Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 The Russian Girl (Part 13)

   By Katzmarek

   Author's Note.



   The lights are dim in the cabin of the seven forty seven high over the
ocean.  It's night out and the shutter is down over the window.  Everyone's
mostly dozing around me but I am finding it hard to sleep.  My mind is too
active thinking about life, and loves and the weird direction everything's
gone since I first met Lina at my studio.



   I think about the last time I was flying and the cute blond teenager who
had snuggled beside me, giving me hand-jobs.  Now she's off to the big time
in Florida to be the next Melissa Joan Hart or something.  MJH with a
Russian accent.  On the way to LAX I spied her tight ass on a billboard for
that jeans commercial she made.  She is one hell of a fox I can tell you. A
fox in a town of foxes.

   She was in Orlando when I left for Europe.  A quick call on her
cell-phone to tell me about her movie and a hurried `see you later'.  No
`I'll miss you' or `take care of yourself and hurry back'.  Somehow her
indifference hurt, even though I'd resigned my self to a lowly position in
her heart.

   Janine had been more emotional, sobbing in my arms and telling me she
loved me.  The only thing I felt then was sorrow for her unhappy
predicament and I once again urged her to leave her husband.

   Part of me kind of hoped she wouldn't though.  As much as I liked her I
couldn't see us having a life together and I didn't want to hurt her.

   Even Christine, her daughter, had given me a long hug.  She had matured
in the few months that I knew her.  She was turning out to be a real
Californian fox as well.  All that lifestyle advice she was receiving at
high school I suspect.  I still felt the impression her little pointy
girlish boobs made in my chest.

   Her father John though was a worry.  He had grown angrier and more
resentful in the infrequent times I had seen him.  I guess it's the
mid-life crisis shit.  He seemed to loath his family, Los Angeles, the Bank
where he worked and me, or what he thought I represented.  You know, that
brash, smart Alec, rich, extravagant LA thing everyone seems to think is
California.  Beaches, broads and making money.

   I spied the dude, one day staring at his daughter with a look I could
only describe as old as time itself.  How long he can keep his grubby,
cock-stained hands off her, no one knows.  I'd given a little warning to
Janine about it but I don't think it registered.  Well!  There's only so
much you can do.



   So!  Here I am over the Atlantic on my way to a new adventure.  Making
my movie idea a reality with a European consortium.  They hired me for
three weeks to develop the script with their team.  It will consist of an
historical consultant, a cinematographer, and a script guy.  All
high-powered and vastly experienced.

   I am having a lot of self-doubt whether I can cut it with all these
worthies.  I just hope I don't make a fool of myself.

   I'm also thinking I might stay on for a couple of months and look
around, treat myself to a holiday.  Hopefully things will have cooled down
in LA by the time I get back.

   The Lufthansa stewardess strolls by.  There's not much for her to do at
this stage in the flight with most people sleeping.  She stops at my row,
noticing I'm still awake.  "Not sleeping"?  She asks.  "Nein," I reply,
"Sitz du," offering the empty seat next to me.  "Komst du nach
Deutschland"? She asks, sitting down.  "Miene mutter ist Deutsch," "Ah,
Amerikaner"?  "Ja, Russiche/Deutsche Amerikaner," I reply.

   You know that time you meet someone and suddenly you're sharing your
life's every detail as if they were an old friend.  In about twenty minutes
we had shared our biographies in every detail.

   Sophia von Wiener-Tretow was born of an Austrian Viticulturist father
and an Italian mother in Vienna Austria.  Her Father's family had long
associations with the old Hapsburg monarchy and had immigrated with the
family to Rudesheim in Rheinland-Pfalz State.  There he worked for one of
Germany's leading wine producers.

   Her mother had been a dancer and socialite in Vienna when she'd met
Otto. Sophia had little of the reserve associated with her aristocratic
lineage.  I guess she inherited more from her mother than dark Italian good
looks.

