by C. L. Black
Scrolling her contact list for Nina, she tapped in a text and sent:
Terribly sorry sweetie. Hope to see you tonight? Love MJ.
The concerned woman next to her finally asked, “Is something wrong, dear? You look dreadful.”
“No, Mum. Sorry. It’s rather personal.”
“I see. Any progress on the British matter, dear?”
“Not yet.”
“Peter is a bit upset, dear. He wishes to see you.”
“Couldn’t be helped. Affirmative, Mum. Tomorrow at nine.” She hadn’t been face to face with the client, since that morning. She found it odd he wanted to meet in such a public setting.
“I’m being sacked?”
“Perhaps. You will be able to keep that other commitment, dear?”
“Affirmative, Mum. Tomorrow and next. Then Fridays to Mondays as agreed, except for Silverstone weekend. After that, I should be all yours. Well, unless, Peter.” Face to face. What does he bloody want? I’m sacked. Why hasn’t he told me what makes this one so special?
“Very good, dear. Sure you’re well? You look worn.”
“Have you seen her yet? The boots. Have you seen them? Are they really hers?”
“No dear. Not yet. I did see this.” Mum handed over a laptop.
Jane opened it and scrolled through the Web page. Her eyes went wide. It was page three of a German celebrity gossip site. “Bloody hell! Sorry.” Today’s hot lead story featured several pictures of her and KK taken around Monaco, including some long shots of her with a topless someone on the sundeck of the Knotty Girl. The caption read: Germany’s hottest billionaire party girl all tied up with notorious British Femdom, as mysterious Papa works for world peace. The inset showed a grainy image of Papa boarding Krump One taken earlier that day. KK had lied. Papa was in North Korea. “More rubbish.”
“Look at the next one dear. She’s gotten much too thin. Is she eating?”
She advanced to the next Web page. “What the bloody hell!” The image showed a topless KK standing with Jane in the doorway of the Gulfstream.
“Taken today?”
“Yes, she’s eating. Plenty! Stuffed her face full; myself, just this morning.” A less sentimental Jane scrolled down to the next photo. It contained a link to a video clip. “Bloody hell,” escaped through her clenched teeth.
“However did they get that one, dear?” Mum was pointing to an image ripped from the clip showing KK across Jane’s lap, getting spanked.
Sunday afternoon on the Knotty Girl. She recognized it immediately. “Oh, that. She was throwing a bloody tantrum. Found her vodka all gone.” Jane dropped the lid on KK. She’d had enough of that doll for this week. “Thanks, KK.” So much for discretion.
“I see. No bother. At least your cover is still intact. You gave my regards to the prince?”
“Yes, Mum. Sends his as well. He informed me that his people still believe the crash to be an accident. Their DNA test confirmed it was Katrina’s remains. Oh, yes—he also looks forward to seeing you when the Council next convenes.”
“How nice. He’s such a good boy. What do you think happened, dear?”
“Maybe for you. Dubai? I don’t believe in accidents.” Jane dropped the NSA-issued iPhone and key card into her shoulder bag then placed the two gifts into the case covering the client’s photos. Closed and locked it. Their car was soon to arrive at the Mayflower.
“Oh dear, I almost forgot. How do you like the new wardrobe?”
“Loved it, Mum! Can’t tell it from traditional latex. Your prince certainly didn’t notice any difference.”
“Wonderful, isn’t it? Elaine hopes to begin our first production run next week.”
The hotel’s doorman pulled. Jane prepared to disembark.
“Thanks for the lift, Mum. I’ll meet you and the new kitten tomorrow as scheduled.”
“Jane.” Mum’s lip trembled as she took Jane’s hand with both of hers. “Thank you, dear. I don’t think I ever could manage this without you.”
“Not to worry, Mum.” After a quick embrace, Jane took a firm hold of the case and exited the Mercedes. “Cheers.” She managed a false smile before the car’s heavy door swung shut. Pete, Boris, Elsa, Miss White and the girl in the boots with no face were crowding her mind as she escorted the bellhop toting her luggage into the lobby.
Nina… Nina passed by without a word. Ouch. Jane took command of her luggage and made straight for the elevators.
