Chapter 1

I have known Bolly Staines since we were recruits together at Aldershot. His given name was Graham, but he acquired his handle very early on in his army career. All of us young lads in the recruit cadre were gathered in The Green Man, each of us anxious to appear a man of the world and a hardened drinker. I had ordered a large rum, although I really hated the stuff, as I still do. Spivvy Spears ordered a pint of heavy and a whisky chaser, and so it went on. When it came to Graham’s turn to order, he leaned casually over the bar, and put on his best Sean Connery voice to ask for ‘A bottle of your finest Bollinger please, my man.’

So Graham became Bolly, and he was quite happy with that. I later learned that his school nickname had been Semen, so it was a big improvement for him. Together we bumped over infantry training grounds in fifteen-ton trucks, and we shivered in dark trenches as we waited for the Green Jackets to put in an attack, knowing that they would bash us with their SLR butts as they overran out positions. We trudged over the Brecon Beacons with stupidly heavy packs on our backs, and we waited on rainy hilltops for helicopter lifts that rarely arrived. We ran down firing ranges, stopping at each 100-yard line to fire a group of three rounds, we were kicked over assault courses, and we were packed like sardines into infantry fighting vehicles.

And we read John Norman books. The Gor series was all the rage in the army at that time, it seemed that every soldier read them. As we came to see ourselves as tough fighting men, so we identified with the rugged warriors of Counter Earth, who would whip a slave-girl as casually as they would cleave an opponent in twain. Had there been any truth in the stories about masturbation, our palms would have been too hairy to hold a rifle, and we would have been walking with white sticks. Gor was a phase for most, but not for me, and not for Bolly. For both us, female slavery became an obsession, the goal of our lives.

Neither of us were really natural soldiers, but we absorbed the training, and we were competent. The battalion was posted backwards and forwards from Germany to Northern Ireland; we saw some of our friends die, and on extremely rare occasions we got someone to shoot at.

After the army, Bolly formed a roofing company with his brother-in-law, they were both as crooked as a six-pound note, so they made a packet. I worked as a contract wireman for a while, cabling hotels and conference centres; then in the late eighties I started my own aerial rigging business. The huge satellite TV boom went very well for me; I had nearly a hundred riggers working for me when I sold out to a US based company. So, I had some cash in the bank, and maybe twenty good years left. All I wanted was a few slave-girls, did that make me a bad person?

As the nineties rolled on, the internet showed me and my fellow aficionado of the slave woman a fascinating sub-species; the ponygirl, who pulled a wheeled cart under the lash.  Slow-loading web pages revealed good photos and bad photos, movie stills and studio shots. Mostly, the girls were obviously professional models or grinning amateurs, but occasionally there was a photo that seemed to show something much more interesting; a ponygirl who was clearly not enjoying her arduous work, who looked in pain and distress. Bolly and I found those shots to be immensely appealing. Where did they come from? We started an intermittent search for our unholy grail.

Disappointment awaited us in every corner of the world. Shiny wet cobbled streets in Prague led us to tired prostitutes in ill-fitting leather straps. Hard-faced women in Polish suburbs told us that whipping would cost extra. An Istanbul concierge offered to sell us his sister, only for the night, but with the assurance that she was very clean. A tedious journey to California led us to an alleged slave farm that was in fact a brothel with extra flies.

We went to pony shows that consisted largely of slightly embarrassed couples, usually the ‘master’ was also the pony’s husband, and would not dare touch her with the whip. Some of the ponies were real peaches, others resembled carthorses, particularly in their teeth and thighs. The point was that none of them were chattel slaves, subject to rigorous flogging for any real or imagined offence, and their masters could not drive them in harness until their hearts felt fit to burst.

Our grail became a chimera; we were pursuing a mirage that was never any closer than the distant horizon. Slave-hunting expeditions became further and further apart, finally they ceased. I had not heard from Bolly in over a year, and I was in Torquay to look at a possible restaurant investment, when late one afternoon my personal phone rang. I always carry a mobile phone that has two numbers. One number I give to business contacts, the other I reserve for my very few friends. At the time I was tired and hungry, I would have ignored the business ring, but this was the personal ring, so I answered.

