Stiletto Dolls

by C. L. Black

  “Are you not hungry, Miss Jane?” asked Natasha, seeing Katrina already dressed and ready to leave.

  “I think after our last night together, you really should drop the Miss.”

  “Last night? You’re not staying?” Natasha sat up, modestly holding the bedsheet with both hands as her lover approached.

  “Sadly, no, my dear. I have a breakfast engagement.” Jane set the tray. “Promise Mistress you’ll eat.”

  “I promise.” The bedsheet fell, exposing two ripe breasts. “Cancel. I’m free all day.”

  “Actually,” Jane remained discrete as she sat on the bed and kissed the beautiful doll. Just to be safe, she kissed Boris’s doll once more and said, “That’s not true, love. I rescheduled your senator for this morning. Eleven, sharp! Miss Jane expects that you’ll be on time.”

  Miss Jane… “What?” Natasha lips now tasted bittersweet. Her body tensed. She pulled the sheets, covering herself. “When did you do it?”

  “Yes, dear. At dinner, when I replied to MK’s message, canceling your rendezvous.” Jane’s face gave no hint as she stood.

  “What! Why? No. Please.” Natasha’s face sank. She surrendered. Her heart slowed as she released the heavy sheet. This time, she stretched her hands high above her head and yawned, taking in the deepest breath. The sheet slipped completely away. Holding her breath, she presented a lasting glorious reminder of what Katrina was losing. “Please. Not yet.”

  “Sorry, love.” Jane swooped in, kissing each of them. “Can’t stay.” Her voice remained calm and, much to Natasha’s dismay, her eyes never wandered, staying locked in hers. Those bloody blue eyes. She had to get out of there.

  Natasha pouted out, “Will I see you again?”

  “Perhaps. If you promise to be a good girl.” Jane kissed, Boris’s mouse, on the lips for the last time. Once more should do.

  “Yes, yes, I promise!”

  “Wait for your mistress in bed, just as you are. She’ll be back soon, love.” Picking up her heavy shoulder bag at the door, she paused for one last view. It can’t be. She contemplated breaking the breakfast engagement. “Duty calls.” Jane reached for the door.

  Natasha struggled against the effects of the lipstick’s powerful hypnotic, Triazolam. She shouted, “Wait!” She pushed the tray off, spilling the half-empty glass of juice. She flung the luxurious bedsheets, throwing them over the tray as she leapt from the bed. Except for the vinyl-covered panties, the doll was completely exposed. Tripping over her things, Katrina’s forgotten love ran to the door and pulled. “Wait, Mistress! Wait!

  Did You Enjoy Yourself

  Hotel Reception, 08:59 local

  Feeling the strain on her right shoulder, Jane regained her own presence to find herself in the lobby, standing at reception. The young lovely repeated, “Did you enjoy yourself with us, Miss Smith?”

  “Always, Miss…” Setting her overloaded bag on the counter, she glanced at the name tag. “Cockney. Very much, so.” Patricia. “Lovely.” She reached into her bag and removed the gift box. “Would you be so kind as to give this to the young lady who works in the piano lounge? Nina. Comes in about five. Gets off before one. Know her?”

  “Yes, Miss Smith. Quite well.” Miss Cockney perked up. “We’re roommates.”

  “Small world.” She handed over the package, certain that Nina could never afford anything so expensive on what she earned waiting tables for the, cheap mucky-mucks. “I do hope she will still accept the gift.”

  “Yes. I’ll bring it home. Is that card for her as well?”

  Poking out of Jane’s bag was the pink card, still unopened. “No, dear. However, this one needs to be delivered to the young lady still in eight-six-nine. Jane produced a small red envelope. “It’s most important she receive it with the breakfast I’ve arranged. She’s still sleeping.”

  “I understand, Miss Smith.” She rang, requesting a bellhop.

  “Do tell our Nina I hope to have time for her when I return next week. Perhaps you might join us?”

  “Next week? I shall Miss Smith.” Miss Cockney smiled.

  Jane discreetly stuffed, the card, and with it, all thoughts of KK, deep in her bag. “Cheers.” She marched off down the gilded hallway, on her way to the Mayflower’s opulent main dining room. The client was waiting. She wasn’t looking forward to the long-overdue meeting with the client. I’m bloody late.