Always Second
Room 869-871, 17:05 local
Inside the usual suite, soaking in the bath, Nora’s CD was spinning in the Bose. Jane’s thoughts drifted back to their last week in Monaco. They’d been a real couple last week. At least KK thought it was real. They had attended the numerous VIP parties surrounding the Grand Prix. Jane did compete in the Porsche Supercup race on Sunday, finishing second. Always second, never first. The way KK kissed her afterward, you’d think she’d won. KK wasn’t shy. No, she made sure the paparazzi got plenty of money shots of herself, arm in arm with her trophy Domme. If felt so real, the unbridled joy on KK’s face when their names were announced at the royal reception given Sunday evening for the Grand Prix competitors. “Presenting the Countess, Kristin von Krump, and her companion, the honorable Dame Jane Sterling.”
“Oui.” She had insisted KK wear something formal that evening. Something black. At least cover your fanny. Thankfully, KK did as instructed. Her KK always did as Miss Jane instructed. Few in attendance were aware of what the honorable Dame Jane Sterling had done to earn her knighthood. All the same, KK made a point to proudly introduce her hired date as Dame Jane Sterling to everyone. She wasn’t concerned that her dame was already well acquainted with many of the other royal and wealthy guests. The past doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter, anymore. “Oui.”
KK never dwelled on her or Jane’s past. She was smart enough to know that the past was past and could never be changed. Some things were best forgotten. Jane’s past wasn’t what KK wanted. She wanted Jane’s future.
The music? Nora’s latest CD had finished playing on the Bose by the bed. Jane’s eyes opened. It was time. Lifting her hands out of the water, they looked all white and puffed. She thought it was all getting a little old, and wrinkly. She’d been in the tub, soaking and reminiscing, for nearly forty minutes. She reached back into the murky water to find her still-buzzing razor and finished shaving. Jane was living a life of lies. KK didn’t deserve this. Oui. The Krump assignment was different. KK wasn’t some random subject she knew only from the intel.
Nein!
She didn’t need any bloody intel to tell her. She cared for KK—oui. She felt that tingle again.
Ja.
Every time she looked into those green eyes, she saw that same bony-assed scared girl she rescued eleven years before. Should have bloody well refused. Earlier that same morning in Cannes, she had seen something else in those eyes. She saw her lover. Bloody awful love. Never should have … Miss Jane—have to pull the plug. Why didn’t she? She was in way too deep. Any deeper would require a wetsuit. Have to get out, and soon. Oui…Oui…
For the second time in her life, Jane Sterling wasn’t using her head. She was still using her razor, though. She couldn’t do it. Not to KK. Not now. Oui…Not ever. Or, so she told herself. She pressed the razor closer and closed her eyes. Oui…That’s my good little … Miss Jane squeezed her little vinyl doll tight. “Oui!”
When Jane regained herself, Katrina was standing, staring back into the tub. Holding the bath towel around her, she watched the water drain. All gone. Only the razor remained, still buzzing as it danced around atop the porcelain. The razor slowed, its battery drained. Soon she would be drained and gone, down the drain. The old KAT knew that reality all too well. Someday soon Dame Jane the GoodKnight of Sterling would be gone too. Pity.
Chin up, baby!
Shocked back to Jane’s reality by the sight in the full-length mirror, the distant voice in her head was back. She didn’t recognize the face. It wasn’t hers. Who
is that cow? She let the towel fall. Bloody awful, you are. Jane’s face signaled the GoodKnight’s displeasure. She hadn’t worked out in months. Getting old. And fat too. She sucked in, that tummy, and debated if she’d pass inspection. She’d better, or the client would pull her plug. Younger models always get the best jobs.
“Bloody candy.” The Cougar snarled. Didn’t experience count anymore? Tomorrow, she’d get a chance to judge for herself. How did she get those bloody boots? She left the towel where it lay, left the bath, and grabbed the client’s special iPhone from her bag, then went over to the bed and opened the case.
