Posted by Strange Dog on December 06, 2005 at 20:29:26:
Death and Love—For Spies (Second Variation)
DISCLAIMER:
To anyone who reads this:
I have written the following story to help myself and my friends, both men AND women, deal with our fantasies of erotic demise. This story is ONLY A FANTASY. I would rather die myself than have a real human being really hurt in an attempt to make this fantasy a reality.
—the author
STORY:
Death and Love—For Spies (Second Variation)
by Strange Dog
“Come on, James. Don’t look so long-faced. Accept that it has to be this way. Accept that I want it this way. Like they say—death is the best orgasm of all. That’s why they save it for last.”
For once, Double-Oh-Seven failed to come up with a mordant return quip. He just stood there staring at Double-Oh-Six, codename “Mandy.”
She was slender and willowy, with superbly long, lean legs and a small but perfectly proportioned frame. She was the ideal “size six”—the word around M.I.-6 was that was the reason why, in one of his rare moments of cute wit, M had assigned to her secret agent sequence number “six.” She made herself seem taller than she really was, the way she carried her shoulders proudly up and back and her head erect. The overall appearance of her facial features was classically Nordic but with the few charming quirks that made Mandy uniquely Mandy. Her forehead was handsomely high and broad. Her high cheekbones were strongly defined. Her long jaw tapered elegantly to a small, delicate, yet well-defined chin. Her nose was strong and prominent, with a bit of an upturn. There was a delightful little beauty dimple at the outside corner of her right eye. Her eyes themselves were a grayish shade of pale, ice blue. They shone with a liquid iridescence. If one gazed directly into her eyes long enough, it seemed that her left eye was a bit bigger than her right. Her mouth was the ideal size and her lips the ideal degree of fullness. Her long, straight hair was blonde—not artificial platinum, but natural honey-gold. She wore her hair in a simple, unadorned, free-flowing mane. She did not put a part in it; rather she wore it uniformly pushed back from her forehead and then falling in long, fluid strands along each side of her face. Some strands flowed luxuriantly over her right shoulder, just reaching to her right breast. Other strands were draped out across the contours of her left shoulder while the rest tumbled far down her back outside the collar of her shirt. In sum, charmingly unique quirks included, she had a look that was half Valkyrie, half All-American Girl.
Mandy’s clothes were simple and sharp yet consummately elegant. She wore a plain, crisp, professional woman’s white office shirt. The shirt had turn-back French-style cuffs fastened with rhinestone cufflinks. The middle button of Mandy’s shirt was directly over her heart and perfectly centered between her breasts. Mandy wore her middle button fastened, but above the middle button, her shirt was open, revealing the smooth flesh of her upper chest in a plunging “vee” neckline. Her wide, long, pointy, high-standing shirt collar formed angular planes of cloth that complemented the angularities of her facial features. Mandy wore her shirt tucked into a slim, simple, black miniskirt. The only ornate item in Mandy’s tastefully austere ensemble was the belt of her skirt. Her belt was made of intricate strands of metal beadwork that came together in a large, embossed metal plate at the front. The belt was reminiscent of the trappings of some ancient, warlike barbarian culture. The belt of her skirt snugly gathered in her shirt, accentuating the contours of her deliciously small, firm breasts. And Mandy’s high heels—her black, open-toed high-heeled sandals gave her an added few inches that made her an imposing tower of beauty. She had painted her toenails, like her fingernails, a pale, understated metallic lavender.
As Bond pondered Mandy’s loveliness as she stood before him, his mind coldly reviewed the events that had brought them to this bitter pass. Blofeld’s normally bumbling goons had finally managed to do something right: they had stolen M.I.-6’s top secret Level 1 Code Disks. Fortunately, the Level 1 Disks were useless without the corresponding Level 2 Disks. The M.I.-6 Cryptographic Section had destroyed the Level 2 Disks within minutes of discovering the loss of the Level 1 Disks. New and different Level 1 and Level 2 Disks were being made at that moment. But—and an unfortunate “but” it was—as former chief code writer of the Crypto Section, Mandy still had the contents of the old Level 2 Disks in her head. The results would be catastrophic if she were ever captured by Blofeld and interrogated under torture. M had been adamant. The risks were too great. For the good of the Service, Double-Oh-Six had to die. Mandy’s parent agency, the allied American CIA, had concurred. As a courtesy to Mandy, she had been allowed to select the means and circumstances of her own death. That’s why Bond was here. She had asked for him by name to do the job.
