Throwers
Martin Kane
The second I saw her, I knew I was going to enjoy this job.


Author's note:

Anyone wishing to contact me may do so via the DtV messageboard for Readers &
Writers. I invite anyone to send any comments, good or bad, should they wish
to. I'm always interested in what others think of my little tales.

Copyright is mine. I'd be flattered if anyone wanted to use this tale
elsewhere, but please seek permission first.

Needless to say this story is purely a fiction and all characters merely the
products of an overwrought imagination

I'll abstain from the adult content warning, if you've got this far, you're
certain to know what kind of thing to expect anyway.

She was a thrower. That was the common slang for baggage handlers at Luton
Airport. Probably at other airports too, but it was Luton where we met. Jingo
introduced us.

We were behind scenes at the airport, a huge warehouse style portion of the
building, forklifts littered about, the back end of a plane practically
sitting in there with us, huge hanger doors leading out into the bright day
beyond.

She was heaving huge great cases and boxes from the trolley onto the conveyer
ramp which trundled them up into the cargo hold of the aeroplane. I watched as
she hefted a crate the size of a small car into the air and tossed it onto the
ramp. It was clear to see how she managed this feat, she’d stripped the
overalls down to her waist, trying the top half as though it were a bulky
belt. Dressed only in a vest, her torso bulged with a thousand muscles, each
hugely oversized and vying for space, bursting out of her skin. She was
glimmering with a sheen of grimy sweat. The second I saw her I knew I was
going to enjoy this job.

"Connor, this is Ziggy," Jingo said, motioning to the muscle-woman. "She’ll
show you the ropes keep an eye on you." He focussed his attention to the woman
and spoke in a confidential whisper. "Connor is the guy Victor Vee Smith sent
us."

Ziggy wiped a slick arm across a wet brow, then swiped the worst off onto her
loose overalls. She offered the cleaned hand for shaking.

"Good to meet ya," she grinned, giving me a half nod, half wink.

"Welcome to the team son, I’ll leave you in Ziggy’s capable hands." Jingo then
turned to Ziggy. "Be gentle with him, there’s a good girl."

Ziggy made some comment that I didn’t catch as he departed.

"You’ve been given the basic once around?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Great. You can help me with these, then we’ll grab a cuppa."

"Sure." I tried one of the boxes. I’m a fairly powerful guy. I work out on a
regular basis, and I have an excellent level of general fitness. But these
boxes were heavy. I managed to wrestle one of them along the ground but was
stuck when I’d dragged it as far as the ramp. Ziggy took it for me, wrapping
her thick arms about it and heaving it into the air as though its weight was
insignificant.

"You just take care of the smaller ones," she said. "There’s a reason they get
me on this cargo duty. They’re normally a lot heavier than passenger baggage.
Generally I work on the passenger cases but I help out where necessary."

She worked without pause, never tiring or struggling, despite the fact the
crates she hefted with ease were far heavier than those I handled.

Being attracted to strong women, I’ve always kept an eye out for them whenever
I’m at the gym. But only rarely have I met a woman as powerful as myself, who
could genuinely match me pound-for-pound. This woman however, left me miles
behind.

She called up to the two guys at the other end of the conveyer-ramp. They were
arranging the boxes inside the cargo hold of the plane. "You dudes cool?"

"No sweat Babe," the answer came. The guy at the top of the ramp appeared a
moment to give her a wave. "Thanks."

She took me to a small L-shaped room, a kind of mini staff room fitted with a
cupboard, a kettle, a sink and tabletop loaded with tabloids.

"We appropriated this room for the throwers," she told me. She put then kettle
on then reached over to a phone on the wall, tapping a four-digit number.
"Hey, it’s Ziggy. R-A-one-oh-seven? Great. Cheers mate."

She looked at my quizzical smile. "That plane we just dumped the cargo onto is
a passenger flight. Industrial cargo generally comes first so we load it ready
whenever possible. The actual passenger cargo, the bags ‘n shit, that’s coming
now. First truck-load should be here in about five minutes, which gives us
time for a cuppa. Tea or coffee."

