Jennifer Cross sat at the bar sipping one of those fruity island drinks. She had saved up for this "week in paradise," and while the weather and the scenery had been as advertised, one thing hadn’t: the men. The bartender had hoped to find one of those gorgeous single hunks for a little bit of fun, and possibly more, but so far, the only men she’d met were workers at the resort, natives, or married and with their wives. Still, her tan was getting deeper, and this was great compared to winter back home. Her long, thick, rich brown hair had been braided by one of the locals but it still reached the top of her rear end. Jennifer took a lot of pride in her hair, although her brown eyes and smile were certainly very attractive. She had hoped to work off a few pounds while here, but she didn’t think that was going to happen. Her body was soft and rounded; she wasn’t overweight, but she wasn’t thin, either. She turned her head, casually scanning the resort’s club. Then she saw him. Tall, muscular, definitely under 30, with the air of a successful man about him. Her heart skipped a beat. No ring.
She almost stopped breathing as the man approached the bar. He sat next to her and ordered a beer. Jennifer dropped her cigarettes on the floor, and their eyes met as both of them bent over to retrieve them. "Hi," he said, handing her the pack. "I believe these are yours." She blushed and almost hyperventilated. God, he was gorgeous... and those eyes... He seemed not to notice her infatuation, continuing, "And you are?"
"In love." Jennifer immediately turned bright red as her thought came out before she could stop it. I wonder if tans hide blushing well? "Umm... Jennifer," she recovered. "I’m here on vacation from Chicago."
"Chicago? So am I!" he replied, smiling. "On vacation from the windy wintry weather. My name’s Jeff. I work for the commuter agency." She was electrified by her luck. Meeting a fellow Chicagoan this far from home. A gorgeous, single one. "How long have you been here, Jennifer?"
"Two days. It’s really nice, but I wish I had brought a friend. The brochures sort of touted this--"
"--As a single’s paradise. ‘A week in paradise’ with other healthy, happy singles," Jeff grinned. "I got the same brochure and presentation. But to be honest, you’re the first single I’ve met here who seems interesting. I’ve been here since last Saturday," he said. They spoke amiably about Chicago over drinks, then he invited her to have dinner. Jennifer, of course, accepted.
The conversation continued over the meal, and the band took the stand. "Jennifer, would you like to dance? I mean, it’s no fun dancing by yourself," he smiled again. "It’s kind of nice to have somebody to do things with here--even if we didn’t arrive--together." She replied that that would be fun. They danced and had another drink; when the band slowed down, she instinctively wrapped herself around him. He accepted the invitation. After the song ended, Jennifer excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, triumphantly thinking, "Yes!!! This is exactly what I came here for." She was flushed now, anticipating the next slow song, when she would look into his beautiful eyes and he would lean forward and they would kiss, starting a night of passion...
While she was gone, Jeff ordered another round of drinks. They arrived very quickly. Furtively looking towards the ladies’ room, he produced a packet and poured a fine white powder into Jennifer’s. When she returned, he proposed a toast. "Here’s to new friends. Maybe I’ll see you in Chicago sometime."
She was absolutely thrilled and drank heartily. He smiled again, that wonderful, brilliant, sexy smile. Jennifer felt the stirrings of lust more strongly. They danced some more, and the world began to spin for her. She felt carefree, wonderful, and very attracted to Jeff. After a few more songs, though, the world didn’t stop spinning. She ordered a glass of water; where was it... she was not feeling very good. Jeff... Jeff was asking her... something... and his eyes... so pretty... dance... no... fresh air. Yes, thanks. She felt his arm help support her as she walked through quicksand. They left the club, into the warm air... ocean breeze... night... moon... night... dark... new moon?
Jeff held onto Jennifer as she passed out. He hailed a cab. As he easily put the limp, unconscious girl into the back seat, he said two words: "The estate." The driver nodded and pulled away. The handsome young man returned to the lobby of the resort hotel, and walked up to an unmarked door. He swiped a plastic card through the reader, and went in, closing the door behind him.
"Report."
"Number thirty-seven. Jennifer Cross is in transit."
"Excellent," the voice replied. "Number two, you may take thirty-seven to the watering hole--allow him his choice."
"Yes, master," a soft, feminine voice eagerly replied. A beautiful red-headed woman stepped out of the shadows. "Come with me," she said to Jeff, who replied, "Yes, Mistress. I must obey." She led him to an elevator and grinned wolfishly. "Kneel, and worship me," she commanded.
Jeff knelt, kissed her boot, then her hand. Looking deeply into her sea-green eyes, he said, "I adore my Mistress, and my body is hers. I must obey my Mistress, because she is the ultimate. I will serve my Mistress, and her Master."
Number two smiled. "You may come now, number thirty-seven." She watched with amusement as the bulge in Jeff’s shorts suddenly grew, making the head of his cock peek down one leg. His eyes crossed, he shuddered, and came all over his dock shoes with a groan. He sighed happily. "When the doors open, you will be allowed to choose any of the women there. After you have cleaned up, you will be able to get hard for the one you choose, and no one else. You will then be able to perform to your heart’s desire until you are sated. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Mistress," the man blankly said. The redhead swiped her plastic card through the elevator’s reader to send it to its deepest level.