Bolly's excited voice rushed out of the earpiece. ‘Steve, Steve, is that you?’

‘Of course it’s me Bolly, what’s the matter?’

‘I can’t talk long Steve; it’s a secret. But I’ve found it Steve, I’ve found it.’ He was rushing the words out, he sounded like he had been running.

I tried to slow him down. ‘Steady, Bolly, give me a chance. What have you found?’

‘At the Forbush Hotel, Steve. It’s the real thing, I’m telling you, it’s the real thing.’

The line went dead. I punched the Last Caller button, but no Caller ID had been supplied, so I could not call back. Well, hotel switchboards never do send Caller ID, so that fitted in with what Bolly had said. The real thing, eh? I tried Bolly’s home and mobile numbers; they were both unobtainable. I hurried along the tree-lined seafront to my hotel, my head buzzing with delicious notions of what the real thing could be. I sat on my bed in the hotel, consulting an AA handbook that the receptionist had lent me. There was only one Forbush Hotel listed, the address was Eskdalemuir, Dumfries And Galloway, Scotland. A sodding long way off, in fact. According to the handbook, there were twenty-four bedrooms, the inspector had given it two stars. I dialled the listed number; it rang and rang. I was about to give up, when a hesitant female voice answered.

‘Hello?’ Now that was a strange way for a hotel receptionist to answer the phone, and that was no Scottish accent.

‘Hello, is that the Forbush Hotel?’

A short delay, then ‘Yes, it is.’

‘Good, I’d like to make a reservation, please.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry sir, the hotel is only open for a private function.’ Something about the voice nagged me; the English was faultless, yet the pronunciation was too perfect, as if learned in a language school.

‘Really? Perhaps you can tell me if there is a Graham Staines with you?’

‘I can’t sir. It is a private function, I don’t know who the guests are.’ This reticent receptionist had a very slight lisp; the ‘sir’ had just a hint of ‘thir’.

‘Well, can you page for Mister Staines then?’

‘I’m sorry sir, I am not permitted to do that.’

‘Well thanks very much, you’ve been really helpful.’ I slammed the phone down, irritated as hell, but totally hooked. The real thing, a remote Scottish hotel, I could not resist. If Bolly had set up a practical joke, to lead me on a wild-goose chase, then he was succeeding admirably. I looked out of the window, to the sea. The setting sun had lit it a fiery red; there were a number of people just stood on the beach, gazing at those few minutes of incredible beauty. I was unmoved, this world around me did not feel like my world, I was an outsider; there was no place for me. Bolly’s call was like a message from the spirit world, whispering of untold glories for those who could punch through the veil.

I phoned reception, and told them I would be checking out immediately. After changing out of my business suit, I settled the bill, and threw my bags into the boot of my Passat. Tiredness and hunger were forgotten, as the silky VW engine hauled me northwest, into the gathering darkness.

Chapter 2

Fatigue attacked me in waves; I defended staunchly. Whenever I could feel my eyelids start to droop, I would pinch them hard between thumb and forefinger. Eventually, I was asleep with my eyes open, then the terrifying sound of my door mirror scraping along the side of the truck dragged me back to heart-thumping wakefulness. With the acrid taste of fear in my mouth, I eased the car back into lane; I had to stop, I had to.  Have you ever seen someone expire by the side of a road? I once saw a teenage girl die like that, she knew she was slipping away; her puzzled, frightened face haunts me still.

So I stopped, I ate; I curled up in the cramped rear of the Passat. After a couple of hours restless sleep, I awoke feeling cold and wretched, then resumed my journey. Dawn saw me climbing through Cumbria, up to Shap Pass, then came the long swooping descent past Carlise. At the end of the M6, I turned eastwards on the A7, through Longtown, and across the Scottish border. Visitors to Scotland often plunge through the border country, ignoring the quiet beauty of its rolling hills as they race for the grandeur of the highlands. They are quite wrong, for all the history of Scotland is written here, on this blood-soaked ground that was fought over for centuries.