"Tea would be nice. Two sugars."

"You’re sweet huh?" she quipped.

We drank our tea and made casual small talk. I tried to think of a way of
mentioning her extraordinary muscularity without causing any offence. It was
probably a foolish fear because she seemed quite happy to be on display.
Looking at those huge arms filled me with a strange combination of awe and
jealousy. As I say, I’m in good condition myself, but compared to her I was a
skinny little geek who gets sand kicked in his face at the beach. It also sent
a shiver of fear through me, knowing what she was physically capable of. She
interrupted my train of thought.

"So you’re one of Victor’s guys? You been in the firm long?"

"Na, not long," I told her. I was trying to keep my tone as careless and
conversational as hers, despite the fact I wasn’t feeling it. "You?"

"Couple of years now. I’ve been at this airport for about three weeks, ground
work and that. Before that we pulled a similar job in Manchester."

We heard the truck arrive and headed back over to the ramp. It turned out to
be a small motored vehicle towing a large cage style trailer. The trailer was
loaded high with suitcases and bags.

Zippy exchanged greetings with the driver, unhooked the trailer then waved him
off. She folded down one side of the trailer and began hefting the cases onto
the ramp, much like before.

"OK," she said. "This is where we earn a few side-bets. Operations don’t
always fund themselves, there’s always a chance these things can go
pear-shaped. Vee likes to hedge his bets with as many sidelines as he can
stick his thumbs into."

She rummaged around inside the rolled up excess of her overalls, pulling out a
mobile phone. I don’t know what make or model but it was small and neat, slick
and shiny. The kind favoured by Yuppies and overgrown children with too much
disposable income.

"This is the sort of thing to look out for," she said, holding a large
stainless-steel suitcase up for me to see. It was a good-looking piece of
luggage, definitely hard-wearing and well-made. It was also smart and stylish.
In short - expensive. "Anything that would suggest the owner has a bit of
cash."

She put it down and checked the luggage tag. She aimed her mobile phone at it
and pressed a button. Happy with this, she put the case on the ramp like the
others.

"I used to use a digital camera, upload the pictures back at lunchtime,
there’s an internet café at in the main concourse. These things are great
though, it does it all. You’re not allowed mobiles in this area but they let
you keep them on you as long as you don’t use it."

I got the idea, finally. "So we know who's out of the country and where they
live."

"Exactly."

She fished a large leather case off the pile and put it down before me. She
handed over the phone. "Just hit that button in the middle, it’s set up to
autosave and can handle as many as you’ll need. Get close in but no closer
than half a foot or it’ll blur."

I followed her instruction, aiming the phone/camera at the bag’s built in
luggage tag. I framed it perfectly, and snapped away.

She took the phone off me and checked my work. "Nice," she said. "But only
worry about getting the address in. You’ve caught the Outbound flight details.
Don’t care about them. If they have the inbound date, then fine, it’s good to
know how long the info’s valid for."

We cleared the cage quickly, mainly due to Ziggy’s enormous strength and
careless efficiency. I saw where the term throwers came from. Every now and
then one of us would stop at a likely looking case and take a picture of the
luggage tag.

"It’s funny," I remarked at one point. "A lot of these don’t have any tag on
them at all. Other than the sealed one the airport attaches."

"Yeah, sign of the times. It’s sad that society has become so paranoid." She
said this with a frightening lack of irony.

We spent lunchtime at the local pub, Zippy being a real meat and potatoes
girl; she wasn’t scared of putting the food away. It was clear to see where
the carbs went, she had ceaseless energy in what was a highly physical job.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted. Apart from
looking a little sweaty and grim, Ziggy looked as fresh as ever. She gave me
the address of a bar outside Soho, told me to meet the gang there at eight.

The bar was a poncy place, ghastly and trendy. It’s the sort of place Yuppies
would frequent if they hadn’t thankfully died out and been replaced by the
next generation of overpaid, overachieving youth with sports cars and mobile
phones. Fortunately, this generation has yet to earn their own defining term,
and can be happily ignored.