Time to get acquainted with Mistress Sterling’s naughty new subject…
Their Catherine, My Katherine
Arlington, VA. 17:05 local
The Mercedes had pulled away heading out of the city, over the Potomac, retracing its route into Virginia. The woman Jane called Mum sat back and closed her eyes. She was very tired from a stressful day. Mum allowed herself a quick snooze. She would need it and all her inner strength. Her destination wasn’t far. A nice happy home, not far from CIA headquarters in McLean. She hadn’t been for a visit to the Blacks’ residence in eight years.
If not for the tragic events of 11 September 2001 and the subsequent closure of the Blachmann Academy, one young Miss Catherine Black would by now know her true destiny. Yes, she would have just completed a third year at Blachmann. Instead, those events sparked major changes in the destiny of said Miss Catherine Black. Since that day, her parents thought it best that she remain hidden.
Hidden in plain view, the Blacks lived with assumed names under cover of Washington DC’s exclusive suburban shadows. Or so they thought, until the day the boots arrived.
How did she get those boots?
Had Krump unearthed their elaborate deception? Or was it the Breeder, extracting more blood? Her parents broke their silence, sending word to the Lady Christi London Black, now in her sixty-eighth year, to come collect their Catherine. She didn’t use the Lady or London Black, preferring Miss Christi or, simply, Mum.
Never knowing any parents, Miss Christi was delivered to Blachmann, as were most, on her fourteenth birthday. The year was 1954. It was there she met and would later find love with her Katherine. Together they shared thirty-four intense and passion-filled years. Though her Katherine had departed in 1988, their special love still burned bright. For within Miss Christi’s ageless heart, they were still soul mates, and death could never change that.
Two years after her Katherine’s tragic downfall, Miss Christi began writing historic fiction. Her works, most still unpublished, were based on the true secrets hidden deep within the granite foundations of Blachmann Castle. Their true facts, still classified Most Secret by British intelligence, remain buried in the file archives known only as Branch 6, Section 9, Department PS. Not long after the horrors on that dark Tuesday, Miss Christi’s writings took on a new purpose. Her steamy novels now contained coded messages. She used them to communicate with the most recent ghosts of Blachmann Castle.
After months of resistance, Miss Christi agreed. “A tryout of sorts,” she informed them. She would have the young Catherine Black spend the summer at Blachmann. According to the parents, their Catherine had had an increasingly troubled youth since entering the tenth grade last September. Until last Friday, Miss Black was a student at a very exclusive boarding school located not far from their home. Wearing those boots to class was the last straw.
That same afternoon, the school’s headmistress had made her opinions known to a belligerent Catherine and her somber parents. The headmistress tossed around the words
inappropriate, excessive truancy, and dress code. Each was mentioned several times. She also made it a point to add the term odd behavioral issues. It was code for: your daughter is a nutcase! Her mom had already heard enough when the headmistress closed with the kicker, “Miss Black won’t be welcomed back next September.”
Miss Christi would have but the three summer months to assist young Catherine in, as her mom, Kate, put it, “Getting your shit straight!”
In town the evening before, Miss Christi was disappointed to learn Jane was not there as expected. Both Cougars were scheduled in Langley for a special meeting concerning Blachmann’s future. She was also there to make her annual visit to the graves of three loved ones. Her day had dragged on, consumed by a tense and, at times, terse meeting with the room full of gentlemen. With Jane’s absence, it should have been over by noon. Not so. Recent events had caused their agenda to be extended. All present wanted only one question answered.
Who gave the Stiletto’s kid those damn boots?
Miss Christi thought her days of dealing with such “gifted” young ladies were long behind her. It was in 1991 when she first took charge of the second Blachmann Academy. The curriculum only slightly revised, she remained headmistress until 11 September 2001, when the school was abruptly, and without ceremony, shuttered. In her all-too-brief time as headmistress, Blachmann had become well respected by society’s upper crust as the only proper school for those “special and gifted, but troubled” girls aged fourteen through twenty-two. Since its official shuttering, Miss Christi had continued to provide her unique brand of home schooling to but a select few. “Strictly as a favor, dear, and without charge of course,” for those special young ladies still dear to her and her departed Katherine.
