder down on the floor and, as his gun took her reading, reached out with his other hand and fondled a breast. She needed to be broken in, and if he could help that process along, so much the better, right? If hate were laser beams, she would have killed him instantly with her eyes. He just smiled in response.

Each girl took only a minute. Surprisingly, there was a broad variety of body types, ethnicity, and hair color, as they were all going to one buyer. Normally, someone wanted them all of them to be a specific type—tall blondes, petite Asians, busty redheads—because of a particular fantasy or because that looked more impressive as a team when pulling a carriage or performing in a show.

There were two dozen girls altogether, most of them scared or meek by now. Whatever dreams they had for their lives and careers had been taken away with their clothes and freedom. The customs agent tried to calm the trembling ones by stroking their shaved heads, and subdue the more defiant ones with a quick feel.

It took him a little more than a half-hour to complete the job. He jumped down and handed the binder to the trucker, who had gotten a coffee and sandwich to pass the time.

“Looks like everything’s in order. Who’s the lucky guy, by the way?”

The trucker smiled. “Sorry, can’t tell you that. But they’re all college girls, so he must have a lot of money.”

The agent sighed as he watched the trucker lock up and drive away. Some guys had all the luck.

THE END

You can also leave feedback & comments for this story on the Plaza Forum

03.08.17