by C. L. Black
Determined, KK sucked harder. Chewed fingernails pinched at the alert nipples, doing their best to encourage Miss Jane to give her a gift she’d always remember. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. A gray mist descended, fogging her thoughts. She wondered, was it a mistake to forgo having my nails done yesterday? Her fingers went numb. Ja, I think it was.
Jane’s pained nipples swelled. The excruciating pleasure building down below intensified. She couldn’t get “Katrina” from her mind. Her fingers lost their sharpness and slipped away. They fell to rest lifeless on Jane’s still-clenched tummy. Katrina was gone. Fuck! What if she didn’t die? She bit her lip. Too late. She lurched then bucked. “Oui.” She had sacrificed her queen, flooding KK with the rewards of conquest. She held those long powerful legs clamped tight, maybe a bit longer than was safe. KK struggled to stay with her. Jane’s nipples were throbbing wildly and so was her heart. “You win, you naughty little slut.”
“Oui!” With the shout, Jane released again, this time rocking the car and freeing her crafty opponent from the potentially murderess vice. The thoughts of Katrina fled. She fell back, took a minute, and then checked her rag doll for a pulse. Bloody fabulous. She stroked the little one’s boney spine, gently coaxing her departed lover back to consciousness. “Wake up my little princess.” Today’s game would end in a draw.
With a choking cough, KK came back. Dizzy and devoid of reason, she gasped then coughed violently as intelligent life slowly reentered her mind. It took a minute before she regained the strength needed to lift her head. Finally, a blue face emerged from the darkness, soaked with wet passion. KK sighed, and tugged Jane’s skirt into place.
“That was heaven! Oui. Thank you Miss Jane.” The still lightheaded girl licked her pouty lips, pleased that her mistress had come too and so powerfully this time. For those few brief moments, KK did visit her nirvana. “Are you not happy you let me come now?”
Jane couldn’t respond. Seeking repair, she reached for the box of tissue.
KK begged, “Please don’t go. What will I do without you?”
Jane offered several tissues.
KK grudgingly accepted her fate and retook the seat next to her very wet mistress. She took hold of the tissues and slipped them under Jane’s leather. “Not enough.”
“Here!” She held out more. “You’re acting like you’re losing me forever.” She opened her arms. They sat back, Miss Jane holding her doll in a long embrace until she violently pulled away. “What’s wrong with you? You said that Papa told you… I have to go.”
“But I’ll—I’ll have no one to play with,” said KK, pouting as Jane wiped the last taste along with her smeared lipstick from her face.
“Bloody hell you won’t! Forgetting the pretty new Petra doll are we?”
“Why can’t you just phone it in?”
Like her father, KK rarely attended her own corporate meetings, just phoned in, often while she lay naked in bed or on the sundeck of her yacht, no doubt with one of her many Hushgirl lingerie model playmates by her side. You could get away with that behavior when you owned the controlling interest in a corporation worth a billion euros. Yes, KK had it all. At least until her lover stepped on that plane.
“But Miss Jane, you’re really good on the phone. Ja.”
“Not this time love.” Jane straightened her skirt and tucked in her blouse. “Too bloody important. Promised me mum.”
KK wasn’t listening. Her voice rose in protest. “What’s so bloody important you can’t stay?” She dipped her head. “Sorry Miss Jane.” She knew better. She had no true claim on Jane’s love. She had only rented it. And at twenty thousand euros a day, plus travel, Miss Jane’s love didn’t come cheap.
“No pouting sweetie. Chin up! I promise to see you, directly upon my return. England.” She pulled another tissue from the dispenser. “Hold still for Miss Jane.” Gently, she wiped the little bit of Katrina’s love that remained on KK’s somber chin. “That’s my good little princess. Now, let’s get you put back together.” Jane picked up the pink silk beach wrap, placing it over boney shoulders. “Lovely. Shall we—”
“But that’s three weeks!” whined the now fully restored KK, turning on the waterworks. “I think I shall die. England?”
“Yes, my sweet.” Offering another tissue, this time for the tears, Jane said, “We should attend the Grand Prix together?” She kissed away a lone tear. “Will your Papa be there?” She paused, waiting for reaction. Thirty seconds later, she got it.