   Sophia is tall and slim, her long dark hair is tied up.  She has a
Mediterranean complexion with dark eyes her professional make-up can't
conceal.  Her speech suggests the best private school in it's measured
precision.  She tells me she's 24 and joined Lufthansa 5 years ago straight
from Gymnasium (German High School).  She has had a few boyfriends but her
job makes it difficult on relationships.

   I tell her all about Lina, Janine, the porn industry, and California. 
She listens intently and doesn't make judgements.  (Unlike many Americans,
I've found Europeans are far more accepting of unorthodox lifestyles) "You
are in love with Lina," she says, as more of a statement than a question.
"Infatuation from a guy who should know better," I reply.  "Ah!  Ja, you go
to Germany to cure yourself also"?  "Also", I agree.  "When you have
finished in Frankfurt you must come down to my Father's estate.  I'm sure
some of his best vintage will help to cure you," she suggests.  "Will you
be there"?  I ask, smiling.  Grinning back she replies, "See, you are
feeling better already," and we both laugh.

   Sophia's shift finishes in Seoul, however she is staying on the flight
to Frankfurt for two week's leave.  She has been shuttling around the world
for 4 weeks, virtually non-stop, with maybe a day between flights if she's
lucky.  "When do you sleep"?  I ask.  "When I can," she replies, "things
are very tight now, the airline is losing money and we no longer have long
stopovers.  More work, but the same money.  At least I have a job, some
airlines are laying off staff." "You could always work for Aeroflot," I
suggest.  "Gott no!" she looks aghast in mock horror, "At least Lufthansa's
aircraft stay in the air.  Do you know Berlin held one of their planes on
the ground for a week because it had cracks in the fuel tank.  Can you
believe that?  It was leaking jet fuel all over the tarmac and their
Captain came out to look, smoking a cigar, really!  The Templehoff
fire-crew dragged him away, four of the biggest men it took, and they
carried him between them." We were giggling away together, uncontrollably,
at the story.  I could picture the Russian Captain's sang-froid, very
Russian that.

   Sophia presses her face to my shoulder, an arm circles my neck as she
collects herself.  She looks up and we stare into each other's eyes for a
second, which felt like forever.  She shudders and tells me, "I have to go
now, duties," "Ok," I say, "Thanks for the company, it was nice talking to
you." "Yes, a pleasure," she agrees, "It gets very lonely sometimes on this
leg.  See you." She walks off up the aisle leaving me wondering whether
`see you' had the hint of something more.  Her parting glance had been
ambiguous.

   In Orlando, Lina has started work almost immediately.  Time is money and
the schedule is long each day.  They shoot two episodes a week, back to
back, sometimes doing all the exteriors in one go.  Lina loves it all. 
This is her world, she thinks, and is impressed by the film crew's
efficient professionalism.  At the end of each day she returns to her
apartment exhausted and usually goes to bed straight away.  She has a 6am
call each morning for make-up and after a hurried breakfast, starts
shooting around 9am.  They are rarely finished before 10pm.

   Of course that doesn't mean she's on the set all of the time, but the
times between Lina often spends learning lines with her voice coach or on
her own.  There is simply no time to hang out with the hunky guys she spots
around the studio and in any case, with the intensity of the work, she
hasn't any energy for that anyhow.

   In fact acting is all she can think about at present.  She knows that
she kind of blew me off when I left for Europe but she simply had no
emotional energy to spare at the time.  I should have realized that I
suppose.

   Meanwhile, in Redwood Valley Janine is thinking about what I said
concerning John.  She couldn't believe John would molest Christine, but the
way he'd been acting lately, she wouldn't put it past him.  It was getting
harder and harder to cope with his moods.

   She should leave him but they had too longer history together.  She was
afraid of the consequences.  John would make sure she was left without a
penny, he was like that.  His pride would be hurt and he would make them
suffer.  He was suspicious of me and she didn't want me hauled into the
battle as well.