Jennifer Cross opened her eyes. She had been dreaming of an island paradise and a gorgeous hunk... She looked around the room, still groggy, searching for her memory. The room was all-white--like a hospital. What had happened? Her voice didn’t seem to work, either. She tried to get to her feet, but she couldn’t move her legs--she couldn’t move, period. A woman came into the room--a nurse, obviously--even if she was blonde with big boobs and a narrow waist. Jennifer tried to speak again, but could only watch as the nurse clinically prepared an injection. Her body refused to move as the nurse approached, despite the powerful urge to run away. Jennifer tried to scream as the needle went into her neck, but no sound came out. The world instantly began to fade, becoming subtle colors dancing in front of her eyes. Everything seemed so--wavy. That was her last thought as her eyes opened wide and her mouth went slack.
The nurse left the room and dimmed the lights. She pressed a switch. The white walls of the room seemed to come alive with swirling and dancing colors. A voodoo drum beat began to play, and strangely musical, rhythmic chanting filled the air as Jennifer watched, spellbound. She began to hear her name chanted through the drums and the music... calling her... Jennifer... yes... Jennifer... new... Jennifer... obey... commands... Jennifer... must obey... yes... obey... watching... listening... obey... new... Jennifer...
The sounds and the lights that swirled around her had not stopped for several hours, but Jennifer was oblivious to time’s passage as her reprogramming continued. A face... a voice... obey... must obey... Jennifer... slave... command... the face... the voice... master... Master... yes... desire... Master... only... Master... must obey.. Master... new Jennifer... number eighty-three... yes... I am... Master’s... number eighty-three... lust... Master... obey... Master... slave... to obey... number-eighty three... lust... Master... must obey...
She was talking now, in this, the twelfth hour of the bizarre sound and light show. The drug that had paralyzed her earlier had worn off. Number-eighty three was free to move, but she didn’t want to. "I will obey Master. I must obey Master." She continued to babble as the voice and picture of her master constantly flashed, embedded in the music and lights. He was irresistible. Her master. She was his slave, his number eighty-three; Jennifer was someone only other people knew. She was her master’s number eighty-three; she would obey his commands. Masturbate. Yes, Master. Her hands frantically went to work as her master’s voice urged her on... Yes, masturbate... for Master... ohh... god... Master... yes... yes... Master... obey... I am your slave... Master... Number-eighty three... slave... to Master... "Yes, Master... Yes, Master yes, Master, ohhh, YES! Master! Yes Master..." Number eighty-three’s chants became sexually charged moans. She was sending herself to orgasm at her Master’s bidding as she listened to his voice and saw his face... commanding her... a good slave... always obey... "YES--Master! YES! Master!! YES!! MASTER!!! YES!!!! MASTER!!! YESS!!! MASTER!!! YES!!!!" The last was screamed in ecstasy as the world swirled crazily around her, her body contorted and her consciousness ripped away by a powerful orgasm. Number-eighty-three’s world went black.
The Astin-Martin barreled along the alpine road, hotly pursed by eight men aboard four custom-designed snowmobiles. The snowmobiles were slowly gaining on the Astin, traveling at an impossibly high rate of speed. Automatic gunfire erupted from the smaller vehicles. The car slowed to take each curve, its driver obviously aware of the sheer thousand-foot drop on the other side of the guard rail. The snowmobiles, built for traction, had no such difficulty--at least until a black substance spewed from one of the tailpipes of the car. The lead snowmobile, running at maximum speed and now quickly closing on the Astin, slid; unfortunately, the road took a downhill, seventy-degree turn to the right at that point. The passenger leapt off before his vehicle and its driver ripped through the rail. He was immediately clobbered and sent flying off the edge by the next of the snowmobiles; it, and its partners made the turn, still giving chase.
The car accelerated into the next sharp bend, and the road veered upwards. The next two snowmobiles watched their prey disappear temporarily. As they made the turn, they all saw the two small boulders heading their way and the open trunk lid of the car. One snowmobile veered sharply to the right, causing it to smash into the mountainside; another turned left, but lost traction and went careening into the chasm. The third driver couldn’t make up his mind--one of the large rocks obliterated him, his passenger and about half his vehicle.
The driver of the Astin stopped at the top of the mountain, got out, rearranged his cuffs, and closed the trunk lid. "Q was right. Sometimes the old ideas are the best. And to think that I thought a catapult was next to useless." Suddenly, a helicopter swooped down from out of nowhere; somehow, it was hovering and the engine was almost perfectly silent. An amplified voice from the helicopter said, "Put your hands up." He complied.
"So it ends, Mr. Bond," the voice gloated. "I presume you like my new toy, the stealth helicopter. It’s a purchased Russian design; amazing what they’ll do for money now." A man leaned out of one side, easily audible in the absence of rotor noise. "I wish to do the honors myself, because you have caused me no end of trouble." He pointed a gun at Bond. "Goodbye, Mr. Bond." The helicopter promptly exploded.