KK roared, “Always Papa!” Her face aflame, she lost it. “Why do you fucking care so much if my Papa is there?”
Unfazed, Jane stayed her course. Her voice calm, a new tissue in hand, she attempted to tame her little kitten. “You said Papa would be hosting a reception at his new country estate, Saturday evening.”
Blotting her eyes, KK wiped her sniffling nose, caught her breath, and changed her tune. She cooed, “Will you let me show you off?”
“Miss Jane would love for you to show her off, especially to your papa.” She got all British and said, “He will be there, this time?”
KK locked arms, slammed her eyes shut, and shook herself stiff. Her cheeks swelled, their redness signaling a tsunami was fast approaching. “Yes!”
One-word answer? “Now-now, my sweet little kitten.” Jane took her little princess in arm and kissed those trembling lips tenderly. “But I must go, before—” She was interrupted by a knock on the bullet-resistant window. About bloody time.
KK leaned across a relieved Jane and cracked the door. Heat and noise raced in. “Ja, Karla?”
“Pardon the intrusion ladies.” Karla shouted in heavily accented German. “Captain Schumacher has asked me to inform you; strong headwinds expected. The captain requires you must get off immediately; if you wish to arrive at Dulles on time.”
“Thank you Karla,” KK shouted, adding a demure giggle. “We’re just coming now.” She fell over Jane, pushing the door fully open. “You put everything in the plane?” As she rose to step out, her silk wrap slid down her bony spine and over her skinny bottom to find the BMW’s pink carpet. She glanced at Jane and said, “Oops.”
“Ja, Miss Kristin. Miss Sterling’s luggage is aboard.” Careful not to disturb them, Karla had left the boot lid up. Nor was either aware of the very special parting gift Herr Krump had personally instructed be placed on board.
Ten Bloody Days
The Principality of Monaco, two weeks earlier
It was race week in the tiny principality by the sea. Dame Jane was looking forward to enjoying her one true passion. She would test her abilities against men and machine, motor racing. She had also hoped to enjoy the annual Grand Prix without distraction. The weeklong festivities preceding the race always provided an opportunity to catch up with old friends. Maybe meet a new one, or two, while attending the many parties, and of course there would be the royal reception. Of course, that was all before returning to find the vinyl doll on her doorstep, crying, and wearing a bank draft for two hundred thousand euros, and little else.
“Ten bloody days!” Jane knew it was bad business. “No pouting.” Spending more than a few days with any one subject was a rookie mistake. “Where’s your top?” She was due in DC that evening and was well behind schedule. Mum had insisted: Get on with it. “Right then, do come in, sweetie.”
She had maintained the unassuming one-bedroom apartment overlooking the harbor since returning last fall. KK, crying, sat topless on the sofa. She had lent “Miss Jane,” her Gulfstream for the three days she was in the UAE on a brief assignment for the prince—a monthly client.
So you could return home one day sooner, before you go to DC Miss Jane. No strings. Ja.
Right.
“I couldn’t wait till next week, Miss Jane. Please.”
The next morning, Miss Jane canceled her appointments for that week and the next, and then shut off her mobile. She promised to spend a few days aboard the Knotty Girl. KK’s superyacht was already docked in the harbor, in
perfect view of Jane’s apartment. Papa ordered it be there for the race weekend and that KK should entertain some influential friends of his: three men, all from Turkmenistan. “Something to do with business,” Papa said. KK knew what it really meant. Her after-hours parties in Cannes would have to be cut short. So sad.
KK or no KK, Dame Jane was determined to drive in the Porsche SuperCup race on Sunday morning. Although KK had paid for ten days, she took eleven. Still, it didn’t satisfy her. She wanted more. She wanted Jane and only Jane. Miss Jane? She just wanted a few days off to go racing.
When Dame Jane Sterling signed on to drive for Black Stallion Racing last fall, she committed to competing in all the scheduled races. Dame Jane always kept her commitments. Except for a handful of old clients, she was done with the sex spy business. At least that’s what she thought at the time. More and more, this babysitting assignment was making it increasingly difficult to keep her other commitments, racing and otherwise.