   But, on the other hand, if it was true he was eyeing up their daughter,
she could not let it go on.  Christine was at a very vulnerable age and any
of that sort of thing would destroy her.  She made sure that John was never
alone with her but the strain was telling on her.  She wished I was next
door so she could have a refuge.  As well as sex, of course, that great
reliever of tension.

   I on the other hand was sitting in the airport lounge in Seoul with a
beer and a plate of noodles.  We had a two-hour stop for freight and
passengers and it was good to stretch my legs.  I vainly looked around for
Sophia but of course they have a separate area for flight crews.  I kind of
hoped I could contrive to sit together with her for the rest of the flight.

   She was all businesslike the next time I'd seen her, as we were coming
in to land.  They'd served breakfast and then assisted passengers with
their seat-belts and trays.  I did notice a little smile when she'd passed
but then that's what they'd paid to do anyhow.

   I got the call and resumed my seat in first class.  Company personnel
have to accept whatever spare seats are available after the fare-payers
have found theirs.  I was grateful that 1st class appeared to be
half-empty. Sophia duly appeared and walked down the aisle towards me.  I
was disappointed to see she was accompanied by one of the flight crew. 
They sat together across the aisle from me and began a conversation.

   I decided to be bold.  "So Fraulein!  Ich noch einmal siehen sie".  "Hi,
Herr Bashoff, haben sie einen guten fruhstuck"?  "Ja gut, tu"?  "Ja, ja."
Meanwhile the guy she's with is shooting daggers at me.  Sophia tips her
head towards him and mouths `sorry' to me.  "Enjoy your flight," I say in
English and smile.  She smiles back and just before she resumes her
conversation mouths the word `asshole' with the same tip of her head in her
companion's direction.

   The flight seems to drag on.  I muse how it would seem so much faster
with Sophia sitting next to me.  About an hour into the flight she gets up
and heads towards the washroom.  I wait 5 minutes and follow, hoping to
catch her on the way back.  I stand outside the door for a minute or so,
feeling stupid, when the door opens and out she comes.  "I'm sorry," she
quickly whispers, "They don't like us fraternizing with passengers." "I
thought so," I replied, "Perhaps we could meet for a drink somewhere after
we land." "I'm not sure... ," she pauses, thinking, "Listen!  Can you do me
a favor"?  "Sure, " I answer, "What"?  "When we land, can you be my
boyfriend"?  "Huh"?  I reply startled.  "That man I'm sitting next to is a
senior Captain.  He has been trying to date me and it's difficult to say
no. When we get off the plane, can I introduce you as my boyfriend"?  "Wont
it be strange," I say, "that we are not ...friendlier, on the flight"? 
"Not at all.  The rules are strict, even for boyfriends.  He will think we
are just being discrete." "Ok, sure, darling," I smile.  "When we land,"
she says, laughing, and returns to her seat.

   For the rest of the flight I doze.  I'm looking forward to the little
charade we are going to play and dream up a few lines.

   When the plane descends for landing at Frankfurt am Main I'm full of
anticipation.  I pass through customs and they are waiting just beyond the
barrier.  The guy seems impatient and is looking around, clearly Sophia
told him.  "Hi babe", I say walking confidently towards them.  "Hello,
Eric, may I introduce you to Captain Stresemann"?  He shakes my hand
stiffly and murmurs a greeting, clearly not pleased to see me.  "Eine
moment," I say and before Sophia could react I pull her into an embrace and
plant my mouth onto hers.  She can do nothing but play along and kisses me
back with the fervor of a long absence.

   When we come up for air she is flushed and speechless.  I wonder if I've
gone too far.  Stresemann looks at the ground in discomfort and soon
mumbles his good-byes and leaves.  "I'm sorry," I say, " was I a little
over the top"?  "No, no," she says breathless, "You caught me unawares,
that's all.  Anyhow, it worked." "I guess so," I say, "now what?  Do we
have that drink"?

