by C. L. Black
Jane ditched the girls under the panties in her lap and reached for, Boris…
“Miss Jane—what have you done? Oh. What a lovely brassiere. May I?”
“Yes. If you’d like. And, more Panna please, with a fresh glass, if you’d would, dear,” said Jane, handing Elsa the diamond-studded demi push-up and the glass she’d stuffed with Boris’s remains.
“Right away. Thanks, Miss Jane.” Elsa turned and started forward.
Like to spank that. Jane hadn’t had a day off the clock in weeks. The strain was rubbing her thin. The old girl needed a holiday. Nina… She glanced at the perfume box. It was no good. She lifted her eyes to better recon, Elsa…
Enjoying the smashing view, it hit her. “Bloody hell.” She looked down and pulled the sparkling satin clear. She was in her lap. Elsa, you little slut! You’ve been holding out on Miss Jane. Elsa was one of the three hoods. Right then. That cute little arse was there, in stereo. The first, wiggling its merry way up the aisle. The other, a lovely shade of red glowing in the steamy photo. Little Red Riding Hood was getting hers spanked by the trim, blonde, Mistress, in shiny white vinyl.
Elsa looked the part of helpless Red, dressed in a red skater’s skirt, a cape and the hood, all rubber. The spanker had on a white PVC dominatrix fetish costume. Nice boots. In the photos, White was the one dishing out all the whacks. Where do I know you from? She dissected the mystery woman’s features. Yum. Miss Jane liked what she saw. A real pro, she judged, but couldn’t identify. Mistress White? Not in that bloody vinyl hood. She shifted to the tall one in, black latex…
Jane couldn’t ID that woman either. Catwoman was tallest. Dressed in a polished black latex cat suit and mask, Catwoman also sported a rather imposing strap-on. She appeared eager to use it too. But on whom? She continued to process her intel. The next picture gave a clue. These photos were ripped from a video. She noted the date and time stamp. It indicated the video was recorded on, twenty-four, December. KK was right. Jane was indeed sorry she hadn’t joined her. Bloody hell.
Why hadn’t KK worn a bloody hood? Did she know they were being recorded? Could she not? KK was wearing pink vinyl, a push-up half bra with matching panties, and that waist-cinching corset with way-too-many garters. The fasteners appeared to be gold. Her stockings were sheer, also pink with back seams. Odd… KK had modeled those very same things for Jane last year, two days before Christmas. They were flying back to Monaco. Asked if she looked too old in the outfit, Jane still didn’t think so.
Said she had to entertain one of “Papa’s American friends.” Right. Papa wasn’t in any of the photos. Only four females: two tops, two bottoms. It was clear from the stills, the camera position varied. Who was holding the bloody camera? One more party girl? Or, was Papa holding the camera? Maybe Pete will have some bloody idea who’s who. Katerina—No! He swore she was dead. Boris must have divulged the code before—she died.
Jane Sterling switched off her missing past and switched on the in-flight digital entertainment system. Elsa had promised to secure a recording of the weekend’s grand prix. She used the remote to search the jet’s DVR for the race. Good girl. Maybe the race would help her unwind. She’d missed seeing it live on Sunday. As it turned out, KK really wasn’t much of a race fan either. There it is. She selected Sunday’s race. No sooner had the broadcast commenced when the race was interrupted.
“Bloody hell!”
The LCD went black. “What the—fuck.” The picture was back. The race had been preempted. The same bloody video. KK and the three others. She viewed the video coldly. Been edited. No audio. It only verified what she’d uncovered from the photos. Catwoman was definitely running the show. She was giving the orders, and Mistress White, the skilled dominatrix , was carrying them out. Elsa and KK never protested. Impressive. She viewed it again. Bloody hell! All those hours on this jet, and little Elsa right at our fingertips. Someone needs a bloody holiday.
One hour later, the galley door opened. “You do still want it, don’t you?”
Jane purred as little Red, Elsa, swished past, a bath towel and rubbing oil in hand. Miss Jane didn’t let on, as she was still seeing Red. Elsa removed her sexy white silk blouse, revealing the diamond-studded bra. Steady, old girl…
“Strip!”