  These days, the client was responsible for high-profile US dignitaries, including sitting and past presidents, cabinet officers, ambassadors, high-ranking judges, senior senators, and ranking congresspersons, and/or their significant others. His job was to ensure that none of them got caught in any activities that might reflect badly on the US or any host country, where said embarrassment may have taken place. The job kept him on the road much of the time.

  Every president since Roosevelt had been made aware of the covert arrangement known only as the Blachmann Charter. The program was classified ULTRA—so black, nothing leaked. The charter was originated in the early thirties, by Roosevelt, and in conjunction with the coronation of J. Edgar Hoover, the untouchable head of the newly renamed Federal Bureau of Investigation. Roosevelt had made a secret pact with Mr. Hoover. Neither could afford any embarrassments. Both had closets full. It was agreed that the Black program would be cloaked under the neutrality of the Department of State inside the Bureau of Secret Intelligence. Almost eighty years later, the Blachmann Charter remained the same. Simply put, the client’s job was to prevent embarrassment, if possible. If not, do whatever he deemed necessary to sweep it under the nearest rug.

  A holdover from the previous administration, the client also functioned as the chief liaison between the secretary of state and the intelligence community, domestic and abroad, in any related matters. When it came to the secret lives of the political elite, Jane knew there wasn’t much going on around DC that the client didn’t know, or would know.

  The Cougar stopped at the entrance to the dining room. This was to be their first face to face in eight years. The client hadn’t told her anything about the subject other than her sexual interests. The subject had skipped three rendezvous. Finally made it here last month only to find the client had bloody canceled. The client didn’t give the reason. Clients never give bloody reasons. Why, Mistress Sterling? Pete’s subject didn’t seem to warrant her level of expertise. Not from his skimpy intel at least. Should think Miss Wet and the candy girl would have been sufficient to keep her cogs lubed. Just another bitchy politician. What in the bloody fuck is he up to? Right, the kid in Boris’s boots. Just another bloody escort assignment.

  She was sure of one thing. Someone was bloody lying.

  Part II

  The New Game

  Nine Sharp

  McLean, Virginia, USA, Wednesday, 27 May, 09:00 local

  Ding-dong…

  Miss Christi checked her watch then struck her knuckles against the bedroom door. She stiffened her voice. “Nine sharp!” My Katherine never was one to keep a lady waiting. She rapped again. “Time to go, dear,” and with a kinder tone, added, “I set out a bowl with cereal and milk for you. Your favorite.” She glided down the stairs to greet Danielle. “Good morning, dear. Miss Black is not quite ready. Please come in.”

  “Thank you, Mum.” Her restless driver entered with purpose. “I know.”

  “Join me for some tea?”

  “May I use the powder room first? Please. Been a long night.” She needed to go. “These new nappies are great, but…” She smiled, anticipating her impending relief.

  “Certainly, dear, it’s just there.” Miss Christi pointed. “Please, take some time. Refresh yourself, my dear.”

  “I won’t be long.” Danielle disappeared behind the door.

  A few minutes later, she joined Miss Christi in the kitchen. She spied the waiting bowl. Cheerios. “May I?”

  “Please do, dear. Anything significant develop overnight?”

  “Thanks. No Mum.” She sat, filled the bowl and poured some milk. �
�Lights out at zero-one-zero-five. The parents, asleep at zero-two-zero-two.” Crunch, crunch. “Sensors detected no movement until zero-six-thirty-seven. Pass the sugar, please. Bathroom then back in bed at zero-six-forty-one. Thanks. Didn’t wash her hands.” Crunch, crunch. “Dropped Sam at the Mayflower at zero-seven-ten.” Crunch, crunch. “Picked up your flowers and was back on station at zero-seven-fifty-eight.” Feeling a now familiar rumble, crunch, crunch, she reached into her blazer’s left side pocket and withdrew her iPhone. “It’s vertical.” She tapped the display, selecting standard mode. The visual provided by the video feed proved entertaining as she devoured Catherine’s breakfast.

  “Has Miss Jane checked in?”

  “No, Mum. I’ll let her know we’re tracking to plan.” Danielle thumbed in the text and sent it, then resumed her surveillance. “She’s dressed. Same as last night.” Yum.