I passed half a dozen dark-blue shirts with yellow ties and swore I’d hit the
first asshole I saw in braces. I ordered a pint of Guinness and had to bite my
tongue when the sixteen-year-old serving asked me what type. He’s just doing
his job, I reminded myself.

Then I saw Ziggy and all vicious thoughts evaporated. She was sitting of a
leather couch, legs crossed. Her skirt above the knees so her well muscled
calves were on casual display. I walked up. She wore a purple, frilled
top, set off with a silk waistcoat. She was the epitome of elegant beauty. Her
blonde hair seemed to glow golden in the soft lighting. Subtle make-up and
demure earrings finished the look.

"Oh Jesus, you polish up well," I crooned.

"Hey, Connor, take a seat." She gestured to her choice of dress. "You
approve."

"It certainly makes a difference to dirty overalls."

She laughed. "First thing I do when I get back is take a shower, wash the
airport out of my hair. I don’t mind doing physical jobs but God, I hate being
so dirty all the time."

"Well I have to say, you certainly seem cut out for the physical work."

"Whatever do you mean," she asked innocently, stretching her arms up in a fake
yawn, making her muscles swell and bulge, visible even through the material of
her top.

I’d have been quite happy to keep the topic going on its flirtatious course,
but then Jingo joined us, a few other guys with him.

Introductions were made and then Jingo began.

"OK Connor, how did the first day go?"

"Fine," I told him.

"This week, Ziggy will show you all the places you’ll need to know. She’ll
show you subtle like, surreptitious, so that no one clocks."

"The shebang goes down next week as scheduled. When the shipment comes in
they’ll have their own security team to mind it but it’s nothing we can’t
handle. Our window is pretty small through; we’ve got to get out before anyone
realises. Once the shit hits the fan, that whole place’ll be locked down
tight.

"Ziggy, you fit?"

"As a fiddle."

"It’s gonna be down on you. You’ve gotta be able to handle the weight but
still look totally natural. If anyone even suspects, the whole deal’s blown."

"Relax man, I’m as strong as I’ve ever been, I could bench a fucking Jet."

"OK. How’s the suit?"

"Ready to go."

He seemed satisfied with this. We went over the basic plans but everyone knew
their parts. He left fairly early, as did the rest of the crew. I had to be up
early myself but I couldn’t resist.

"You fancy another," I asked Ziggy once we were alone.

"Sure, just a quicky."

It was closing time when we actually left, both a little tipsy. She walked
with an arm around my shoulder, happily pressing her body against mine. I
could feel the heat of her pressed against me, the smell of her perfume, the
strength of her body. I was intoxicated with her.

"Can I flag you a taxi?"

"Na, I only live round the corner," she told me, leading. "Come on, this way."

Her flat was near, spacious and in a fashionable street.

"Shit, this place can’t be cheap," I said, impressed, as she led me in.

"It’s not. You’d be amazed at what you can afford when you steal for a
living."

She led me to the couch, red leather and just as upmarket as the rest of the
apartment.

"So, you want a coffee or do you wanna get straight to the fucking like
bunnies part?"

I must have expressed shock at this, or was it just hopeful awe?

She grinned at me. "I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me. There are
some guys in this world who find muscles incredibly sexy, and I know that
you’re one of them."

She slid her arms out of the waistcoat and tossed it aside meaningfully. She
was swaying her hips rhythmically, rolling her shoulders in a sweet little
dance on the spot.

I was dumbstruck with surprise and excitement. Then, stupidly, another thought
struck me, and I was cast with fear.

"Where’s you bathroom?" I asked.

"Through there," she pointed, a little surprised that her strip had been
interrupted before she’d even got going.

As soon as I was inside, I opened my shirt and pulled off the wire attached to
my chest. Oh, God, if she came across this, I’d be finished. I must be mad to
do undercover work. Right then, I longed for the simple beat I had walked as a
rookie, so full of hope and ambition.