I stopped in Langholm, the only town close to the dot on the map that was Eskdalemuir, there I found a room at a tiny boarding house. After a long soak in the bath, I shaved, and then went out to lunch. My body was begging for sleep again, so I returned to my cosy little room for a nap. At about three o’clock, I pointed the Passat up the B709 towards Eskdalemuir, the last leg of my journey had begun. It was a narrow, difficult road; twisting and turning alongside the Black Esk River, it climbed into the Southern Uplands. Astonishingly, the only pedestrians I saw on that road were a pair of chanting Buddhist monks in saffron robes, adding a surreal touch to my bizarre journey.

When GPS told me that I had reached Eskdalemuir, I stopped the car, and looked around me. On my left, the ground dropped away into the river valley; on my right, it rose into steep hills. I could see no hotel, or indeed any sign of human habitation. A little further up the road, there was a hut-like structure; its roof sported masts with anemometers and microwave aerials. I walked up to it, fancying that it might be the entrance to a vast secret world carved deep into the hills. There were no windows, and an impregnable-looking padlock secured its single door. Not much hope there. 

Back to the car I went, then motored slowly along the road. I saw a farmhouse deep in the valley below me; smoke curled from its chimney.  The road passed through a small cluster of houses, I looked carefully for a larger building that might be a hotel, but there was none. Now there was a forest pressing up close to the road, logging tracks appeared to the right and left.  Despite the intensity of my concentration, I almost missed the sign: Forbush Hotel. 100 Yards.

And there it was a last, a signed driveway on the right. Forbush Hotel said the sign, across it a tacked-on board said SOLD By Gordon & Horner Commercial, Hawick. A red chain had been stretched across the driveway entrance; there was no sign of life. I drove past, and on to the next logging track, where I pulled my car about fifty yards off the road. Switching the engine off, I glanced at the speedo. I had travelled four hundred and thirty-seven miles from Torquay. I walked back to the road, and towards my destination. Before I reached the driveway, I plunged into the trees.

Keeping the driveway just in sight on my right, I advanced slowly. Soon, the façade of the Forbush Hotel was in front of me. I guessed that the place had not been built as a hotel, but as a large country house for some wealthy individual. The architecture had no hint of the art deco of the nineteen-twenties and thirties, I thought it had probably been built prior to the great war, sometime in the early nineteen hundreds. The driveway circled a large rose bed; to either side of it were gravelled parking areas. There were about thirty cars parked, all of them expensive to run. Germany’s prestigious exports were there a-plenty, Mercedes sat next to BMW, and the majority of them did not have UK licence plates. There were French plates, German plates, plates from all over Europe. Most interesting of all, there was a Bentley bearing a royal crest on its doors. 'Ich Dien' was the motto, but I did not believe it.

Three shallow steps led up to the font door, on the lower step two boiler-suited men sat, they were conversing, and only infrequently looking about them. These had to be guards, but as I had no intention of breaching the front door, I was unconcerned. Retreating further into the trees, I made a wide circle of the hotel, returning to the edge of the forest when I judged myself to be opposite the back of the hotel. For once, my judgement was almost perfect.

I was looking across a large lawn at the rear of the hotel. Between the lawn and the building was a paved terrace, on which a dozen or so tables were set out, each with a cluster of chairs. Some of the chairs had people sat on them, other people were standing; there was the low buzz of quiet conversation, and the occasional laugh. All the men were immaculate in evening dress; their well-groomed women partners had been outfitted at the finest stores. Glasses were raised to flashing teeth; sandwiches were plucked from silver platters.

But it was not the group on the terrace that grabbed my attention; on the lawn, a short dark-haired woman equipped with a long whip was exercising ponygirls. There were four ponies, and they were completely naked. Each pony had her wrists fastened together behind her back, and was attached to the next pony by a light chain. The trainer’s control was calm, confident, and complete. She had the ponies trotting around her in a wide circle, and if a pony’s feet were not lifted high enough the whip would crack with amazing accuracy just above the offender’s head. I had never seen anything so wonderful and exciting in my life; shamefully I found my hand groping for my crotch, like a fourteen-year-old. I cursed myself for not bringing binoculars and a camera.