“Look at it this way, James,” Mandy spoke up matter-of-factly, trying to snap him out his silence. “When you kill me, I’ll have an experience I’ve waited for all my life.”
“And I’ll have an experience I’ll regret all my life,” replied Bond, finally finding his voice again.
“I’ve tried to make things as easy for you as I could,” rejoined Mandy, a trace of exasperation coming to her voice. “I had this room set up this way to facilitate things.”
Bond furrowed his brow as he listened to Mandy explain at length how she wanted to die.
“You see that I’m standing here with my back to the wall to make it easier to shoot me. I want a single twenty-two caliber bullet square in the middle of my chest, straight through my heart. Center the bullet between my boobs. Put your point of aim directly below my middle shirt button.”
It seemed to Bond that Mandy was almost relishing the details of her impending death. She went on.
“Twenty-two slugs are small and light, so the bullet won’t knock me sprawling. I’ll be able to sink down gracefully while I die. Plus, with such a small bullet, the bloodstain on my shirt will be small and neat. I think a little red circle will look cool on the crisp white cloth of this shirt . . . sort of like a rose petal on my heart.”
She’s relishing this indeed, thought Bond to himself as he listened intently. Only a woman would put so much thought into making her own death a fashion statement. The dark underside of his soul was starting to get interested. Mandy continued.
“You see that stainless steel exam table over there?”
Bond nodded. “Yes.”
“That’s there for a reason. You’re going to lay my dead body on that table and then—James, I want you to love me when I’m dead.” Mandy saw the arch that suddenly came to Bond’s eyebrow. “Let me clarify that. I want you to fuck me when I’m dead . . . James, work with me on this. If I have to sleep for eternity, I want to sleep with your bullet in my heart and your jizz in my love box.”
The man who had bedded beautiful women from Pussy Galore to Tiffany Case by way of Mary Goodnight found himself nonplussed for the first time in his existence. Luckily for him, Mandy went right on with her monologue, sparing him the need to say something witty.
“You can just hike up my skirt while I lie on the exam table and do me. Again, I’ve made it easy for you. I’m not wearing any panties.”
Bond felt his gray matter churning inside his skull. Still Mandy went on.
“Then it will be time to finish this. You see that casket over against the wall with the lid open—I’ve already tried it out; it’s real cozy. I selected a casket with a white lining to color coordinate with my shirt. Anyway, after you love me, just lay me in my casket. Lay me out neat and straight. Smooth out the wrinkles in my clothes. Make sure you spread out my hair on the pillow to make a halo around my face. Then kiss me goodbye, fold my hands crosswise on my heart, close the lid, and leave. Team Omega will come in and take possession of my casket. They tell me that by order of the Queen, I’m going to have a cozy little crypt in Saint Paul’s to call home. That’s quite an honor for a Yank . . . James . . . are you with me?”
Bond cleared his throat. In a fraction of a second he recovered his normal sang-froid. “Yes of course, Mandy. It will be my honor to accommodate you. But I have a nine-mil, not a twenty-two. I’ll have to go borrow one.”
“No you won’t,” asserted Mandy.
Bond just looked at her as a sly grin came to her face. He tried to keep his eyes from widening as he saw Mandy hike up her skirt and draw out the tiny twenty-two caliber automatic pistol from the tiny holster that was strapped to her upper leg. She held the pistol gingerly by the barrel in her right hand. She took his right hand with her left hand, uncurled his fingers, laid the grip of the pistol in his palm, and closed his fingers on it. She let her hands return to her sides. She spoke.
“There ya’ go. Now let’s do this, okay?”
Bond, his mind feeling distended, looked down at the pistol in his hand. Then he raised his head and found Mandy’s eyes gazing steadily and calmly into his. She drew herself up tall and proud and gave him a faint, serene smile of expectation. He stepped back two paces. He raised the gun and leveled it at the middle of Mandy’s chest. There was a “click” and the safety catch was off.
She stood motionless before him. Her feet and legs were tightly together. She held her shoulders up and back, pushing her willing chest forward to receive the bullet. She let her arms hang naturally down at her sides. And still, her shining pale blue eyes stared deep into his.
“Tell me when, Mandy.”
She closed her eyes. She laid back her head and took several deep breaths, her chest slowly rising and falling. She opened her eyes and brought her head level again. She transfixed Bond with her stare. He saw that her facial expression had suddenly taken on a hard, stern character, as if she was contemplating the few moments of intense pain she was about to experience on the way to the death she wanted. Her lower jaw was clenched hard, making her delicate chin seem broader than usual. There was the slightest bit of dishevelment in her hair as one fly-away strand feathered out from her head while the mass of her golden tresses spilled at random over her shoulders. Then Bond saw Mandy raise her eyes slightly to focus on a point in the air just above his head. She spoke. Calmly, evenly.