“Thought you’d never ask, love.” Jane stood and obeyed Elsa’s orders.
After all, she had been promised a therapeutic rubdown, once they were at cruising altitude out over the Atlantic. Miss Weiss delivered. Neither said a word about the party pictures or the clipped video. On the other hand, Elsa’s flirtations were getting harder to ignore. For some reason, her skillfully administered deep massage only made Jane’s wary muscles stiffen.
“Miss Jane, are you okay? You’re terribly knotted up. Rough night?”
“Could be. Oui. Please do continue, Miss Elsa. Oui… There. Oui…Yeah, don’t stop, love.”
Twenty minutes later, her task completed, Elsa wiped her hands of Jane. “Sure someone won’t join us in the cockpit, Miss Sterling?”
“Maybe later, love.”
“I’ll just leave my poor bra and blouse there. Please ring when you’d like me to come back and return this.” Elsa started forward, leaving Jane flat on the rack with the open invitation.
Though tempted, she had boarded the jet in need of rest, not relaxation. KK had kept her Miss Jane out partying till sunrise for eleven days. She was well past spent. Boris’s note. What did it mean? After seeing it, and the party video, her mind was stuck, screaming at full throttle. She tried to comprehend it all. Not surprisingly, Elsa’s rubdown provided little lasting relief. How could it? Not after seeing her all red and rubbery in those photos. She stood, regained her dignity, and tried not to think about it.
That video? Who else was in that bloody video? She viewed it again and again.
Mistress Sterling hadn’t been this aroused in years. Eight bloody years. Boris and Natasha… “Nein!” She would not let Jane go there. Although Elsa’s rubdown provided a good distraction, it didn’t last. Thoughts of KK waving good-bye. Sweet little KK. Their last evening together. Naughty KK. Elsa… It’s no bloody use.
Jane’s head was full of intel stew and its sexy broth was boiling over. Maybe an old black and white would help simmer her mind. She watched her favorite Bogie classic from Krump’s private collection. Thoughts of Ricki and Ilsa failed to distract her from the video or from Boris’s note. She tried another, this one starring Ingrid Bergman and Cary Grant. Papa wasn’t in that movie either. Neither was, Boris…
Jane couldn’t sleep. Bridal lingerie. Priceless. Really KK. Not this old rogue. For the next four hours, the video played over and over as an increasingly unsettled Jane studied the photos, thinking of past clients and assignments, both recent and distant. She was sure. She had seen the one in white before. Where? When? Jane Sterling forced herself to do something that she’d vowed never to do: revisit that assignment. The assignment she was supposed to have completed the night before they all died. How could it be, Katrina? Jane drifted off.
The Turkmenistan Connection
Located in Central Asia, bordered by the Caspian Sea to the west, Iran and Afghanistan to the south, Turkmenistan was now the world’s tenth-largest cotton producer. Early in 2002, Hush-Hush began investing heavily in Turkmenistan, buying or leasing the best cotton farms. One secret to Krump’s success included bribing the three government ministers who controlled cotton production, labor, and customs. Hush-Hush could undercut the competition, due to their artificially low costs, and still earn higher profits. Her rapidly growing lingerie empire was proof that KK had a lot more going on upstairs than your average vinyl doll.
KK had been taught well. Only the finest. In 2005 she asked Papa’s genetics experts to cross the local plant with a strain of Egyptian cotton. Not only was Hush-Hush genetically enhanced cotton soft, it felt like a million euros, was inexpensive to grow, but also yielded a fiber structure that absorbed nearly three times the moisture. Hush-Hush cotton took eco-f
riendly dyes well and held up to repeated washings. This was most important, given the less than eco-friendly detergents still in use throughout Eastern Europe and Asia.
Krump Industries also operated a massive textile weave and cut facility thirty kilometers outside of Ashgabat. British intel believed the facility in Turkmenistan was more than just a production plant for Kristin Krump’s lingerie business. MI6 analysts had long ago concluded Krump was using the facility to somehow aid the North Koreans in their long-range ballistic missile program. Why were cotton panty components being flown to and from North Korea on a Krump 747? What did any of that have to do with missiles? KK said it was because labor costs were cheaper in North Korea. No one, including KK, believed that.