"Goodbye," James Bond said as he watched the debris fall. "Surely you didn’t think that police are the only ones who use radar." He had known the helicopter was around, although the mountains had made it impossible to target until it was out in the open. However, it had been Moneypenny’s idea to include "Goodbye, Mr. Bond" as a trigger command for the headlight laser. He would have to thank her when he got back.
"Hello, James." Miss Moneypenny watched the tall, slender, dark-haired man enter her office for the millionth time. For the millionth time, his appearance gave her a sudden urge. Her pussy quivered. "You’re late. As usual. He’s waiting for you." She smiled at him. If only James would just take her and fuck her like...
"Thank you, Moneypenny," he smiled. He paused outside "the door" and glanced over his shoulder. "Oh-- and thank you, Moneypenny," he added. Her quizzical look gave him a slightly sadistic satisfaction, as did her usual attraction behavior and her arousal signals. He went in.
"Well, it’s about time 007," M snapped.
"Sorry, sir," MI-5’s best agent replied. "I was--on the wrong slopes in the Alps."
"Yes, whatever." M never got his drollery. Bond would have sworn that the man had no sense of humor--then again, he had survived at least five times as many assassination attempts as had 007. "Look here, 007." The world map slid down into the wall, and a hidden projector showed the face of a fellow agent. "009 has not been heard from since last week. She seems to have vanished while on assignment. Felix Lider hasn’t been able to raise her. Your assignment will be--"
"To find her and bring her back," 007 finished.
M shot him an annoyed glance. "No. To complete her mission. If you find her, kill her. We can’t take the chance that she’s been brainwashed."
Damn. 009 was hot, too. James had always wanted to get into her skirt, pants, uniform, whatever, but 009 was always the ice queen around the agency. She drove the guys crazy with her long, black hair, long, shapely legs (which were quite muscular--as 007 had found out one day when he touched her in a place he really shouldn’t have.) He touched his jaw, remembering how his infamous sexy, boyish grin lost three teeth. 009 was also gorgeous. The rumour around MI-5 was that she had perfected the notorious "Kama Sutra butterfly," and that thus far, three men had died while attempting it with her. Maybe he’d find her, pretend to rescue her, roll her, then blow her brains out...
"Are you listening, 007?" James snapped himself back to the task at hand. "As I said, and I am not fond of repeating myself, 009’s code name was Monique Chambers. She was posing as a tourist on the island of San Cabo, on extended holiday for her mental health. She managed to uncover some things, which she had reported back, but she missed her next three contacts." M gave him a pointed look. "Unlike some of our agents, 009 was always very keen on protocol."
Bond ignored the barb. "Sir, if I may ask, what was her original case?" M gave 007 the look that said he should have been listening all along.
"Mind control, 007. Everybody is very worried about this one. We are talking a possibility of world domination through brainwashing. About two months ago, a woman named Ludmila Vasilenkova returned to her native Moscow from her vacation, and went to her job in the KGB, as usual. Since they are so paranoid over there, they began procedures to determine if she were a plant before letting her resume her duties. Although they’d lost quite a few non-operatives over the years this way, their paranoia finally paid off. This girl had been brainwashed. She said that she was ‘number fifty-two’ and Master’s slave--she referred to him as ‘Master Yes’. There are other--" M wrinkled his nose in distaste. "--Details here that aren’t pertinent. The young woman, sad to say, is no longer--available."
"And where does 009 come in to all of this?" Bond was a little miffed. This was the kind of assignment that would usually go to him first.
"She was selected to go--no other agent anybody has sent has ever returned from there. We thought that perhaps being female might allow her access to work this from the inside. That," M sighed, "is the only reason she was selected before you. I hope I’ve satisfied your ego, 007."
Bond allowed himself an internal smile. "Yes, well, 009 is a very capable agent."
"At any rate, I want you to go to San Cabo and investigate the resort there; we think it’s a front for the brainwashing operation. Your contact will be Felix Lider. Q will also meet you there. He’s on holiday, but we’ve informed him that you will be arriving tomorrow. Good luck, 007."
The jet touched down on the island of San Cabo. It had been a fairly backward and backwater island, avoided by almost every travel agency and cruise line until approximately five years ago. A resort company had purchased a large amount of land for the purpose of building two ultimate resorts, one for singles, one for families. All the stock analysts laughed--until the company did exactly that. Somehow, the company had been able to weather the drain of the enormous initial investment for almost two years while a very canny promotion selected singles and families for free week-long stays. Over the first two years, no cruise ship called. Now it was a favorite turn-around port. As James stepped off the plane into a modern, if relatively small, airport, he couldn’t imagine how tourism became so big here in such a short time. Someone had gone to great lengths to establish this place as legitimate for some reason.
At Customs, the agent took one look at his passport. "Would you please come with me, Mr. Harris?" he professionally, but sharply, asked. Bond followed, steeling himself for whatever was lurking. The agent led him to a small room away from the main passenger areas. "In here please, sir," the man directed, standing well away from Bond. 007 decided to play along, knowing that his trusty Walthers PPK was within a two-second reach. He opened the door.