   We have a quick drink at the bar before she has to catch her train.  She
seems a little embarrassed about our role-play and the conversation seems
strained.  Like there are dozens of things she wants to say but is afraid
to, perhaps.  I share a cab with her to the Bahnhof and walk her to the
barrier.  "Well, will I see you again"?  I ask smiling.  "Meiner Fraulein"?
She chuckles, and takes a notepad out of her purse.  She scribbles an
address and hands it to me.  "This is the vineyard, you can drop by if you
like.  I will be there for two weeks then I'm back to work.  Eric"?  she's
suddenly serious, "Don't expect too much from me ok"?  "I have to start
work next week," I reply, " perhaps I'll come down for a day or two in a
few days.  As for expectations, I'll take it as it comes." "So I've
noticed," she says winking, and goes through the turnstile.

   I grab a cab to the address I've been given by my employers.  I am
greeted warmly by the company PA who has organized a place to stay with the
screenwriter.  It will also be where I'll work so full marks to German
efficiency.

   Jurgen Brunsbuttel (yep, that's his real name) was in his fifties and
had worked in film all his working life.  He's employed by Suddeutsch
Rundfunk as a screenwriter but has worked with all the great German
directors.  Truly a heavyweight by anyone's standard.  Despite his
experience he is warm and understanding and dismissive of my doubts.

   We chat well into the evening about life and the project over a bottle
of whisky he insists we drink.  He is straight down to earth and after the
fifth scotch I'm telling him about Lina, Janine, Sophia and all the rest.
His English is very good, perhaps a hint of an Oxford accent.  "Have you
been educated in Britain," I ask.  "Very good," he says, "Yes, England,
Switzerland, I went to SoCal, also, for a year to study film.  I know
Coppola, Spielberg, Lucas.  Good directors, but such money and
resources...We could make ten Titanics for the money they've spent on it.
You know the Russians make the best models in the world.  There is this
workshop in St Petersburg.  They are incredible in detail, you'll see," he
went on.

   "So you'll be gone for a few days then, taking in the vineyards"?  He
asks with a wink.  "I thought I might sample the local vintages," I
replied. "You Russians are all the same," he says, laughing, "can't keep
your zippers done up."

   Later on we are discussing the film.  "We are making models of the
Suvurov, Alexander the 3rd, Borodino and Orel as well as the Nikolai 1 and
Oslyabya, it opens up like, a clamshell you describe," Jurgen says.  "Yes,
it gets hit in it's bow-chaser 3 inch which explodes the magazine.  The
explosion then opens the hull up, just like that," I agree.  "And rolls
over and sinks.  Franz wants to do that scene, he says it will look
fantastic on screen.  Now, this character, Sergei Witte, he is the loyal
professional, right?  Devoted till the end, cool and efficient and in
contrast to Admiral Rozhdeventski who is impulsive and emotional, yes"? 
"Yes." "Good, I have it.  Now I must go to bed because, as the English put
it, I'm as pissed as a judge." (Americans read; bombed, wasted, blotto,
tanked) With that he staggers off to bed.

   I think I'm going to like it here.

   The next morning I wake with a hangover.  It had to be a beautiful sunny
day so the sunlight is streaming in.  I'm pleased to see Jurgen emerge in a
similar state and makes me some foul smelling stuff he called, `the hair of
the dog'.  It is not till mid-afternoon, and a dozen Paracetamol that I
find the courage to walk outside in Jurgen's garden.

   He really has a nice place, certainly in one of the leafier suburbs, and
has a wonderful view of the river Main.  In the garden, there is a rotunda
with climbing plants growing up the pillars.  It is covered in a
spectacular array of white and pink blooms.  I ensconce my self in the
chair and Jurgen's housekeeper is serving Coffee and Pastries.  It really
is a nice life.