KK repeated what Papa had instructed. “Make sure to have plenty of your best Hushgirls around, shaking their assets.” She did as Papa said, sort of. Twelve beautiful girls would be on board the Knotty Girl to greet the three gluttonous men; six of them, would-be Hushgirl models she’d discovered the week before in Cannes. One was her pretty Petra. The other six—all pros—top-notch girls from the Czech Republic, flown in that Thursday on her Gulfstream. KK had sent it with her personal assistant to fetch them. After all, Papa always insisted, “Only the best.” They returned with the best whores Papa’s gold could rent. The three pigs weren’t due until Friday, around noon.
Thursday evening: Hush-Hush Lingerie hosted an invitation-only charity event aboard the Knotty Girl. All proceeds were to benefit the HALO Trust. As usual, it was to be a fetish-themed costume party. Also as usual, KK made sure to tip off the paparazzi. To end the event, each of the Hushgirls were to be auctioned off. She capped the glorious evening by putting her Miss Jane on the block. KK waited until the bidding was nearly at its end before stealing her Miss Jane away from one sad, crumpled old Brit in his wheelchair. Feeling bad for the poor old bugger, KK offered him her assistant, Miss Elsa. “For free, as a consolation,” she said, plopping in his lap and draping her arms around his neck. “You will like her, ja.” Her infectious goodwill brought a crooked smile back to his already drooling lips. She sealed the deal with a very wet kiss.
Friday morning: KK left her yacht with a killer hangover, three shiny new PVC evening dresses, two sore ankles, one well-worn Miss Jane, and nothing else. She would stay away from her beloved Knotty Girl that weekend, preferring instead to go party-hopping with her hired lover. She left her personal assistant and girl-of-one-too-many-hats, Elsa, behind with her yacht’s new captain to safeguard her interests.
“Ja, evil business, Miss Jane.” KK stayed away from Papa’s evil business. These days she stayed away from her father too. In fact, they hadn’t been face to face in nearly six months.
Friday midday: The three pigs from Turkmenistan arrived on board with Karla. They were gone that Sunday morning as Jane raced. Elsa said they left with their yellow teeth aglow, and a Czech party favor under each arm. “All three left drunk as skunks. They didn’t smell much better either.” Each had also taken two handfuls of her best vodka. Those were her last six bottles of Jean-Marc XO. Papa had sent his other Gulfstream, the black one, along with Karla to ensure they were safely on their way before Jane’s race finished. They were Papa’s friends, not hers. They were there to meet one of Papa’s old associates.
“The girls too? Fucking bastards!” KK vented her anger, shouting past Elsa in a mix of English and German as she picked up one of the empty bottles. Her English was good, her French even better, but anger encouraged the wild German in her to reveal itself. “They didn’t even stay for your race. Fuck them!” That really made her mad. “Fucking shithead assholes.” She threw the empty XO bottle at the Krump corporate logo inlaid into the sundeck and stomped off to check the rest of her bar. She knew they weren’t race fans. No, they were “Fucking cocksucking motherfuckers!” Showing no sign of cooling down, she took another empty bottle and waved it wildly as she amped up the tirade.
“KK! Enough!” Miss Jane had seen and heard about all she could take.
“No! I promised the girls we would conduct a seminar.” She stomped her five-inch wedgies all over the Krump logo. Frustrated they did no harm, she bent over, picked up the unbroken bottle, and proceeded to hammer away. What had taken the Italian stonecutters two months to create, began to crumble in seconds. “Fuck him!” She swung the bottle again. “Ass—” and broke it. She looked to Jane. “Oops.”
“Come here young lady.” Jane beckoned with her finger.
KK’s head shook.
“Now!”
She lifted herself from the deck and dragging her feet, she inched toward Jane, sitting sideways on a pool chair.
“On you go. Bum up!” Jane patted the landing pad.
“I’m sorry. Please Miss Jane.”
“You will be. Let’s go. Skirt up. Smashing, planned ahead I see.”
KK did plan ahead, selecting a flashy neon pink thong to go with her bright pink cotton mini-sundress. Jane commenced with the seminar even though the only ones present to witness it were Elsa, Karla, and the yacht’s captain. New to the Knotty Girl, Captain Hessler had been advised to stay clear of the sundeck.
Whack!…whack!…whack!
The Special Package
The BMW’s backseat, 11:36 local
Jane reached down to retrieve the fallen wrap. KK used the distraction to whisper in her native German to Karla. “The special package?” She wanted her gift to be a surprise.