The trainer drove her naked troupe to side of the hotel, where they disappeared from my sight. A man dressed like those on the front steps appeared, preceding a woman who was wheeling a barrow. The man, who was evidently acting as a steward, took traffic cones from the barrow; he was laying out a simple oval course on the lawn. As the pair approached my hiding place, I noticed that the woman was very simply dressed, just a rough skirt and a cheap top, she was barefoot; I concluded that she must be the steward's slave. The last cone was laid on the grass, and the barrow was abandoned not twelve feet from where I was concealed. The steward and his slave went to the same side of the hotel as the trainer had gone to; I was anxious to see what was happening around there, but I dared not move.

Now there was a stirring on the terrace, most of those that had been standing now sat down; all turned their attention to the lawn. The steward re-appeared, carrying a square wooden box under his arm, and gripping a whistle between his teeth. His slave followed him, now she was pulling a small two-wheeled cart, she was not harnessed to it, she just gripped the shafts in her hands.

The trainer came onto the lawn, leading the four ponies I had seen earlier and twelve others; they were all fastened to a long chain. There were all shapes, sizes, and colours, all were naked, all had their hair cropped short, and a few had their pubic mounds shaved. The steward’s slave ran up to the first pony in the line, took her off the chain, and then swiftly harnessed her to the cart. The trainer sat in the cart, the steward blew his whistle, and the pony set off around the oval of cones. As the cart went around the course, the steward held up a placard, I could only surmise that it bore a number, but I could not see. The cart completed the circuit, the pony was exchanged for the next one in line, the steward blew his whistle, and so it went on.

None of the ponies was driven at a trot, the trainer allowed them to walk the course. She was holding a much shorter whip than the one I had seen her use so expertly during the training session, but she only used it once. One rather fat pony dropped to her knees halfway around the course, gasping and shaking her head. The trainer allowed the pony perhaps thirty seconds to recover, then gave her single flick with the whip. The pony groaned, struggled to her feet, and completed the circuit.

I was wondering at the purpose of all this, but when the last pony had been driven, all was made clear; the wooden box was to serve as an auction block. One by one, the ponies were to be stood on the block, and sold to the highest bidder.

The first pony was put up, and the steward opened his arms to the crowd on the terrace.

‘Five!’ Shouted a small swarthy man, his blonde companion whispering in his ear.

‘Six!’ Shouted someone else. The bidding was soon over, the swarthy man bought his pony for eighteen. What did he and the blonde have planned for her? Perhaps they would drive her around their estate as part of their pony team, perhaps they would keep her as an investment, and perhaps they just wanted to whip her in their cellar. The steward’s slave took the sold pony away, and the steward put the next on the block.

The unit of currency remains a mystery to me. It could have been millions of francs, hundreds of thousands of pounds, or some multiple of the US Dollar. When I know the answer, I will have joined that exclusive circle, and I will be bidding.

All sixteen ponies that had pulled the cart around the course were sold. The oldest looked to be in her forties, I had seen her stumble around the trial course only just well enough to avoid the trainer’s whip. She was sold for four, and she wept profusely as the steward’s slave led her away. In the Gor books, slave women were kept ever young by an extremely convenient drug. In our world, they must age, and whereas I can well imagine that a slave could be useful into middle age, I just don’t want to think beyond that.

At the end of the auction, there were a number of items that had not been seen in harness. Three African women, chained together by the neck, were sold as a lot for forty-two. A pair of identical twins, reasonably pretty, were the sensation of the sale, they went for fifty-six. Finally, a thickset, dog-faced blonde in her early twenties was put on the block. Uniquely, she was gagged, and her hands were cuffed behind her back. She glared fiercely at the crowd; there were no bids for her. The trainer took her away, not the steward’s slave. Shortly there was the sound of whipcord on human flesh, obviously dogface was being flogged; none of the crowd paid any attention.