   Jurgen offers to take me to see the exteriors they are erecting at
Suddeutscher's back lot.  They have only just started building sets and
Jurgen is keen to show me what they've done.  I ask whether it's usual to
start building when they haven't even got a final script and the
Scriptwriter assures me it is entirely usual when they are pressed by time
and budget.  I guess I'll have to get used to the way they do things here.

   I do the tour and meet some of the people.  There is an Italian named
Tonio who is responsible for set construction and a Russian everyone calls
`Oberst' (Colonel) who is one of the historical consultants.  He has a
reputation of getting in the way and shouting `nyet, nyet,' while flapping
his arms at some inaccuracy.  Tonio and `the Colonel' argue about
everything, which leaves the Germans quite nonplussed.  Jurgen assures me
he would be disturbed if they didn't shout at one another and told me they
are really the best of friends.  "It is the creative process," he tells me.

   In fact everyone here is expected to be involved in the whole operation,
unlike Hollywood where you tend to stick to your own job.  "For us, the
movie is the thing and we all work together to that end.  There is not as
much jealousy I think between different parts as you find in America." "Yes
there is a lot of jealousy in the American film industry," I agree.

   Everyone puts in their 10 cent's worth too, which is weird.  It's a
wonder any work gets done, but it does.  Sets get built and films get shot.
It seems to work.

   The next day I catch the train to Rudesheim.  It's about 8km from Mainz
on the east bank of the Rhein.  The vineyard is only a short walk from the
train station and I find it easily.  There are grapevines as far as the eye
can see.  I walk into the yard and find the visitor's center.  It
incorporates a restaurant in which you can sample the products over a meal.
I enquire at the desk after Sophia and they suggest I have a seat while
they send for her.

   A minute or 2 later a `fraulein' comes out with a complimentary glass of
wine.  I thank her, even though I still haven't shrugged off the effects of
Jurgen's scotch.  I sip occasionally at it for about 10 minutes until
Sophia appears.

   She is dressed in a pair of bibbed jeans and straw hat, looking like a
country maid.  Her hair is loose, though and cascades about her shoulders.
"So, this is the rich American I'm told has come to visit." "Rich"?  I ask,
surprised.  "Lorie noticed your watch, a Timex, she judges everyone by the
quality of their wristwatch."

   Sophia takes me on a tour of the Winery.  It's industrial in size
turning out huge quantities of wine for export.  "This is our `bread and
butter'," she says, "We keep the best stuff for the Boutique market."

   I am finding it all a bit much and suggest to Sophia that I see the rest
tomorrow.  She apologizes to me saying, "I'm sorry you must be very tired
after the long flight." "Actually," I reply, "I am very tired after a long
night." Laughing she shows me to my room where I rapidly fall asleep.

   It is dark when I dimly become aware of a light knocking on the door of
the guestroom.  "Eric"?  comes Sophia's voice, "Are you awake"?  "Sure,
come in," I reply and sit up feet on the floor.  I'm dressed in my
underwear and vest.  Sophia comes in carrying a tray.  "I thought you'd
like some...Oh I'm sorry," she says, blushing, "I didn't realize...".  "No
problem, here, I'll put a robe on." "I thought you might like some dinner,"
she continues, "I hope you like Pasta." "Love it," I tell her, "Would you
care to sit down"?  I add, noticing she was making no move to leave.

   The Pasta is brilliant and I'm ravenous.  I can even handle a little red
wine.  She sits across the little table watching me eat.  "Eric"?  She says
eventually.  "I want to tell you something".  "Shoot," I say, suddenly
interested.  "I have a very busy life... and I have no time for a real
boyfriend... it wouldn't be fair... No!  let me finish.  You are a nice
man... and I'm attracted to you... but I can't promise... anything...
understand.  Perhaps I assume too much... I'm sorry." "What are you
assuming"?  I ask her, taking her hand.  She looks into my eyes for a long
moment before answering.  "That... you want to sleep with me..." Kissing
her hand I ask her, "Do you want to sleep with me"?

