Warner took the fire escape two stairs at a time. He hurried up the hotel’s east wing and made it to the top step, catching the Cannes Police in the process of breaking the door in.
“Officer, my name is Kiki. Please don’t arrest me. I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” a petite, busty blonde girl, not a day over eighteen, pleaded.
“Pardon, your name is—what?” The officer grabbed both of her hands behind her back.
Who calls themselves Kiki?
“Ouch! It’s Kelly Izatt. I’m from New York, please don’t—”
The task force pushed her to the side.
Warner stepped around the Kiki girl, looking for whoever was in charge. “I’m Warner Truman, owner of this hotel.” He handed his card to the uniformed officer, who was taking control of the situation.
“Man of the hour.” The detective greeted him with sarcasm. “Any idea what you have going in here, Mr. Truman?”
“This room is the VIP suite held for Air Euro Airways executives. Hôtel du France contracts a standing reservation with their team yearly. I don’t understand—”
“Monsieur Truman. We’re charging your airline friends with public indecency.”
“Add drug possession.” Another officer came out with a ziplock bag filled with white powder.
Inside the room, there were a few people handcuffed.
“They’re shooting a porno.” The officer pointed at the camera equipment.
He turned to see the short blonde he’d passed standing in the corner. Her eyes had filled with tears. Warner approached. “Are you with Air Euro?”
“Not exactly,” Kiki replied with a shaky voice. “I work for Brill, Inc.”
“What’s that?”
“A media firm.”
“What’s your airline connection?”
“Monsieur Jérôme du Tautou lent us the room. I didn’t know it’d get so crazy. I—” She started to sob but managed to say she was truly sorry.
“If she’s not on the reservation, we can charge her with trespassing,” encouraged the officer whose badge read “Gaston.”
Warner confirmed with a nod and stepped to the side, witnessing the American pressed against the doorway.
“Dejon! Please don’t let them do this to us,” Kiki shouted to a tall man against the wall. She started to cry so hard a female officer came over to help cuff her. She was then carted off with the actors, camera crew and the tall guy named Dejon.
* * * * *
Midtown, New York, NY
Princess Lolly costume fitting? Check. Candy Land Ball was all set.
Lipstick & Lead Rifle Range? Check. Two rounds had been fired.
Dominatrix sling class? Double check. Whipped and then beaten.
Feet soaked in eucalyptus? Working on it.
Taddy had followed Kiki’s suggestion. She’d spent early Saturday afternoon at Exhale Bliss Day Retreat on Fifth Avenue. The Neve Adele account could wait until Sunday. Taddy had selected the perfect bright red shade in a translucent crimson base with a top glitter coat.
“Mr. Kim Lee, let’s do my toes in this Baden Cosmetics color called Stilettos Slamming.”
In agreement, he took the nail polish bottle from Taddy and went to work on her feet. A favorite of Vive’s and Lex’s, Mr. Lee had been voted by Harper’s Bazaar as the best pedicurist in town.
Flipping through an expired Debauchery magazine copy, she sipped her jasmine tea with an artificial sweetener. The hot beverage soothed her tender throat, which felt raw from smoking the entire Nat Sherman pack last night.
The pedicure chair vibrated under her ass and stimulated her hard nub. She positioned the pleasure zone in the seat just right. Why didn’t I do this sooner? She made an effort to escape to Candy Land. Months had passed since she’d played Princess Lolly. But who would she fantasize about with Brayden Brooks, Gilad, Dr. Fassenbender, Jose and Díma all crossed out? Big Daddy slipped into her conscious. As much as she wanted to avoid thinking of him—she couldn’t help it.
Mr. Lee scrubbed her soles. It felt euphorically good.
I need this. I deserve this. Please. She grabbed the seat’s remote, set the vibration speed at five and moaned in a low voice, “Ooooh…Mr. Lee, you want some.” Imagining gumdrops, she attempted to get into Candy Land. She couldn’t.
Determined to get off, she upped the chair’s speed to ten—ass rocking, legs swinging and vulva buzzing. Suddenly, Taddy recalled taking Asian language studies back in college with Blake, who during their freshman year had experienced a major rice queen fetish. Figuring Mr. Lee was Vietnamese she muttered, “Du, du.”
“Huh?” Mr. Lee stopped scrubbing her feet.
Taddy rested against the seatback and sang to her own tune in her head. A Waris Sugar song titled “Pinky Licking”.
Mr. Lee resumed his foot-cleansing duties.
Irritated she couldn’t make herself pleasure trip, Taddy grabbed the remote, increasing the chair’s speed to fifteen. Teeth chattering, breasts jiggling, her crotch hummed. Now we’re talking. Her honey hive about to wet, she figured Mr. Lee must be Chinese, not Vietnamese. She pushed her back muscles into the chair and over her Easton Essentials blouse, she twisted her left nipple with her right hand. She panted, “Mīmī, mīmī.”
“Please.” Mr. Lee smacked her calf muscle with a foot file, perhaps intending to be kinky.
She took his paddle whack as an invitation to go further. She’d learned this technique from Dominatrix Queen-Dick Dupree hours earlier in the day while taking her BDSM class. Upright in the chair, she jolted the speed to twenty, figuring he mustn’t be Vietnamese or Chinese. Mr. Lee was from Korea! Resting the fashion magazine against her stomach, as to be inconspicuous, she slipped her right hand down her cashmere sweatpants. She sang the Waris Sugar lyrics to the track out loud.
I’ll smack your back.
Now lick my crack.
Fuck my twat ‘til its whack.
Mr. Lee’s eyes widened.
“You want some Taddy-lic-icous-kitty?” She moaned in Korean, “Segseu, segseu.” Taddy’s fingers played with her clit’s hood, getting close to going to Candy Land.
“You are freakin’ me out, lady. I’m gay—knock it off!” Mr. Lee shouted at her in an accent that wasn’t Vietnamese, Chinese or Korean. Hell, he didn’t sound Thai, Japanese or Filipino either. He poured cold water on her feet, probably wishing she’d cool her jets.