"Close the door behind you," a familiar, yet different voice ordered.
"Felix!!!" 007 said, spinning around to see his old friend. "How are--you’ve changed color again, I see."
Felix smiled, "Yes, James. All the better to appear just another pale tourist trying to get a tan." He turned serious instantly. "I’m glad you’ve come. We have a serious complication. Q’s daughter has vanished."
"Maggie? Gone?"
"Yes. We think it’s our boy, this ‘Master Yes’ character. She had gone to play tennis this morning with a young man she had met. Neither of them came back," Felix gravely replied. "Q is completely distraught--M gave him some personal leave, so I’m afraid you’re not going to get the usual array of toys."
"Why Felix," James dryly replied, "I would almost think you’re jealous. At any rate, you’re my contact while I’m here." His friend nodded. "As usual, don’t expect to hear from me as per protocol."
"Yes, James. I know, you prefer working alone. Nice to be working together again, though. It’s been a while."
Bond nodded and smiled. "Just like old times, eh, Felix?"
Felix smiled back. "Yep. You’re on the front lines risking life and limb, bedding all the women while I pop up from time to time to provide you with a screen or something. Just like old times. But--you’d better get your rental car for the week and get to the resort. After all, they’re expecting you."
Bond pulled up to the swank resort--he was staying at the one for singles. It had taken him a long time to get his rental car: first, the young women at the rental desk couldn’t stop fighting over which one of them was to handle his case. The supervisor finally had to pull rank--she was the cause of the rest of the delay. Somehow, the woman had gotten lost on the way to the lot, and had stopped to get her bearings. Her mouth had been like honey around his member, everywhere, warm, and viscous. The constant, gentle suction had been capped with a seemingly effortless plunge to the root of his cock. He had taken the opportunity to tease her into revealing what she knew about the island before he plowed her in the back seat.
The island was mostly resort-oriented; the same company had recently built a third, exclusive resort, available by private invitation only. Many companies used it as part of an employee incentive program, and promotional giveaways were common. The standard of living had gone up on the island as well--the literacy rate was climbing above the ninety percent mark, and the unemployment rate was below four percent. There was only one special place on the island that she hadn’t been--she called it ‘the estate’. As he stroked his dick in and out of the moaning supervisor, Bond thought about how he could get to either the exclusive resort or the estate. She wrapped her arms around him, calling the name of his cover identity. He decided that the estate would be first place to look. The supervisor moaned loudly as her orgasm hit. James picked up his pace, quickening his own release, and sending the woman into orbit. The delay had cost him almost two hours, but he had gained valuable information.
He checked in at the front desk. "My name is Mr. Harris. Mr. Scott Harris. I believe--"
"Oh, yes, sir!" A pretty brunette with very long hair typed in his name at a console. Her name tag said, "Jennifer." He saw her pupils dilate as she leaned forward to hand him the room slip and the charge receipt. "I hope you enjoy your stay here. My name is Jennifer, and if there is anything I can do to make your stay here more enjoyable, please let me know." Bond smiled and replied, "Thank you, I definitely will." He turned away slowly, enjoying the way Jennifer’s eyelids dropped slightly, and her tongue peeked out between her lips. She could be useful later. At the least, she looked like she’d be a great fuck.
"Bond has arrived."
"Give him to me, Roger, please?" The slender red-head smiled. "I’d love to show that chauvinistic bastard--"
"Now, now, Celeste. He has something I want. In exchange, I am going to offer him something he wants--and only I can provide. Besides, I thought you were satisfied with thirty-seven and fifty-eight."
Celeste Grundy sighed. "Well, yes. I am." She pouted. "But Roger, you know how I like to take them down a few pegs when they’re--untrained."
"Well, I could always offer you number eighty-three as a consolation prize," he grinned, watching the expression of pleasure and lust cross the young woman’s face. "I know that she interests you. And I certainly have enough now for myself. Although I still find myself extraordinarily attracted to you." He saw Celeste’s teasing grin. It had been a while since they’d-- "Number two, your master commands."
Celeste Grundy’s eyes glazed over. "Yes, Master. I obey."
"Undress, and come--play with your master." Number two began to remove her clothing, deliberately, sensuously, arching her body for her master. She turned her green eyes to him, licking her lips at the bulge that had appeared in his pants. She approached him, exuding waves of lust and heat. Their lips met, and number two moaned into her master’s mouth as she felt herself moisten in readiness.
Bond waited, tensing slightly as the footsteps came closer to the bathroom. Suspiciously, there had been no bath towels in his room, so he had been forced to call housekeeping. A buxom black woman turned the corner--and Bond relaxed slightly. "Are dese de towels you be needin’?" He looked at her strangely. The question was almost unintelligible, having been spoken in a thick, spicy Cajun patois. She glanced down and said something else. The gist of her subsequent comment became obvious as she knelt in front of him, carelessly tossing the towels into a corner. He was naked. She eagerly fellated him, and despite the earlier interlude with the rental agent, he became erect. She wrapped her breasts around his cock, sliding them up and down. Bond’s knees shook slightly. She tugged at him, then stood up, her nostrils flared. He could hear her juices slurp as she ran her hand between her legs.
