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.




