I wadded it into a soggy mess of tissue and flushed it. I watched it disappear
and breathed easily again. Then I regarded the mark on my chest where it had
been and rubbed at it with a wet flannel trying to conceal the mark. I was
just going to have to chance it.

I walked back out to rejoin Ziggy. "Sorry about that, I was..."

Muscles. Oh God, those muscles.

She was right about me having a thing for muscles and seeing her standing
there in her underwear, flexing enormous biceps, made me stop dead, struck
dumb.

"Oh Baby," I murmured, awed and aroused beyond belief.

She pumped her arm a few times, making that mound swell and relax.

"Have you ever slept with a bodybuilder before?" she asked me.

"No," I admitted, still staring at those massive arms.

"Ooo, a virgin," she cooed. "Don’t worry babe, let Ziggy take care of you."

She strode up to me and swept me into her arms, as if I weighed no more than a
child. I could feel her muscles beneath me, supporting me. They were hard and
gorgeous.

"You are about to feel something that will change your perceptions about sex
forever," she promised me, and carried me to her bedroom.

Ziggy was a sexual athlete, as you would expect from someone who has the
strength to tear telephone directories in half. And remember, she lived in
London.

Despite her indomitable strength, she was tender and loving. Her touch was as
soft and light as a warm breeze. But when she needed to be firmer, stronger,
she could push herself further and harder than anyone I’d ever met.

Quite apart from being the sexiest woman I’d ever laid eyes on, she had an
assurance of touch that would have had me gasping even if her body was as
unspectacular as an average girl off the street.

Together, her skill, her passion and her physique, had me in a state or
agonised intensity. It amused and aroused her, the extremes she could push me
to, and so she did so, constantly making me gasp and beg and plead for her to
be gentle.

Gentleness was the last thing on her mind however, the slow burn of her lust
building up into a frenzy of unrestrained force and vigour. I thought I would
pass out as she attacked me with uncompromising fervour and complete abandon.

After she had exhausted me to the point of insensibility, refusing to
relinquish me until long after my orgasm had spent, we lay quietly on the bed,
the sheets damp from our exertions.

We didn’t sleep then, I was too enthralled in watching her fabulous body, so
desirable in repose. She turned sideways towards me, leaning her head on one
arm, making the bicep stand out like an orange beneath a silk handkerchief.

She saw my gaze focus and giggled, poking me. "You want to see the suit?" she
asked, excited.

"Sure," I said, not sure what she was on about. Then it clicked that she meant
the job.

She opened a wardrobe and pulled out what looked like a series of straps. She
climbed into it, buckling the strips of material in places until her entire
body was criss-crossed with the narrow bands. She stood before me naked, save
for what little was covered by the ribbons.

I joined her, examining the strange costume. There were pockets all over,
little pouches where the gold bars could be slotted. I tested one for
strength. It was certainly beyond my ability to tear it. Whatever material
this was made out of was incredibly strong. But then it had to be - as did
Ziggy.

"Are you even going to be able to stand when this thing is loaded up?"

She smiled at me and flexed her biceps, the mountain breaking through between
straps down her arm. "What, you need more proof?"

Apparently so. She pushed me back onto the bed, then climbed on top without
bothering to take the suit off first. As she stirred me back into to life, I
caught sight of the time.

"Oh, shit, I am going to be dead at work tomorrow."

"Don’t worry," she said, kissing me lightly, "I’ll cover for you."

In the morning, I was lying flat on her bed, barely able to move. She was in
the shower getting ready. Jesus, that woman was unstoppable. Despite my
physical exhaustion, I felt happy, sated. It was absurd considering the
situation but I was actually beginning to feel the first stirrings of love for
this woman. I don’t mean lust, I’d felt that the moment I first set eyes on
her, muscles gleaming in the sunlight like polished chrome. I was falling in
love with her. She was smart, sexy as hell, funny, sweet, tender and the most
exceptional lover I’d ever been with. Just a pity what she did for a living.