“Shoot me.”
BANG!
“UNH!”
Bond saw it all happen in slow motion.
The little round red wetness blossomed on the white cloth immediately below Mandy’s middle shirt button. Her eyes closed as she laid back her head, raising her face toward the ceiling. Her whole body stiffened as her arms bent at the elbows and her hands opened, her fingers spreading themselves wide.
Mandy felt it all happen over a distended eon of time.
She was overwhelmed in a cascade of sensations that came one after the other. In reality, each sensation lasted only a micro-second. But to Mandy, each micro-second seemed to be a long chapter of eternity. She felt each new sensation begin before she felt the previous sensation end. The flash and bang of the gun were still registering in her mind when she felt like she had been punched very, very hard in the perfect center of her chest. Then she felt the tip of the bullet break her skin in front of her heart. Then she felt the lower end of her breastbone shatter. Then she felt shards of her breastbone go spinning and ripping through her heart. Then she felt a hot, heavy lump of lead rupture the front of her heart and she felt that hot, heavy lump shudder to a stop in the depths of her heart. She felt her own eyes snap shut, she felt her own head reel back, she felt her own legs lock rigidly upright, she felt her own forearms fly up and her own fingers splay out . . . she felt her punctured heart thump and thud as it desperately tried to beat around the bullet.
Mandy stood that way for a long, suspended moment. Then she slowly started to buckle at her knees. She bent forward slightly at her waist. Bond could tell that she was consciously striving with her last strength to keep her descent to the floor as graceful as possible. Her arms relaxed and hung naturally along her sides once more as she sank down. She brought her head level, her facial expression unspeakably serene as she let Death envelop her. Her eyes gently closed, she murmured to Bond so softly he could barely hear.
“You got me.”
Mandy continued sinking down to die, feeling the slug heavy in her chest, feeling the lightness in her head, feeling gravity and death pulling her down, but determined with her last thoughts to make an elegant show of it. She ran her hands down along her legs to balance her fall as her legs folded beneath her. For a short but distinct moment, she balanced on the balls of her feet as she sat on her heels, her legs folded double, her knees together, her hands cupped on her knees. Then she extended her left hand out to one side, placed it flat on the floor, and used the last strength of her left arm to support her as she laid herself out flat on her back. As she laid herself down, she pivoted herself out and away from the wall in order to have enough room on the floor. Another murmur escaped her lips.
“I’m dying.”
Mandy laid herself out flat on her back on the floor with her head at Bond’s feet. Her arms were spread straight out to each side as wide as they could go. Her palms faced up at the ceiling, her fingers lightly curled. Her long legs were gracefully splayed out with her knees slightly bent. Her chest arced upwards toward the heavens, the little wet red circle on crisp white cloth perfectly centered between her breasts.
But. . . .
Mandy was not yet still. Bond had seen many beautiful women die before, but Mandy’s performance was something new. Her chest pumped, her chest heaved, up and down in great slow waves of sweet agony. With each heave of her chest, a long low moan passed from between her lips.
Mandy was beyond pain now and she reveled in it. The nerve endings of her shredded heart muscles kissed the lead slug embedded in her chest and sent shock waves of ecstasy surging to the tips of her toes, the tips of her fingers, the ends of her hair. With every heave of her chest she felt herself falling deeper into her death orgasm. Through her closed eyelids, the light became concentrated and deliciously blinding . . . she felt herself becoming one with the Universe and she felt the Universe sliding out from under her. . . .
She murmured her last two words in time with the last rise and fall and final rise of her chest.
“I’m . . . Dead. . . .”
Mandy lay still. Her long hair lay all about her head like a golden halo. Her eyes were gently closed in a calm expression of welcome sleep.
Bond stood there, motionless. His arms hung slack at his sides, the pistol dangling loosely from one hand, as he canted his head forward to contemplate Mandy as she lay gloriously spread on the floor before him. He noticed for the first time the small red and green tattoo of a rose discretely placed just above her left ankle. In a normal situation, he would have been amused and charmed by the tattoo, but now, it only gave him another reason to regret the spirited quality of the life he had just snuffed out. He clicked the safety catch on the pistol back to “on” and put the pistol in his pocket. He took another long gaze at Mandy. He rubbed his face with his hands. He let out a big exhalation. He took a few steps to stand at her side. He knelt beside her. He slowly worked his left arm under her back and his right arm under her knees. He lifted her up, cradling her in his arms.
