Cruise, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Cruise
by Jurgen von Stuka
ISBN: 978-1-939916-46-4
A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication
Copyright © 2013, All rights reserved
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers.
For information contact:
Pink Flamingo Publications
www.pinkflamingo.com
P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083
USA
Email Comments: comments@pinkflamingo.com
Preface
If you think piracy, kidnapping and deadly violence on the high seas should be punished by a slap on the wrist and with the perps sent home, don’t bother to read this book.
Who ever thought that in the twenty-first century, the world’s oceans would once again hold the threat of piracy and human slavery?
Who ever imagined that the great powers of the globe: Russia, Germany, China, Japan, the United States and others, would dither and procrastinate about how to deal with piracy at sea? Heaven forbid that anyone attempting to highjack any vessel on the high seas might be shot or simply thrown over the side.
Due process? Who is kidding whom? You attempt to take control away from the duly authorized operators of any vessel and you do so at your own extreme peril.
But, alas, we live in a time of political wimps and so, it is incumbent upon any captain to protect himself, his crew and his vessel.
Who would have imagined that daring dolts from third world countries with little more than small arms and tiny boats would succeed in holding major nations hostage while demanding huge ransoms for the vessels they attacked and abducted?
While the world seemingly ignores these foolish brigands of the sea, lives are lost and millions of Euros and dollars are handed over to arrogant and dangerous little men who have learned that few nations’ leaders have the moral integrity or courage to take steps to stop them.
“Oh, it’s a very complicated matter of international law,” the fools in national capitals say.
How sad that we no longer have Teddy Roosevelt, Churchill or even Stalin around to give these pirates their deserved reward: a resting place at the bottom of the ocean with a few ounces of lead in the head to make sure they stay there.
Mega-Yachts such as Altuna are common on every sea and ocean. These days, many of them are well armed and, aside from the occasional warship on patrol, still pose the only real threat to pirates. For that reason, it is only the foolish and unwise who challenge these multi-billion dollar private vessels at sea. In this story, one might find a model script for how pirates and slavers could effectively be dealt with and wiped out in a short time, if only the great nations had leaders who would courageously demonstrate that no vessel under their flag can be taken by force and no crew held for ransom without fearing immediate and deadly retribution, political correctness be damned.
Prologue
Who the Hell is Bibi Lynx?
Bibi, whose real name was Bibita Wolf Lynx, 26, easily could have walked away with the Miss Germany title any year she entered. She was exactly what most foreigners thought every German Frauline should look like. She was nearly six feet tall, medium boned, with a well-muscled body devoid of fat. Men immediately focused on her rather large and assertive 38DD breasts that more often than not were unbridled by anything as pedestrian as a bra. These assets were complemented by a narrow waist, no visible belly, reasonably wide, but well proportioned hips and long legs that tapered up to meet her shoulders…or at least seemed that way.
Bibi usually scared off prospective suitors just by looking too good. Most men assumed that anyone who looked like her could not possibly be interested in an ordinary man unless he matched her looks and poise. So, inevitably, she often dated men at both extremes of the spectrum. On occasion, she ended up with the glamour guys who were married to their mirrors, deeply dedicated to their own looks and wanted a prize package of a woman on their arm. Now and then, really for fun, she accepted the invitations of rich men or even the occasional royal who assumed that they could buy anything or anyone they wanted. She was seen, on rare occasions, at The Regent or the old Adlon in Berlin, The Mandarin Oriental or Marks in Munich and the Frankfurter Hof in Frankfurt. Her closest friends knew that the way to charm Bibi was to take her to a sumptuous five or six-hour dinner at Fischers Fritz, Tantris or Sonnora, the hidden and most exclusive, Michelin Star restaurant in the far west of Germany. Bibi knew her food and wine, but was equally comfortable in some dingy cellar bar in any city.
Most often, for company, she sought out the smart, quiet guys who were computer wizards, math or physics majors in university and who thought dining out meant having a meal at the hofbrau house every six months or so. None of these choices suited Bibi and she spent a great deal of her personal time traveling when and where she could afford it, riding her pride and joy 1500 cc Yamaha road bike and staying fit.
For hobbies, during the warm months, she would visit nudist camps and beaches where she was usually left alone, again intimidating those who figured that she was out of their class. To balance this, she studied languages and several different types of martial arts, from classical judo to Karate and Tae Kwon Do, intent on protecting herself and others around her if the need arose. She had enough belts of various colors to impress anyone except herself and always figured that self-defense was really only last-ditch defense. Her instructors and competition audiences loved her, especially when, in a tense contest, Bibi might inadvertently suffer what the media called a “wardrobe malfunction.” Unknowing and unwise observers, on occasion, teased her, calling her a “studio manikin” because they felt that although she was good at drills and competition, they doubted she had the mental conditioning to use the killing arts on anyone for real. But her instructors knew that in real life situations, she was fast and adroit at using deadly force. She continued to practice and amazed most instructors and her peers with her strength and ability to smash both live and inanimate things with a single blow.