The maid turned around, lifting her skirt and leaned against the sink. James positioned himself. She twisted away from him, and moaned something in that nearly impenetrable accent. She ran her fingers between her legs again, then slid them further-- Ah! He got the idea. She twisted away from him again, humping air and moaning. His cock stood at full attention; the woman definitely knew how to arouse a man. She slapped her ass and moaned loudly. Bond moved his hand back. Smack!!! A very understandable, "Ohhh YES!" exploded from the woman. He swatted her with his member, and she arched backwards, seeking him.
SMACK!!! The not-too-gentle spank triggered a loud grunt of pleasure, and she undulated some more. "You want another?" Bond asked with a slight leer. She shook her whole body in agreement. SMACK!!!! "Tell me--" SMACK!!! "--About the hotel, and you’ll get it--" SMACK!!! "--All!!!"
Bond got out of bed very carefully to avoid disturbing the sleeping woman, who had--under threat of not being spanked--revealed that she was the housekeeping supervisor on duty. For pinching her nipples and probing her depths with four fingers, he had found out that the hotel was what it seemed to be. It had taken an hour of stop-and-start, teasing anal sex to get the woman to reveal the management structure and the general manager’s name. However, the resulting orgasm had left the woman even more incoherent than usual, and now she was sleeping quite soundly. He slipped out the door to investigate the resort.
"Report, number seventeen?"
"Master, the conversion of number eighty-four is complete. The lab is now working on replicating the formula."
"Good. 007 is making way too much hay for my comfort. You may leave."
"Yes, Master," the pear-shaped blonde with wire-rimmed glasses replied. She turned and left, her generous, but nicely rounded, ass swaying.
He picked up the intercom. "Number forty-four, would you please contact number six, and have her come here for briefing?" There was a pause. Maybe now would be a good time to make that change in staffing... "Also, could you send number seventy-eight up? I wish to speak to her about reassignment."
"Yes, Master," the melodic, sensual voice replied.
Boy, those two words were always thrilling--he’d never tire of hearing them. "When you’ve finished, please contact fifty-one, and bring her in with you for--devotions."
"Oh, yes, Master!!!" The excitement coming from the other side of the door was almost tangible.
It was three in the morning when 007 walked out of the elevator. Unfortunately, the resort lobby was not entirely deserted. He wanted to see if he could find anything hidden in the computer system that would provide some clues. Unfortunately, the nightclub was still open, and people would wander through the lobby too frequently for him to be entirely clandestine. Perhaps the direct approach might work. "Hello, ladies," he smiled at the two desk attendants as he leaned over the counter. Their name tags read, "Bridget", and "Beth". "My name is Mr. Harris, I’m in room 326." The two young women were paying rapt attention, and lightly flushed. "I was wondering if--" He leaned over and gave Bridget a brief kiss. She responded quickly. Beth shoved Bridget out of the way and gave him a deep, hard kiss. The two girls giggled as the night manager came out of the office--she didn’t look too happy.
"Beth! What are you doing? Don’t you know that fraternizing with guests while on duty is against policy?" Bond looked at the attractive, tall, well-endowed, blonde woman. Her name tag read, "Desirée." How appropriate.
"I’m sorry," he interrupted, "I am entirely at fault." He flashed his best innocent choirboy smile.
"Sir," she began, walking around the desk to speak with him, "I’m sorry but we have to frown on--being with our--guests--during--working... hours." Her nostrils flared. Desirée blinked, then continued, "It’s a little--distracting." James struck his strong, silent type pose as she came closer. "I’m afraid--I’ll have to ask you... tostepinsidemyoffice," Desirée exhaled into his ear.
Once inside, she tore at his pants and rammed her tongue into his throat. Bond rose to the challenge, putting her on her desk, pulling her panties down and slamming into her for God, Queen, and country. She was a fairly quiet one, although he could see Bridget and Beth taking turns watching through the slightly open door. Desirée’s nails dug into his ass, pulling him in deep. She quivered, making little hiccuping noises through her climax. He pulled out, still erect, and waved his member in front of her face. The woman swiveled around and engulfed him, furiously bobbing her head while stroking his chest. The door shut, and there stood Bridget, playing with her breasts through her uniform.
As he exploded into Desirée’s willing mouth, she was fingering herself to arousal again. He took advantage of her need to get the password to the computer system. Bond diddled Desirée with one hand while Bridget and Beth took turns attending the front desk and blowing him, all the while using his free hand to work the system. Nothing remotely unusual appeared. Desirée couldn’t tell him anything else, even after he’d taunted her to the point of tears with his renewed erection. Finally, he’d relented and plunged himself to the hilt into her soft, clinging womanhood. She screamed his cover name in ecstasy, her eyes rolling up into her head as she came, most explosively.