The shower stopped and I could see her silhouette towelling herself. Even this
stirred the lust in me, despite my physical incapacity to act upon it. I
wanted her, I craved her, I was in love with her. Oh shit, what the hell was I
going to do?

The phone rang and she came back into the bedroom to answer it. She was in my
reach and I stroked her thigh lovingly as she picked it up.

She slapped me away and gave me a stern look. "Hello? Oh, hi."

My hand was playing with her stomach, fingers tracing her flat muscles as she
breathed her six-pack in and out.

"Sure. No... why?" She slapped me away again, serious this time. I capitulated
and looked for my clothes. Tossed away in all corners of the room.

"Uh-huh. Yeah. Yeah. No. OK."

She sighed and put down the phone.

"What’s up?" I asked. And then I saw the look in her eyes and I knew what was
up. "Shit," I muttered and jumped back as she made a grab for me.

She missed by inches but leaping back, I’d stumbled. She was over the bed in a
second and grabbing me, one hand around my upper arm, the other around my
neck.

She heaved me up into the air holding me aloft while I struggled helplessly,
leg kicking like a trapped insect. And then she threw me onto the bed. She
stopped.

I looked at her from my crumpled position, tangled and naked amongst the
bedding. Ziggy just stared at me, as though oblivious of her own nudity. The
hate in her eyes was enough to make me shudder in fear. I’d seen the power of
her body in action. I knew what she was capable of doing should she set her
mind to it. Hands that could incite pleasure beyond my wildest dreams were
just as able when it came to agonies beyond my worst nightmare.

"Why?" she hissed finally.

"I’m a cop."

"Why me? Why last night?"

That I couldn’t answer, fearing it would sound ridiculous, fearing her ensuing
wrath would destroy me.

"Does it make it more exciting, knowing that your life’s on the line?"

I didn’t answer. What could I say?

"Have you got any idea what I could do to you?"

And the look on my face then must have told her I did. She didn’t relent
however, driving my fear and certain dread on.

She gestured with her hand, clawing the fingers together.

"I could pop your head like a grape. I could rip every bone out of your body
and tear the flesh into strips. I could crush you up into a little ball,
tighter than a beer-can."

She was closing on me now, walking around the bed to reach me. I wanted to run
but I was too panicked, trapped like a rabbit in headlights. There was no way
I could escape anyway. I knew my fate was in her hands, hands that even now
reached for me.

She grasped me by the throat, one hand around my neck, fingers tight like an
iron clasp. If she squeezed, I would die.

"Tell me, you pathetic little son-of-a-bitch. Was it worth it."

I don’t know what she expected me to answer, I couldn’t even speak with her
fingers digging into my throat like that. I couldn’t even breathe.

I think the truth she was really seeking was in my eyes. Whatever, she saw,
she must have been satisfied by something because she relented then.

Just as I thought I was about to black out, not expecting ever to awaken
again, she released me.

Well technically released is the wrong word. She actually threw me across the
room, sending me crashing into the far wall with a resounding crash.

I fell, naked and bruised, my neck screaming in agony.

"Get out," she hissed. "I’ll tell Jingo you ran out while I was on the phone
to him. If I ever see you again I swear to God I’ll rip your heart out where
you stand."

I was too shocked to move, too shaken to react.

"Go. Now," she hollered. And I did.

Ziggy, Jingo and the whole gang disappeared that same morning. We’ve never
been able to track them. You might think that a woman as conspicuous as Ziggy
would find it hard to go underground, but she managed it.

We had two informants who’d got us into the gang. One of them we called in and
put into protective custody. They other tried to do a runner but they caught
up with him. Given the needless brutality of his death, I couldn’t help
wondering if she was sublimating her rage at my betrayal. Maybe it was a
message. We know she was the one who did it. The coroner confirmed that damage
like that could only have been committed by someone of quite extraordinary
strength.

She was right about one thing however, she’d changed my perceptions about sex
forever.