As the 18-wheeler pulled up to the customs booth, Mike stepped out to question the driver.

"Cargo?"

"Ponygirls," growled the burly, bearded driver with the Bettie Page tattoo on his arm.

"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 grabbed the binder full of forms and dug out the keys to open the back.

As the door swung open, Mike hoisted himself up, then reached down and took the binder. Cool air swept over him, accompanied by the loud drone of the AC unit at the front. From the dim overhead lights, he could see the two rows of closet-sized stalls running along the sides of the vehicle. 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 stall. A catheter led from her pussy to a half-full jug between her feet, and a tube from her mouth fed into a bottle of Gatorade in a holder that was bolted to the wall. Mike was glad to see that all regulations were being followed, so that none of the girls succumbed to heat, dehydration, oxygen deprivation, or panic attacks.

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

He pulled his ID gun from its holster and held it under her nostrils as he pulled the trigger. The girl flinched as the "gun" beeped, not knowing what it was, but unable to move away due to her immobilized state. From the clouds of atoms expelled by her breath, the gun was able to identify her through her DNA, as well as detect any drugs in her system. As widespread as the ponygirl phenomenon was, it was still illegal to acquire girls by doping them. Her ID number came up on the digital display. The DNA and paperwork matched, confirming her identity, and the drug scan came up negative-- a flashing green light--, confirming her 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 nylon straps snapping sharply in the enclosed space as her muscular body struggled against them. Mike smiled-- a fighter. As his gun took her reading, he stuck the binder under his arm and reached out with his free hand to fondle her breast. It was small, but it was firm and responsive, the nipple swelling into a hard rubbery knob. The woman was powerless to stop his groping fingers. Mike figured 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. Mike just smiled in response.

Each girl took only a minute. Surprisingly, there was a varied mixture of body types, ethnicity, and hair color, as they were all going to one buyer. Normally, a buyer wanted them all to be the same type-- tall blondes, petite Asians, busty redheads-- as 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. He tried to calm the trembling ones by stroking their heads or wiping away their tears, and subdue the more defiant ones by idly playing with their breasts or pinching their clits.

It took him little more than half an hour to complete the job. He jumped down and handed the binder to the trucker.

"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 young college girls, so he must be pretty rich."

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