Krump and his evil associates had long been suspected of engaging in illegal dealings with the most recent incarnation of the so-called Axis of Evil. Last November, a Boeing 747-400 Air-freighter owned by KrumpJet began making weekly flights between Berlin and the Krump airfreight terminal at Ashgabat Airport in Turkmenistan and a military base on the North Korean coast. It was the very base where missiles were being assembled and prepared for a July fourth test launch. London wanted answers.
Operatives were sent in to uncover the truth. On the morning of 10 April 2009, an Afghan national posing as a day laborer was found dead, with his throat sliced and no balls. His corpse was dumped outside the sprawling Krump Airfreight terminal’s entrance at Ashgabat Airport. He was in fact a British operative. None of that had been Jane’s problem. Since Dubai, London didn’t trust her. They suspected Cougar73-S had been flipped. They had no idea the Breeder’s most special KAT was loose and had gone rogue.
With the death of London’s second operative, attitudes softened slightly. A week later, Mum was again contacted by her British client and instructed to uncover Krump’s true agenda, by any means necessary. She quickly deemed KK the means. Nothing more than a pawn on the chessboard. In short, KK was expendable. This time, the client wanted Krump’s balls on a silver platter. Mum was also informed: The Stiletto was to be safely in her repose by 20 June, or they would see it so. Permanently. The client also instructed: The Stiletto was also to stay out of Turkmenistan, Dubai, and the UK. If not, they would put the rogue down. Immediately. Is that understood, dear?
The Monster’s Return
The pink jet, Westbound over the Atlantic, 18:00 GMT
In the galley area, the jet’s captain stripped off her sweaty rubber mask then cracked the cabin door. The VIP, Miss Smith, was asleep but Katrina was not at rest. The captain remained silent as the battle for Katrina-Jane’s damaged soul waged on.
“The monster!” Jane was trapped in Katrina’s childhood nightmare. “Nein.” Only a dream. She called out, “Papa, are you there?” She could see a face. “Sir Katherine?”
The captain didn’t move as the ghost of Sir Katherine spoke through Jane’s lips. “Yes, my brave GoodKnight. I promised to protect you from the monster. Did you see his face?”
“Nein, Papa. Sing, please. I miss you. I’m so tired.”
“Did you take your meds today?” whispered the captain.
“Nein.” Jane’s head jittered from side to side like a child’s. “Please, Papa.” Please don’t make me, I miss you.
“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna buy…” Katrina was asleep.
The captain gently closed the galley door, leaving the child’s lost and tortured soul to some peace.
10 minutes out: The pink jet shuddered. Its Rolls Royce turbofans roared. Awake. Startled from Sir Katherine’s lullaby, Jane’s surroundings came in focus. Only the gear…“Down and locked.” She allowed a breath then checked the window. Precip. Her shoulders sank. They descended through a heavy rain shower. Out the window she searched for terrain but saw only gray gloom through the wet streaks. Smashing.
The seatbelt light flashed twice, followed by the reminder chime. As if the tired old KAT needed any more reminders. Elsa came over the intercom. “We’re cleared to land, Miss Smith. Best strap-on tight.”
If only we had the time, Elsa. Jane sucked in and cinched her lap tight. The nervous jet bucked. The shoulder restraint chafed her chest, providing an unneeded reminder of KK’s good-bye. Two minutes later, they broke out at two hundred feet. A cool dreary gray mist greeted them as the jet pulled up at Signature Aviation, the private terminal. Jane spotted the friendly face in the shiny white trench coat standing under an umbrella beside the black Mercedes. Miss Smith was back in Casablanca. Perhaps this time Ricki would get her Ilsa.
She’s dead, Jane.
Casablanca
Dulles International Airport, USA (KIAD), Tuesday, May 26, 16:15 local
Jane was zipping her boots when the usual customs officer came on board. Freddy was sent to document Miss Smith’s legal entry into the USA. Customs had been made aware by the Department of State that the VIP guest of the secretary would be arriving and was not to be challenged. Listed on the customs arrival log was Miss Jane Smith—Nationality: British—with a diplomatic exemption. Elsa’s revised uniform had Freddy more distracted than usual. Satisfied, he handed, “Miss Smith” and “Miss Weiss” their passports, then went forward to validate the captain’s.