Late the next morning, James wandered through the pro shop. He hadn’t been able to make any more progress on the resort front: the general manager at the singles resort was away, and her secretary didn’t know when she’d be back. Several passionate kisses later, he’d found that she didn’t know where the general manager went, either. After fingering her to an orgasm, he’d ascertained that the girl was telling the truth. Jennifer was not at the front desk today, so trying that angle would have to wait. He decided to investigate Maggie’s disappearance. The tennis courts were a good place to start, but he’d need equipment so that he wouldn’t look out-of-place. "Can I help you?" a voice asked.
He spun around to see a fairly well-built, light-skinned black man. "We have a fitting room here," the black man announced, ushering him towards the relative privacy of the fitting area.
Bond was about to karate chop the guy when he asked, "Find anything promising yet, James?" in quiet tones.
"Oh, it’s you Felix," James said, exhaling in relief. "I can’t keep up with your changes."
"I’m undercover as a resort worker now," the American agent replied. "None of the women notice me anyway, so what difference does it make what I look like?" He looked around to see if anyone was near. "Scuttlebutt has it that several of the staff were engaged in highly--unprofessional--behavior early this morning." Bond looked positively bored by the revelation. "Anyway, I checked like you asked--it wasn’t a staff member that was with Maggie. Everyone was accounted for," Felix whispered.
"I’m going to check the courts now. Will you help me with getting equipment so I can at least make it look good?" Felix nodded, and James Bond, armed with Her Majesty’s Secret Service Credit Card, purchased four hundred seven dollars worth of tennis shoes, clothes and equipment. There was a message waiting for him when he got back to his room. "Mr. Harris," an all-too-familiar voice snapped, "what the devil do you think you’re doing? Four hundred seven dollars on tennis equipment? Make sure that it arrives promptly in acquisitions on your return. We can no longer afford to treat our agents to working vacations!" He sighed at M’s rebuke. Damn the age of computers. In the old days, it would have been easy to destroy the receipt, and accounting would have no idea what he had spent--other than on replacing destroyed cars and associated property damage.
Number two burst into the study. "Master, I have some disturbing news," she breathlessly said. She stopped short, realizing that he was probably unable to hear. Number fifty-one, a lithe oriental woman, was grinding purposefully as she straddled his face. Number forty-four, a curly-haired brunette, was riding his cock. Number two sighed. She went to the desk--number fifty-one reached eagerly for her as she passed. Under normal conditions, Celeste would have enjoyed the diversion, but now was not the time. "Your mistress commands you both to come!" she said. Fifty-one squealed, and forty-four grunted. The oriental woman bucked repeatedly, then seemed to freeze before giving one gigantic shudder. Master gurgled.
Celeste regretted having wasted Mai Sun’s sweet woman cum, but she had to stop what was going on, so she could talk to Master now. She watched his hips thrust up forcefully. "OHHHH! YES!!! MAAAAASSSTERRRR!!!! YEESSS!!!" Forty-four’s climactic scream prefaced her collapse.
"Celeste, what was so damn important?" Master was definitely very pissed off. He disengaged from both women with slurping noises. "Couldn’t it wait?"
"No, Roger, it couldn’t. Ernst Blofeld and four goons just arrived on the island!" She watched with envy as he deliberately cleaned himself up before addressing her. Such control and calm... it made her pussy twitch very strongly for him.
"We can take care of the goons, then, but let’s leave Blofeld for a bit. Mai Sun, your master commands." The oriental girl’s eyes lidded. "Shadow, there are four men here on the island I want you and your company to kill. Number two will provide descriptions, details and anything else you need."
"Yes, Master. I obey," the entranced woman replied.
"What about Bond?" Celeste asked with a note of concern. "I bet they’re here to kill him while they’re trying to get the secret from us. I thought you wanted him alive for something?"
He nodded. "I think I have just the perfect person in mind to--protect Mr. Bond." A mischievous smile lit up his face. "And I think you know who I mean." He looked at Celeste Grundy--she smiled back, fully aware of the irony. He wiggled a finger, summoning her for a kiss. She leaned forward to oblige, and put her hand on his cock. She was panting very softly. "You have work to do--later, my darling Celeste," he said.
"Yes, my Master," she breathed, disappointed, and still hot. She led the other two women out of the study, not wanting to look at him, to keep from losing her control.
Bond returned from the tennis courts sweating from the workout. There had been no clues associated with Maggie’s disappearance--but the local police hadn’t yet investigated since it was common for young singles to pair off and "vanish" all the time. There were many idyllic, secluded places on the island that were perfect for temporary liaisons. He left a message for Q, since he was beginning to feel rather naked without any special equipment. After showering, James assessed the mission status: no one had tried to kill him since arriving, so his cover was still intact. This probably meant that none of the lower-level staff he’d been in constant contact with was involved in the Master Yes affair. He still hadn’t been able to find out more about the mysterious ‘estate.’ Maybe it was time to climb the corporate ladder here at the resort. He called to set up an appointment with the resort GM. Unfortunately, she continued to be unavailable. Perhaps he’d take a drive and try to find ‘the estate’ on his own.