“It’s not strength,” she would say. “It’s the ability to focus.”
Few people were ever inclined to test this theory with Bibi.
For more about Bibi’s adventures, see the von Stuka novel, AFTER SCHOOL, also from Pink Flamingo Publications
Chapter One
The Device
Bibi’s client of the moment, Mark Colbert, the ridiculously wealthy Austrian business executive, suddenly decided that he needed to be somewhere other than on this gigantic cruise vessel. Without telling anyone but the vessel’s captain, he jumped ship in the Azores, helicoptered to meet his private G50 in Tenerife and flew off to Madrid, leaving most of his personal staff and bodyguards on board to await his promised return when the ship reached its next port.
Bibi was bored and hoped that someone or something would come along to relive that boredom. It was after 2300 hours, ship’s time, and most of the tourists on board were either throwing Euros down the black hole that the cruise line laughingly called a casino or had already gone to bed. Thus, the suggestion of some after hour’s fun by Nate, the barman in the Stratosphere Lounge, got more attention than it might have otherwise.
“Exactly what do you have in mind,” Bibi asked the good-looking, dark-haired young barman whom she had been flirting with on and off for the last three days.
“I get off at two,” he said, slowly wiping the brass and mahogany bar surface that separated them. “We could take a walk around the deck. It’s quiet at this time of night.”
“And do what?” Bibi asked, smiling and leaning over the bar just enough to display large portions of her superb chest. “By two, I’m usually pretty much ready for bed.”
“Well,” said Nate, who was about Bibi’s age and in similar fine physical shape. “We could skip the walking and just camp in Pomperoy’s cabin. He’s got some pretty interesting stuff.”
“Interesting stuff? Like what?” she asked, frowning.
“Ah, he has a hobby that’s sort of like, well, whips and chains, if you know what I mean.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. But I thought that since you mentioned last night that you had an interest in bondage, it might be worth checking out. You gotta see it.”
“Well first, Nate, I think you may have misunderstood what I said. Working on crime cases where bondage was involved is not the same as having an interest. But I must admit that I find the practice and some of the fetishes that often go with it to be fascinating…within some boundaries.”
“Oh, sure, right. I didn’t mean…” Nate quickly added, sounding embarrassed.
“And where will Mister Pomeroy be while we occupy his concierge level penthouse and check out his bondage gear?” Bibi laughed, thinking about some of her past BDSM experiences and wondering how the rest of the night might go if she agreed to this invitation.
“He’s, well, I guess it’s fair to say that he’s otherwise occupied with Jean Groff. In his other cabin.”
“…which is, if I remember correctly, just down the corridor…” Bibi added quickly.
“Right. But no worries. They are both cool and no one would bother us until after noon.”
“Oh yes. Jean is pretty cool. I know. She’s working with me on this cruise.”
“Right. I think she’s hot,” said Nate. Then, realizing that the remark was possibly counterproductive to his goals, he said: “Not that you aren’t, I mean…”
“Forget it,” said Bibi. “I know what you meant. We are traveling together because we like each other, in and out of bed. Does that clarify it enough for you?”
“Yes, Bibi. Sure.”
“And by the way, you may have the wrong information because the way I heard it, Pomeroy is breaking in some shipboard bimbo tonight. Jean had another date on the Isosceles Deck.”
“Really? I thought they were pretty tight. Jean and Pommy.”
“Whatever. It’s not important, unless you had visions of Groff adding to the pile in bed.”
“Ah, no,” said Nate, looking nervous all of a sudden.
“But you did ask her, didn’t you?” pressed Bibi, enjoying watching the barman squirm a bit for his sexual forwardness.
“Yeah. Sure. Three is often fun and you both are tens, so I tried and struck out.”
“Well, don’t give up, Nate. But let’s go back to what makes you think I’m ‘interested’ in bondage?”
“Uh, you mentioned it last night.”
“I did? After how many of your deadly Arctic Thunders, may I ask? My interest?”
Bibi, not especially inclined to drink anything with a mixture of alcohol in it, had fallen in lust with Nate’s proprietary drink, Artic Thunder, which she knew was heavily loaded with Aquavit and several exotic grappas. Two of these potent specialties had been known to topple large men. Bibi found the beverage stimulating…at least until the next morning.
“Yeah,” said Nate. “You told me about the case where you got chained to the wall of the old windmill in Amsterdam.”
“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
“And now you want to get it on with me in the penthouse?”
“Yes.”
Bibi said: “Okay. Let’s do it. Can I meet you there at, shall we say, two fifteen? I need to pick up a few things in my cabin and make sure I have no messages. After all, this is a paid job and I am supposed to be looking after my clients, even in the middle of the night.”
“Right. Two fifteen at the penthouse suite, 3A. I’ll bring the bubbles. Your choice, pink or white?”