“Yes, Miss Krump; everything, just as you instructed.”
Karla, a most trusted member of Krump’s inner security circle, never lowered her eyes. She’d served as Papa’s personal driver and errand girl for as long as KK could remember. She owed her very life to Papa. Krump’s personal security force numbered forty strong. Most were ex–Soviet Security Service or ex-paramilitary forces, all handpicked by Papa. After receiving word Jane hadn’t left yesterday as expected, Papa ordered Karla to stay behind to personally make sure Jane Sterling made it on the plane and KK didn’t.
Jane could never before remember headwinds being helpful in keeping an engagement. Standing at the top step of the retractable stairway, she peeked inside the intercontinental range luxury jet. Its cabin had become all too familiar. KrumpAir, a wholly owned division of Krump Industries GmbH, owned two. Except for the trim, they were virtually identical. The second, with black trim and with no K on its tail, arrived in Berlin only last week. Since having the pink trim and big K added to the first in January, KK monopolized its use, insisting it fly her Miss Jane to and from her all-too-many far-flung assignments. Jane was racking up the miles on KrumpAir, all at Papa’s expense, of course. Who could blame her? Beats going bloody commercial.
KrumpAir & KrumpJet
Founded in 1993, KrumpAir began operations providing contract airfreight services with a single twenty-year-old 747-200 purchased with government assistance from Lufthansa. Today, KrumpAir also owned four Boeing 747-400ERFs air-freighters and a massive BBJ. That’s what the Boeing people call any business jet version of their airliners. Most BBJs were built using the midsized twin-engine 737. Krump’s BBJ was a converted 747-200, the same basic version that was used to build the two aircraft everyone knows as Air Force One. Herr Krump’s personal 747 used the call sign “Krump One” (Aircraft Registration ID: EZ-699K).
Krump One was previously owned by a Saudi prince. He’d traded it in on a new 777. The prince desired a more fuel efficient aircraft. What did he know? Krump’s very private 747 incorporated the same self-defense capabilities that were developed for the Air Force One jets. The Saudi prince insisted. The Saudi prince got that and the latest in encrypted satellite communication technologies too. Now it was Krump’s jet. Papa used it just like the U.S. president did: to impress would-be friends and inti
midate potential foes, often on the same flight.
The flight crews all worked for KrumpJet, Krump’s corporate aircraft management and services provider. They didn’t own the planes. They kept them flying, supplying pilots, flight attendants, and logistics. KrumpJet was yet another one of the many Krump-owned companies that appeared out of nowhere following the fall of the Iron Curtain. Funny how many ex-Stasi big wheels and ex-KGB fat-cats are billionaires these days? They all had jets and needed them crewed and managed. Jane wasn’t laughing. These people gave new meaning to organized evil. Krump capitalized on it.
KK not-so-jokingly referred to the Krump BBJ as “Papa’s Big Blow Job.” Inside, Krump’s private staterooms gave one the impression that they were in a Vegas whorehouse. Its mid cabin was outfitted with three staterooms. One, complete with a king-size bed and full-size marble bathroom with bidet and glass shower. There was also a fully equipped “playroom” for those with certain other needs. It came stocked with all the erotica, etched and mirrored glass, gold trim, red velvet, black rubber, and leather; not to mention the hundreds of BDSM implements and drawers stuffed full with every conceivable sex toy. It was a wonder Krump One could actually get airborne. God only knows what was going on at Flight Level 350 somewhere over Siberia—Krump One’s last reported position.
While KK and Jane were exchanging their final good-byes in Cannes, the other Krump was onboard the BBJ, staring into the data display of the encrypted satellite com link. Krump One had departed earlier that same day from a secret airfield in North Korea. He was traveling back to the Krump Industries corporate offices in Berlin. Even before his aircraft left North Korean airspace, the newspapers, cable networks, and Internet were singing Krump’s praises. The media was abuzz with rumors that the always-aloof Krump had played a key role in enticing the North Korean ruler to free the two female British journalists. They were on board Krump One along with the UN’s special envoy, a tall stiff-upper-lipped Brit named Churchill. She would handle the PR. Krump detested the media. Bad for business.