The first Blachmann Academy was founded in 1947 by the late Sir Katherine Black, using funds discreetly provided by the CIA and funneled to her by the British secret intelligence services. If the real purpose of Blachmann were ever to be discovered, they could each point a finger at the other: the Americans claiming it was entirely a British program, and the British claiming they knew nothing about any Blachmann Academy nonsense in America. While Miss Christi was no longer Blachmann’s headmistress, she did still legally own and reside at the expansive ocean-side estate that once housed the academy.
The old Blachmann estate was located in East Hampton, New Hampshire, overlooking the Atlantic. The estate once encompassed several thousand acres. What remains, still known to the locals as the Castle, was completed on April 15, 1912. Its builders had just finished hanging the owner’s portraits when word of the great tragedy was received. The owners had sailed aboard H.M.S. Titanic. Sadly, it was to be their last voyage. They died with Titanic, never having seen their dream fulfilled. It wasn’t to be the last tragedy to effect the masters and mistresses of Blachmann. Would there be more? Would Mistress Sterling be next?
That chilling thought was still pressing on her when confirmation of the pink jet’s departure was received. At exactly 05:54 local this day, Miss Christi London Black was returned to active status in the employ of the CIA. Not on my watch. All present held their collective breath as she reviewed then signed the necessary documents. The Blachmann academy and Project Stiletto were officially out of mothballs.
With that done, and Jane delivered safely to her hotel, Mum was on her way to meet young Catherine. She would stay this night at the parent’s home. Greatly concerned for their troubled daughter’s welfare, they feared they may have already lost their young Catherine to the evils of a corrupt world. Thank goodness Miss Christi had packed plenty of her special tea.
Only a short distance from her destination, the Mercedes slowed abruptly. The driver spoke. “Looks like a wreck ahead. Yeah. Ouch! Uh, don’t look, Mum! It’s a bad one. Best settle back. Could take a while to clear the mess.”
They weren’t going anywhere. The driver raised the privacy divider, got comfy, and fired up her iPhone. She then tapped in to a live streaming video that would preoccupy her while they waited for the cleanup.
Miss Christi smiled and followed the advice. Her eyes felt so heavy.
Tits and Clits
Room 869, the DC safe room, 18:06 local
Old or not, she was intrigued by the cryptic note included with the lingerie. Tits and Clits… Somehow, Boris… No; KK knew she was booked in at the Mayflower. The client saw to
the adjoining rooms: 869-871. Prior to her blackballing, Mistress Sterling had visited these rooms several times a year, always when congress was in session. Her last stay was six weeks previous. The client’s mucky-muck had canceled at the last minute. The trip wasn’t a total loss. She had spent the evening in the T & C, reminiscing. She also made a new friend. Nina…
Tempted by the note, and not wishing to spend the evening alone in her room until the subject showed, Jane decided she’d chance it with Nina, and recon the hotel’s lounge. Just one drink and perhaps—
Boris! Was a piece of fresh white candy already waiting down there with her name on it? Down there was the Town and Country lounge located at street level in the Mayflower. The T & C was their favorite place to enjoy a drink and a steak together when the KATs crossed paths in DC. It certainly beat room service. There was also the mental diversion its testosterone-filled atmosphere provided. Frequented by the current crop of power brokers for democracy, by this time of day the T & C was sure to be crawling with wolves. And there was its storied history, not to mention, the piano…
Jane found the piano’s notes relaxing, even romantic. Not at all like the note—from whom? With the piano playing in the background, the bar vaguely reminded her of Rick’s Cafe in the movie Casablanca. Well, it made for a good fantasy. Katrina had told it to—only Boris; their last night together. Of course it was only a fantasy. Jane played, Ricki. Just like Rick, she always killed the bad guys. But unlike Rick, Ricki always got the doll. All the dolls. Ja, Nina… “Oui…”
For nearly forty years, the Town and Country was the daily hangout of FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover. Hoover was a real-life Captain Renault. Keeper of all the secrets, no one in DC dared to cross him. During his reign, and when in town, Hoover always lunched there, seated at the same table by the window, facing Connecticut. He wanted everyone to see him, even those walking by on the street. His Soviet watchers ate there too, every day, to see who was lunching with the director. Although Jane never met him, some nights she swore she felt his presence. Hoover retired permanently in 1972.