  More minutes ticked away. Miss Christi busied herself preparing a second pot of tea. Danielle policed up her table area then loaded the waiting luggage. Upon her return, she carried the tea service to the family room. They sat on the sofa. Without prompting, Danielle readied two cups, sat back, and resumed her surveillance. Nice hair. “She’s almost ready. Here you go, Mum.” Wow! Those boots are hot. Ouch.

  “Make sure to be careful of the boots.” Miss Christi lifted the fresh cup with its saucer. “Thank you, dear.”

  “You’re welcome. Yes, Mum, I know. Those heels are deadly.” She tasted the tea. “Mmmm, I really like this flavor.”

  “Yes, but don’t let on, dear.” Miss Christi giggled. “Wait till you see them on her.”

  “Oh, I already—” seen them and more. Danielle regrouped. “Mmmm, this is really good.”

  “Yes, dear, I know. It’s Peppermint Burst. I thought a sweet distraction, to calm my nerves. I felt you might require some too, given the circumstances.”

  “What?” She tore her eyes free. “Right, Mum. This is way better than the bloody Black Stallions I downed last night.” She made an it-tasted-yucky face. She enjoyed another sip of Peppermint Burst, further cleansing the Black Stallion’s trail. “This sure beats the horse piss I—” Danielle covered her mouth. “Sorry, Mum.”

  “Perfectly understandable, dear. Very attractive, isn’t she?”

  Footsteps… Danielle noted the time, (09:43), “for the report, Mum.” She played it cool as God’s gift to all mankind strutted down the stairs into the foyer and struck her favorite pose. Not again.

  Yes again. The Black kitten made her grand entrance, dressed the same as last night, in her slut-sexy Little Nikita outfit, with one addition—a shiny black patent leather shoulder bag. She’d also invested considerable effort in her face and hair. The overdone makeup and, especially, the big hair, gave Catherine a more adult look than two weeks shy of sixteen. She stood there at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed, ready for a verbal brawl.

  W-T-F—Who are you?

  Too bloody much. Danielle was seeing it full size for the first time. Too much hair spray. I can’t wait to get my hands on that hair.

  “I see you’re very attached to that outfit, my dear.”

  They scanned the subject from head to booted toe.

  Danielle tried not to laugh. “Pretty Woman? Or is it Pretty Baby?” She ended with a snicker.

  “Miss Wright!”

  “Sorry, Mum. Couldn’t resist.” She’s beautiful.

  Pretty Baby couldn’t ignore the reference either. She fired back, “So what if I do? I don’t give a fuck about what you’re wearing!” Hey, why are you wearing that? “Why should I care what you think?” Shit. Where’s my mom?

  “Like your Coach,” offered Danielle. The olive branch was rewarded by a smug brat face. Undeterred, she dipped her eyes and tried again. “Love those way-cool boots too. Sooo, where’d you get ’em?”

  “Bet that’s not all ya love,” said Catherine under her breath as she struck a very adult pose. Yeah, you like what you see? Don’t ya, baby. Me too! Fuck me. Granny sure scored us one hot limo driver. She gave Miss Wright a little eye-thrashing then finished her off with a hair flip.

  Hand crafted in 1940, those old boots were real attention-getters. They could also be quite distracting—even deadly. Catherine had already learned how much distraction they could be, in the two weeks she’d worn them in public. One day at Tyson’s Galleria, some random guy was staring at her so hard he walked right into a wall. She thought it was pretty funny. The guy’s wife was so pissed. That wasn’t her problem.

  Pretty Baby looked around and listened for a minute, then whined, “What the fuck! Where’s my fuckin’ mom and my dad?”

  Danielle set the tea and leaped to her feet. “Left about eight, princess.” Come on, baby. I’m ready, if you are, baby.

  Miss Christi reached out, placing a gentle hand on Danielle’s arm before she took a step. “Regretfully, they each were called away by an early meeting, my dear. My-my, Miss Catherine, you’re quite the perfect image of a young femme fatale, standing there in those silver-heeled boots.”

  Catherine looked at Danielle with a puzzled look on her face. What did Granny call me?

  “Said you look hot.”

  “Oh. Thanks, Gran.”

  “Yes, dear, so stunning, those boots of yours.” Miss Christi’s eyes were fixed on those way-too-sexy-for-her-age black patent leather boots, trimmed with red lacing and four-and-half-inch chrome metal stiletto heels. “Where ever did you get them, my dear?”