He carried her over to the exam table that was a few paces from the bier on which the casket rested. Her wide-spread arms flopped a little with each step he took, her downward-hanging head bobbed lightly, her long-hanging hair swished gracefully—the upward thrust of her chest was exaggerated as her back lay across Bond’s left arm.
Bond brought Mandy to the shiny, stainless steel exam table and laid her upon it. He methodically aligned her arms and legs, and patiently arranged her long tresses to form the halo about her face that he found so arresting to admire. Then he stood back a step from the table, and for long moments he contemplated the composition he had formed of Mandy’s glorious dead clay.
He felt himself become light-headed with awe as he stared at her. She was flat on her back with her body laid out in a neat, straight line from the topmost lock of her hair to the tips of her high heels. Her arms and hands lay close along her sides. Her hands lay on the table surface palms up, as though she was posing for an anatomical drawing. Her long, smooth legs extended full length and lay tightly together. Her feet were tightly together as well. Her firm bosoms were now lovely mounds that pointed toward heaven. The flesh of the middle of her upper chest curved smoothly where the deep “vee” neckline of her not quite halfway opened shirt revealed it to view. And Mandy’s face—her face bore an expression of somber calmness that betokened serenity and peace in her final sleep. Her handsomely formed cheeks still had the glow of the life that had been in her.
Mandy’s simple but elegant clothing helped death seem a lovely thing indeed. Her white shirt still looked crisp and sharp, even though it had been rent by a bullet. The points of her shirt collar lay straight and even. The fabric of her shirt lay smooth and taut over her flesh, flattering the curves of her body. Her black miniskirt lay smooth over her upper legs and lay evenly on either side of her thighs. Bond noted with pleasure that her high heels were beautifully parallel—and that her parallel high heels were now horizontal and pointing out into the air. He remembered with admiration how tall Mandy’s high heels had made her seem when she was alive, when those high heels were vertical and pointing down into the floor. But now she was laid out dead and the sight of her horizontal high heels pointing out into thin air made him smile his first smile since before he had received this mission.
But the incongruity of it all was what most struck Bond as he gazed down at Mandy laid out dead before him. Her face and her form were all elegant composure—but there, assaulting his eyes, was a bullet hole in her shirt and a little red circle staining the crisp white cloth in shocking contrast. He agreed with Mandy that there was a certain pleasing aesthetic to a small, neat, round red hole in the cloth of a crisp white shirt. But he was glad he could not see through the shirt to see the corresponding messy, ugly red hole in her flesh. He pondered the fact that at the bottom of that hole, deep in her chest, was the bullet Mandy wanted as a souvenir she could carry in her heart forever.
That thought brought his mind to the second part of Mandy’s request. She wanted his love milk in her dead body, as well as his bullet. He smirked to himself about the double symbolism of killing a woman being a metaphor for having sex with her and of having sex with a woman being a metaphor for killing her.
And at that moment the legendary Bond cool crumbled. The man whose exploits would one day inspire a dozen and more Hollywood blockbusters changed . . . “forever.” He started to shake and he started to sweat. The part of his mind that was still coherent could only be grateful that not M, not Moneypenny, not his parents, not anyone, was in the room to see him. Presumably, only Mandy could see him, gazing down on him from whatever better part of the universe she now called home.
He experienced a fresh spasm of shaking and a renewed flow of sweat. His morbid obsession with the intersection of sex, love, and death that he had repressed since adolescence exploded up out of his subconscious and made his active, conscious thoughts seethe and burn. Bond would always have been the first to doubt that he, or anyone else, possessed anything that sentimental people would call a soul. But now, it seemed to him, not only did he possess a soul, what was more, rival forces in his brain were struggling to control his soul. On the one side, his morbid lust, his passion to embrace the dark underside of everything, drove him on to honor Mandy’s request. He would mount the table, he would mount her, he would give her what she wanted because what she wanted matched what he wanted. But on the other side, revulsion restrained him. He felt sickened by the depravity of his own desires. The memories of all the legal murders he had committed, all the tawdry sex he had enjoyed, went screaming through his head even as he grappled with the realization that there were some things a sane gentleman could not, would not do. A final surge of desire welled up within him, abetted by the knowledge that he would only be doing what Mandy wanted him to do . . . no, no, NO! Bond stood there shaking, drenched in his own sweat. He could not do it and he would not do it. That was that.
No, that was not that!
She wanted it, dammit.