   Still holding my gaze her answer is barely audible, "Yes." I stand up
and gently pull her to her feet.  Her hand presses to my chest and she
says' "There is a shower... ," nodding towards a door.  I take the hint, I
must be pretty smelly, and head into the washroom.  Sophia hesitates by the
door, so I beckon her to follow.

   I turn on the shower and hang up my robe.  She watches me peel off my
underwear and vest.  "You have a nice body," She says.  I suggest she joins
me but she demurs, preferring to watch me.  I shower with the curtain open
while I watch Sophia, watching me.  She has a grin on her face as her eyes
travel the length of my body.  "I hope you don't think I do this with all
the guys I meet on a flight," she tells me.  "Only rich Americans," I
counter.  Laughing, she replies, "They are usually fat and ugly."
Describing a fat belly with her hands.

   Finished, I step out and begin to towel myself.  "Here, let me," she
says, and takes the towel.  I hold my arms out as she pats the towel over
my steaming body.  My cock responds and begins to rise.  She notices and
raises her eyebrows.  I lightly cup her face and run my fingers through her
hair and around her shoulders.  "You are beautiful," I whisper, intimately
and bend to kiss her on the lips.

   I brush my lips across hers and she shuts her eyes.  I nibble away at
her mouth as her lips slowly part.  Soon our tongues are dueling and our
mouths are moving fiercely together.  Drawing apart, she breathlessly
suggests we get more comfortable.

   That means the bed, of course, and I'm glad it's a double.  I lay her
down and we are soon squirming together, kissing and caressing.  She
watches me undo the buttons on her white top, breathing expectantly.  Her
bra conceals two apple size breasts, nipples pressing up into the fabric.
They need kissing, I conclude, and nibble and suck on them, through her
bra. She gasps and holds the back of my head, pressing me to her.

   She unclips the front-loader herself and reveals to me two cone-shaped
brown tits topped with darker, rigid nipples.  Her chest is heaving making
them rise and fall.  I stroke, kiss, lick and pinch them, all the while
she's gasping and moaning.

   We roll over and she sits astride me, kissing and licking my chest and
nipples.  She gradually travels down so that my erection slides between the
furrow of her breasts.  She kisses my cock, which throbs in anticipation.
She seems to examine it closely, in between little kisses and licks, until
she encloses it in her mouth.

   Her mouth glides deliciously up and down my tool while she grips the
base with her hand.  I think of Nome, Alaska on a cold day as I struggle to
control my feelings.  She teases me with her mouth, bringing me to a peak,
then letting me fall back down.  After a while of this I can't take any
more.

   I grab her and wrestle her onto her back.  I growl at her humorously and
she responds with a fake whimper.  I undo her belt quickly and pull down
her jeans.  Her white-lace panties follow and I behold her brown bush. 
Growling I assault her pussy with my tongue, seeking out the moist folds of
her slit.

   She's soon squirming and moaning and humping my mouth.  I won't let her
have it that easily so I tease her the same way she teased me.  I flail my
tongue at her clit until she's starting to climb and then stop.  After a
little while she signals stop.  "Please, please," she pants, "fuck me!"

   I figure I'd had enough too so I slide up between her legs and she helps
me find her entrance.  At last I'm pushing my cock in and out of her and
she responds by locking her legs around me and urging me to go faster.

   I'm soon hammering away at her to the hilt and she's gasping and moaning
and humping me back just as quickly.  "Oh baby... oh god... yes... ooo...
oh... make me... oh fuck... OH... OH... YES... OOOOOOHHHHHH ...
OOOOOOHHHHHH..." She grits her teeth and howls out her orgasm.  Her legs
stiffen and grip me like a vice as she spasms.  A couple of strokes later
I'm pumping a couple of days of pent-up lust into her willing vagina.

   Afterwards as we lay together stroking softly, I think what a lucky
bastard I am.