As arranged, a car was waiting, its engine running and trunk lid up. The driver came up the boarding steps with the umbrella, leaving it with the captain. “For Miss Jane.” She took the rollaway luggage and two gift boxes. The captain offered to show the driver the cockpit.
“Really?” The driver stepped into the captain’s domain.
Back in the cabin, Jane was thanking Elsa—“For everything, love”—and helping with the bra exchange.
“Perhaps next time…Miss Smith!” Elsa slipped free.
“Your blouse, love.” Jane deposited the ice-cold diamonds and still-warm satin in her overwhelmed Louis Vuitton beside, the pink card. KK… They watched as the driver delivered her rollaway to the car’s trunk then opened the rear door. After a kiss meant to last, Jane descended the steps, took one last gaze of Elsa and the pink jet, then stepped inside the black Mercedes.
The driver’s instructions were clear. Transport Miss Smith directly to the Mayflower. No detours. Understand?
Seated inside, by the gifts, was a woman. She waited for the door to close.
“This is for you, dear.”
The smartly dressed woman handed over the sealed diplomatic case. Jane reached into her boot, retrieved her trusty stiletto, and sliced the seal. She felt KK’s warm touch as she returned the chrome blade to her boot. Simultaneously, she brushed both index fingers over the two bio-scanners. Click-click. The latches popped. Inside was a single unsealed lumpy manila envelope. She lifted then flipped, emptying the contents into the case. Standard items: secure iPhone, key card. Smashing. More photos. Eight by tens. Two subjects: One, young and…lovely. Two, older and…the client’s subject.
These photos wouldn’t keep anyone up all night. They showed two females, together in public settings—the older in conservative, voter-approved attire. She’d never seen either before. The older one didn’t interest her. Tonight’s assignment. But the other? She took her time with the younger one. Her trim waist. Her long lean legs. Smashing. Her face. Why was her face blacked out? Her too? Hardly. She passed the girl’s body shot to the woman. “Know her?”
The woman smiled politely, studied then returned the photo, but didn’t answer.
Even without reading the client’s action order, Jane was sure. She’d end her day with the older one but perhaps, she hoped, both. What a day. It began with kinky sex. It would probably end with kinky sex. What a bloody life. But it wasn’t a life. It was a profession. The real Jane had no life. She coldly tossed the assignment photos back into the case and picked up the NSA-issued secure iPhone and switched it on.
“You look tired, Mum.”
“So do you, dear. Thank God you’re finally here. You had me worried.”
Jane managed a meager smile then dipped her head. “Sorry, Mum.” Her atte
ntion turned to the device. The iPhone looked no different than the one already in her bag. It was. The new one ran a few special apps that weren’t available at the apps store. She tapped the only icon visible, a smiley face, then, held the device up with the camera facing her. The NSA-improved device recorded her facial scan. She spoke her authentication code. “Cougar-seven-three.” The display changed. She was in. The unit’s special features were now active. She scrolled, searching for her action order, and tapped again. The text read:
Both. 871. 2100 tonight. 3 hrs tops. Promise! The rubber is in the room with more pics. See ya for breakfast. 0900. Don’t be late! You get all the fun ones Mistress. LOL.
PS: Don’t lose this one.
She yawned then tapped the shredder icon. The text disappeared. It was gone forever. This system’s servers didn’t store any messages. She took the postscript to be a reference about the iPhone. She had lost the last one. Everything sent to or from the iPhone was encrypted. It also included a new security feature. If its user was not authenticated, the phone would shred itself and set off alarms at the National Security Agency headquarters building at Fort Meade.
Each time in DC, a case containing Mistress Sterling’s assignment was waiting. This one had been waiting three times before. The iPhone wasn’t hers to keep. It and the case belonged to the US Department of State. Like always, she’d leave it with the case when she returned to her other life in Europe. As the car headed east, toward the capital, Jane’s mind shifted west to all things Smith. Nina. “Shit!” She reached in her bag for her own iPhone. She searched under the bra, still warm, and the card. She didn’t need Mum seeing that, quickly burying it under the bra. Whose?