After lunch, he went downstairs to have his car brought round and encountered a madhouse. The lobby was full, and the front desk was swarmed. It appeared that a large tour had arrived, and the staff were obviously stretched to the limit. Bloody hell. It might take an hour to get the car at this rate. Suddenly, a familiar face and uniform--especially the shape in the uniform--flashed at the periphery of his vision. "Jennifer!" he hailed as she was passing. Bond gave her that bridge-aided boyish grin. She stopped, but was obviously in a hurry. He caught up to her.
"I’m sorry, Mr. Harris, but--" Her eyes went a little starry, and Bond increased the charm in his smile. "Ummm... I’m kind of in a hurry," she quietly said. Jennifer tossed her elegantly braided, dark brown hair in a perfect flirtation. "They called me in to help with this tour group," she coyly added, smiling at him.
"I shouldn’t keep you long, then," 007 replied. "But I was wondering if you could help me get my car from the valet’s station. I’d like to take a ride around the island, seeing that my business will have to wait, since no one can seem to locate the general man--"
"I’m the general manager," a soft, pleasant voice came from behind him. "Jennifer, please get this gentleman’s car before you take desk duty." Jennifer smiled and nodded to her superior, then pouted at Bond, looking very disappointed before leaving them. The general manager turned. "So you were trying to locate me? You are--?"
"Harris. Scott Harris of Newfield Resorts." He shook her hand, taking the opportunity to look at her. Willowy, at least six feet tall, with reddish-brown hair, and a moderate chest that seemed to go well with her figure. Her facial features were sharp, yet soft, leading to only one possible conclusion at first encounter: she was rather beautiful. Bond eased into a casual-flirtation-that-could-be-more posture. "And you are Ms.--?"
"Wanna," she replied. "Donna Wanna. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Harris." She indicated an area away from the bustle of the check-in area. They sat facing each other, in two large, soft, plush, fan-backed chairs. She crossed her long legs, making James wonder what they would look like in the flesh. The pants left a great deal of room for the imagination. "I assume you wish to talk about the secret of our success here at San Cabo Resorts."
He said yes, smiling, while maintaining that air of flirtation. "Would you prefer discussing this in your office?" James asked.
Donna laughed, gay and musical. "It’s hardly a secret, Mr. Harris. Lots and lots of money." She leaned forward. "You lease an island, and install a local infrastructure before you build any part of the resort, so to speak. Then you spend two years after construction taking losses that conventional wisdom says you are a fool to suffer. During this time, you promote yourself to the masses by giving away free time, increasing the heavy loss in the first two years of operation." She leaned back in her chair and removed a slender brown cigarette from a case. He lit it for her. "Thank you," she exhaled. "And that is the secret of our success, Mr. Harris. As you can see, it hardly takes a formal presentation in my office."
Several questions nagged at Bond, even as he smiled in agreement with Ms. Wanna. First and foremost, why would somebody knowingly pour money down a sinkhole for almost five years? Second, who would have that kind of money? Third, if someone was going to take over the world, that much money, applied in a more direct fashion, could have yielded a viable plan in less than three years. Of course, he would have stopped it and saved the world, but he was going to do that here, too. He broke his brief reverie. "In that case," Bond smiled, turning up his charm to maximum, "would you happen to have a road map so that I might see more of your beautiful resort paradise?"
"That is our ‘wonderfall’, Scott," Donna Wanna pointed out from the passenger side of the convertible. "We built that, at considerable expense, to fulfill everyone’s fantasy image of a tropical paradise." 007 was barely listening. He hadn’t really paid attention since he had noticed the black car following about a mile behind. He did his best to keep Donna unaware that they may be in peril while she took him on this tour. The black car began to accelerate--James guessed that they were now on a secluded, dangerous stretch of road. He hit the gas hard, and she squealed, shouting, "What are you doing?!!!?" In response, he shoved her head below the dashboard. Gunfire came from the pursuing car, and he was now fully absorbed in giving the gunman as moving a target as possible.
"Almost Switzerland again," he muttered. Except that there, he’d had his custom Astin Martin from the Service. Here, all he had was his driving skill. The black car was gaining--its driver knew the road better. Damn SPECTRE--just like them to have checked the island and prepared an ambush for him with that knowledge. Donna’s muffled protests from the floor weren’t distracting, but the two bullets, one through the windshield, another past his left ear, were. He glanced at the panel for the non-existent smoke screen button. James Bond knew he was in trouble. Through the rearview mirror, he saw the gunman lean out the passenger window, take aim and...