  “Glad you like them,” retorted Catherine, ignoring the question though loving the attention the boots invited. Her own eyes were still locked on the, attractive and fit, young, driver up then down and back up. It did no good. Fuck. They already left. She went to the garage then checked outside. Her parents’ cars were gone. That same black car from yesterday was in the drive. “Hey, blondie! Where’s your horse?”

  Danielle perked up. “I got six hundred of ’em, under the hood. You want to see ’em?”

  “Whatever.” Catherine flipped her long sticky hair. She thought of her missing mother. She’d gone to a lot of effort to piss off her mom, only to find she’d already left the house. They didn’t want to see me off for the summer. Great! I spend like, a half hour putting on this getup, and…she’s not even here. Fuck her! Well, at least Granny and her pretty nice blonde bitch are appreciating the effort. Time for some fun. “Fuck-um!” She had the room’s attention.

  They observed the two long legs strut over and plop into their father’s recliner. Her right hand pulled the small lever. Wham! Her trim torso fell back and out went those oh-so-long and brazenly uncrossed legs. Same as last evening. The life-size brat doll acted as if they weren’t in the room. Must be a trademark. Danielle sat then slowly lifted her eyes. What a waste.

  Catherine removed her best friend from her shiny Coach and began tapping. Concealed by her oversprayed frozen locks, she kept one eye fixed, studying Danielle. Blonde bitch. Frick me. Didn’t plan on a hot chick driver. Nice britches. The rest ain’t bad either. Why’d she have to be blonde? She thumbed in another text.

  Won’t be long till MK ditches Granny and her BB.

  CU soon.

  They’ll never catch us. LOL

  MK can’t wait to have my BP again.

  Whack! Whack! Love MK.

  Keeping up her own sneaky surveillance, Catherine tapped Send. Blondie looks a little saddle sore. Why the fuck is she dressed in that? “Hope the hot bitch brought her riding crop.” Fuck me! I said that! She slammed her eyes shut, so angry at herself for the lip slip. “Fuck!” She felt her face burning. She figured the best defense was to go on the attack. “Hey, you! Yeah, you. What’s with that gay riding outfit?” Why you dressed in the English dressage riding suit?

  “Well…did ya?” Wanna take a ride on my pony?

  The stare-down began.

  Don’t let her suck you in. “We should be going, Mum.” Danielle stood. Catherine looked even better from that angle. “Let’s go. On your feet, princess.”

  “No nee
d to hurry, dear. Miss Catherine, some breakfast before we leave?”

  Miss Christi finished her tea. Smacking her lips, she enjoyed the last bit of the peppermint. “Nothing then?” After an appropriate pause, Miss Christi and Danielle rose from the sofa. “Well, then, perhaps it’s time we began this journey, my dear. Gather your things.”

  Danielle stood by at the ready. Come on baby, try something. Anything. Please.

  “Got everything I need, Gran.” She dropped her phone back into her Coach and patted it. “Right here.” She kicked the footrest, slammed it stowed, then dragged herself to her feet. Her too-heavily-applied perfume would soon find its way to the roof of Miss Christi’s mouth, causing it to burn with increasing intensity.

  Her Coach contained only the necessities: iPhone, lots of makeup, including a tube of strawberry red lipstick, cherry-flavored lip gloss, her iPod Nano loaded with girl songs, her red Skull Candy earbuds, a small nearly-empty bottle of perfume, a pack of her mom’s Trident White with three pieces left, two super-plus tampons, and a backup panty liner.

  Her wallet contained one hundred and sixty-three dollars, her fake ID, and three pictures. The first was of her dead cat, Squeaky. Another showed her mom and dad in happier times. The last showed her best friend with her mom, taken during spring break by the pool at Disney World. She had more pictures of them all together on her semifunctional iPhone; the memory card was full. She didn’t pack a charger. She’d left a spare at her friend’s house the week before. Mom said to plan ahead.

  “Catherine dear.”

  “Huh?”

  “Didn’t your parents inform you of my intolerance to perfumes and latex, dear?” Miss Christi was visibly upset.

  “Oh, did they?” She sounded like a spoiled little brat. “I don’t remember them saying anything.” Latex? What?