And dammit, she was going to get it.
Bond did a gymnast’s vault onto the exam table. He straddled Mandy, his knees resting on the table top on either side of her thighs. His hands spasmodically grasped at the bottom hem of her skirt. Up her skirt went. Sure enough, no panties, just like she had said. He put his hands to his own garments. Belt unbuckled, trousers unzipped, trousers down, shorts down, his trembling hands were racing to get his shorts down before he exploded inside his shorts . . . he exposed that part of himself that he needed to expose and he put his protrusion of flesh to her opening of flesh. . . .
Not with a groan but with a deep visceral roar, Bond deposited within Mandy his fluid that she wanted to take within her for eternity.
Was that a dead smile he saw on her dead face?
Bond redressed himself and alighted from the table.
He re-smoothed Mandy’s skirt over her thighs, returning it to the proper configuration for a lady.
Keeping his gaze on Mandy’s prostrate and now gratified form, Bond stepped back a few paces and stood, catching his breath and re-gathering his wits. Then he looked up at the ceiling. Then he looked down at the floor. And he meditated upon the fact that he had just done something astounding that he had never done before and would never do again.
He turned his attention back to Mandy where she lay on the exam table. There was still one more service he needed to provide for her.
Bond scooped Mandy up in his arms for the final time, carried her a few paces, and brought her to the side of her casket where it lay open atop the bier. He paused to gather himself as Mandy slept in his arms. He gave a bit of a grunt as he lifted her over the side of the casket to lay her inside. He tried to be as graceful as possible, he tried to keep her as graceful as possible, but he could not avoid a few awkward moments as he got arms, legs, head, long hair, and torso all aligned in Mandy’s final home.
He established the basic alignment of Mandy’s body in the casket and then worked on the details of her supine posture. He started at her feet. He straightened her legs to bring her knees and her ankles neatly and tightly together. Sliding his hands up her long, smooth legs, he confirmed the straight position of her knees. His hands came to the lower hem of her miniskirt. He raised his hands and placed them at her waist. Sliding his hands down along her skirt, he smoothed it out and ensured it lay evenly on either side of her thighs.
Now he moved to the upper end of the casket. He made Mandy’s shoulders foursquare. He gently ran his hands down along each of her arms to align them along her sides. Her hands now rested palms down with her fingers slightly curled. He gently, oh-so-gently, aligned her head. Starting at her shoulders, he ran his hands down her torso several times to smooth out her shirt. He made sure it was tucked into her skirt neatly and evenly. Finally, he patiently smoothed her long, full, naturally flowing hair into a leonine array framing her face. He remembered how earnest she had been about that point.
Bond remained standing at the side of the casket to admire the vision of still beauty that he and Mandy had created together. It seemed to him as if her facial expression had become one of beatific bliss now that she was finally all laid out in her casket. Bond sensed himself becoming aroused once more as he contemplated how Mandy projected an air of serene, lovely—elegant—self-possession, even when she was laid out flat on her back, dead, with a bullet embedded deep in her heart and a bloodstain on her shirt.
Bond now allowed himself to make a display of affection appropriate for a gentleman admiring a dead woman he loved. He reached inside the casket and laid the palm of his hand on Mandy’s cheek. It seemed to him that her sleeping smile became even sweeter as he did so. He slid his hand from her cheek down along her throat. He ran his fingertips over the smooth expanse of her upper chest that was left bare by the deep “vee” neckline of her almost half open shirt. The sensation of cool smoothness that transmitted itself from her bare flesh through his coursing fingertips gave him a sudden frisson of delight. It seemed to him that Mandy shared fully in enjoying this tactile pleasure. He lifted his hand. He cupped his hand on her breast. He could feel the firmness and perfect form of her breast through the cloth layers of shirt and brassiere.
He brought both his hands to rest on the edge of the casket. He gazed with longing into the still loveliness of her face. He bent forward into the casket as far as he could. His lips found her cheek—smooth, and pleasantly cool. He kissed her.
He stood up straight again and took a last long, pensive look at Mandy as she lay in lovely display. Then, oh-so-gently, he reached inside, took hold of Mandy’s wrists, and neatly folded her hands crosswise on her chest to hide the bullet hole in her heart. He reached up and took hold of the casket lid. He lowered it shut, keeping his eyes on Mandy’s sleeping face until the lid interposed his line of sight and clunked into place. He stood there for a moment with his hand resting on the casket lid. Then he cleared his throat, quickly blinked a few times, turned, and walked out of the room. He walked down the corridor to M’s office to report that his mission was complete.