The light was fading fast; the gathering was coming to an end. Coats were donned and hands were shook, car engines were started, and wheels crunched gravel on the drive. I circled around the lawn through the trees, to the side of the hotel, close to where a Hungarian registered truck and trailer was parked. One by one, and all now fitted with gags, the ponies were being taken up a ramp to a doorway near the top of the truck body. Last aboard was dogface; her back was like a slab of raw beef. She was swaying a great deal, the steward’s slave walked close behind to hold her upright. This distressed me, but I told myself that such things had to happen. Often I wonder about that one, whether she has been sold or is still being taken from sale to sale, and flogged when she does not attract a purchaser. And I wonder if I could really cope with the brutality of slavery; if I had paid good money for dogface, and she would not accept her situation, could I hang her up by the wrists and cut into her with a whip? I like to think that I am man enough for the job.

There was much clanking and banging from inside the truck, finally the entry door was closed and the steward’s slave put the ramp, the barrow, and the cart into the trailer. She sat on the tailgate to be shackled, gagged, and cuffed, and then the tailgate was closed behind her. I can only guess about the internal layout of the truck, there may have been individual cells for the ponies, they may have all been chained together, or they may have been kept in small groups, I just do not know. It must be the case that the owners have their ponies delivered to them, and can thus cross any number of frontiers in perfect safety. I figured that the only really dangerous frontier for the truck would be entering the UK; border crossings within continental Europe are no sweat. Did they have the right customs and immigration officers on duty in the right port at the right time, or were they able to get the vehicle sealed at an inland port? Whatever the method, it must have been considered foolproof, or they would not have visited our sceptred isle at all.

Before the three stewards climbed into the cab, the trainer came to bid them farewell. It was the first time I had been able to see her close up. What I saw was a pleasant-looking girl of perhaps twenty-four or five, she certainly did not look capable of whipping the hide off a slave’s back. She stretched up to each of the stewards to give them a peck on the cheek, and to say ‘Con Dios’. They hugged her briefly but affectionately; one of them patted her bottom. Then she ran out to a seven series BMW that was waiting on the drive, hopped into the front passenger seat, and was gone.

The big diesel engine throbbed idly for a couple of minutes, there was some sort of discussion going on in the cab. Then the engine revved, the brakes released noisily, and the slave caravan roared away. Suddenly, I noticed that all the cars were gone, and all the lights were out. I was alone at the deserted Forbush Hotel.

Chapter 3

Of course, I went to the office of Gordon & Horner the next day to make some enquiries, and they were helpful enough. The hotel had been closed for three months; a French chain had bought it, a refurbishment and re-branding operation was scheduled for the autumn. The property had been rented to a film company for seven days as an Edwardian backdrop for a location shoot. Could they reveal the name of the film company? No problem; it was Prancing Pony Productions of Wardour Street, London. I knew before I got there that it would be an accommodation address. There was no point trying to follow that trail any further, experts had laid it.

When I went to Bolly’s address, I found that he had moved from there more than two months earlier, leaving a forwarding address in Dublin. Yes, I made the trip, and yes, of course it was another accommodation address. I can only hope that one day I will hear the story behind Bolly’s phone call from his own lips. Naturally, I thought of the obvious possibility that he had been caught spying on the slavers’ ring, and they had murdered him; but I did not believe it. The fact that he had dropped out of sight long before making the call said that he was involved.

In my heart, I know that Bolly is out there somewhere; he has found his destiny, he is driving ponygirls. He is training them to his exact requirements, and when they fail him, or when they are disobedient or impudent, then of course he must administer corporal punishment. Perhaps he is deep in a Scandinavian forest, or on the vast plains of Russia. He could even be much closer, possibly concealed by an orchard in Kent, or by the secretive countryside of Normandy.

Wherever Bolly is, I envy him desperately. My life is so dull, now that I have glimpsed that world on the other side of the veil; I would trade all my remaining years for just a few days of the real thing.

END