“Tough choice. You decide, but no more Arctic Thunders, okay?” Bibi said, getting up from the bar chair and stretching. It was nearly one thirty in the morning on the third night out of Miami and the ship was making top speed across the calm Caribbean Sea. She was off duty until 4 p.m. the next day, so she thought that Nate’s plans might actually work out. Besides, she was looking forward to some kinky sex and Nate seemed like the best choice among the five thousand people on this monster cruise ship presently headed, somewhat circuitously, for St. Thomas.
“Well, what do you think?” Bibi asked Nate as she posed briefly with hands on hips when he opened the door and let her into the most luxurious suite on the ship. She was dressed in an incredibly tight, black calfskin jump suit that left nothing to the imagination. The single front zipper was halfway open, displaying her perfect boobs and tiny waist. The zippered lower legs of the suit encapsulated her thighs and calves as if the leather was her own skin and the five-inch, black patent heels set off the outfit perfectly. Her jewelry was minimal: just large silver hoop earrings and a sterling silver studded black leather collar with alternating D rings and heavy circular rings around its circumference. She wore elbow length black leather gloves and her blond hair was in a tight single braid that extended down below her shoulders. From what Nate could see as he surveyed the package, Bibi, as usual, was not wearing any underwear, at least not on top. Below, he guessed that she probably wore a minute black thong and nothing else.
“Do come in,” Nate said, bowing deeply and ushering Bibi into the sumptuous penthouse that extended across the entire width of the upper deck and had fantastic views of the ocean not only on both sides, but also aft. Nate wore a pair of snuggly fitted leather slacks, a matching black calfskin vest and black motorcycle boots. He walked to a sideboard and held up a bottle of vintage Krug Rose, one of the best champagnes the ship’s cellar could offer and asked, “Shall I pour or do you prefer to take control?”
“I think…” said Bibi slowly, still surveying the surroundings and studying the evil-looking chrome device centered in the middle of the sitting room, “...that I want to try that,” she said, obviously intrigued.
Highlighted by multiple pin spots from the ceiling, it was a sort of heavy tubular frame structure with arms and legs and other extensions reaching out to her, seemingly inviting her to join it in some alien and pornographic position. Bibi studied it carefully. It was a bit like a bed frame, but not rectangular. There was nothing she could compare it to in terms of how it looked or what its function might be. The multiple circular steel fittings appeared to be suited to holding body parts, like wrists, thighs, ankles, waist and neck. All one had to do was figure out how to attach one’s self to it.
“Be my guest,” Nate said quietly, returning the chilled bottle to its ice bucket and stepping over to the eerie device. “Shall I help or do you want to figure it out for yourself?”
“You sit down and relax. Pour two glasses of that French elixir. I want to try this myself,” said Bibi. “The Krug should help us enjoy the show.”
“Okay,” said Nate, turning towards the counter and starting to open the bottle. “I went into the cellar for this and noticed that the supply of what is our most costly champagne and perhaps the most expensive one in the world is slowly decreasing, thanks to your boss and the guy who owns this suite. Sorry I couldn’t bring a bottle of that up.”
“What was it,” Bibi asked toying with parts of the hardware device on the floor.
“Dom Perignon White Gold in a Jeroboam,” Nate said. “Supposed to be worth forty thousand dollars.”
“I am inclined to doubt that. But I know people who would easily pay that if it’s that special. Is it vintage?”
“I suppose so, but the real price factor is the bottle made from white gold. It’s probably a rare year as well, but with Champagne, who cares?” Nate said with a shrug.
Behind him, he heard zippers and the muffled hush of soft leather on flesh illustrating what he knew was the rapid removal of the leather jump suit, the clicking and clinking of metal on metal and then some laughter and giggling. Still, Nate remained facing the dark starboard windows, carefully unwrapping the top capsule of the bottle and watching the reflections of Bibi stripping off the suit, shoes and, yes, a black thong as well, leaving the clothing in a black leather heap on the floor while she embraced the chromed monster squatting on the deck.
Naked, Bibi knelt in the center of the machine. Nate saw her raise one slim ankle and lock it into a wide metal clamp shackle, then, do the same with her other ankle, leaving her on her knees with legs spread wide. Removing her own collar and tossing it behind her, she placed her neck in the thick metal collar that rose from the frame. Nate heard the collar snap locked. Bibi was now held by ankles and throat. She eased herself forward slightly on her knees and reached out her left hand, placing the wrist into one of the gleaming cuffs. Instantly, the spring-loaded, leather-lined, wide circle of shiny metal snapped closed, entrapping her wrist and pulling her body forward. With the agility and strength she maintained from her daily workouts, Bibi reached forward with her right hand and allowed it to be locked into another cuff. Now she was trapped in the chrome machine, immobile with her arms, legs and neck securely restrained in steel. She hummed a few tuneless bars of some opera prelude and relaxed her legs, slumping downward in a cruel suspension, the five cuffs of the frame holding her a few inches above the softly carpeted floor, her blond head and full breasts hanging down and the braid almost touching the carpet.