He vanished. Not only that, the black car veered wildly, crashed into the rock face along the road, and exploded. Bond drove on to put some distance between him and whatever SPECTRE might have as a second option on this road. A clearing appeared and he spun the car down a side path, driving to denser foliage before stopping. He listened, waiting for any noises that might indicate he was still under pursuit. The silence continued, unabated, and 007 took a deep breath--
"SCOTT HARRIS!!!" Oh. He had almost forgotten. He let go of Donna’s head. "What in the hell do you think you are doing--"
Explanation time. "My name isn’t Scott Harris, Donna. It’s Bond. James Bond." He looked around strangely. "Did you just hear trumpets?" She gave him a look that said she thought he was clearly delusional. "Never mind," he dismissively waved. "I am an agent with Her Majesty’s Secret Service on assignment. That’s all I can tell you, for your own safety." He could see that her opinion of him hadn’t changed. "I was hoping to sight a place that the locals call ‘the estate’ during our drive. Unfortunately--" Bond indicated the bullet hole in the windshield. "--Someone is trying to stop me."
Donna’s skepticism dissolved into recognition of what had happened. She realized that the bullet would have hit her in the head if he hadn’t been holding her down. She shivered uncontrollably for a few seconds. "You really are James Bond! And you just saved my life!!! Oh, James!!!" Donna threw her arms around him. He hugged her back, then leaned back in his seat, projecting an image of the perfect, unflappable, sexy hero. "Oh, Ja-a-ames," Donna sang, "did you know that you’re halfway to one of the most secluded, romantic spots on this part of the island?"
Bond started the car and revved the engine. "Never let it be said that James Bond only goes halfway on his assignments." His free hand moved.
"Ohhhh, James!"
"I’ll pick you up for dinner at my house in say, two hours?" Donna Wanna asked as they pulled up to the hotel. "I need to check my messages at the office before I go home, and tend to any emergencies." She played with her already-mussed hair, and leaned back, flirting. The blush was still on her cheeks.
Bond replied, "Yes, Donna. I think I need to--freshen up--as well." He turned to the valet, who was gaping at the condition of the car, and tossed him the keys. "I doubt that there’s anything else you can do to it. Don’t bother to be careful." Maybe that would get him a car from the Service. He went to his room, and checked for any signs of intrusion. Nothing was disturbed, indicating that only housekeeping had been in the room. It was time to shower and get ready for his dinner with the general manager.
A large man with Slavic features stopped at the door to Bond’s room. He pulled a key card from his jacket pocket, and patted the bulge there. He froze briefly at the sound of people approaching. Two women. Although he had a job to do, he did spare a second to look and smile as they neared to avoid raising suspicion. One was a petite, lithe oriental beauty, the other, tall, tanned, and raven-haired, with delicious-looking, long, muscular legs. As they passed, he resumed his task, acting as if he were about to enter his own room. He was so intent on gaining entry that he never even felt the dart that stopped his heart within a second.
A knock came from the door. A muffled voice claimed to be room service. Bond sat on the bed, sliding his hand under the pillow, over the cool, reassuring feel of his Walthers PPK. "Come in," he said, affecting a casual look. He hadn’t ordered any room service. As the door opened, he whipped the gun out and pointed it squarely at the person who walked in with hands already raised. He sighed, and clicked the safety back on. "Hello, Felix. I can’t keep up with these damned changes of yours."
The younger-looking sandy-blonde haired man nodded. "You should try being on this end. It’s not exactly a picnic for me, either." He leaned against the wall. "I heard about the--accident on the road today. No evidence--everything burned beyond recognition. You OK?"
"Yes, Felix," Bond replied. "Did you hear back from HQ?"
"Yes, the big guy himself. He said to tell you that Q’s department was not going to give you yet another car to destroy. Oh, and the damage waiver on the rental car is not going to be covered by the Service. Budget cutbacks are everywhere," the American agent noted. "I have to deal with them, too. On the plus side, Q was working on some goodies for you. Recon stuff, mostly. I filled him in about ‘the estate’."
James nodded. At last. Now maybe he could make some headway. "How long, Felix?"
"About three days," he replied. "I don’t know what you’ll do between now and then."
Bond smiled. "Oh, I can think of a few things."
Donna Wanna’s house was a moderate, but beautiful villa close to the ocean. "It’s about a mile walk to the first tee at one of our 9-hole courses. I’m afraid I’ve become quite addicted," she smiled. Donna looked radiant in a sun dress, displaying most of her spectacular legs. She wore a touch of make-up, and a different scent than she had earlier in the day. She came over to the sofa where James was sitting, carrying his drink. "Shaken, not stirred, correct?" she teased, flashing her brown eyes at him. They kissed for several minutes. She straightened her dress, gasping slightly for air. "I guess--I’d better go check on dinner." She smiled at him with the slightly goofy expression of a woman in increasing heat. Bond leaned back on the sofa with smile of his own. The confident, calm smile of a man that knows he’s going to get laid.
Donna walked into her kitchen, opened the freezer, and removed a box of cigarettes. "So, James, I asked some of the locals about ‘the estate’--that was what you were wondering about, correct?" He answered yes, his voice indicating that he was still on the sofa, and unable to see her. She pulled two of the cigarettes from the box and carefully placed them in her case before returning the box to the freezer. She opened and closed the oven loudly without looking at the food within. "And I think I may have your answer," Donna said, returning to his side. He was leaning forward now, a different kind of interest in his eyes. "But may I have a light first?" She pulled one of the special cigarettes from the case. James extended his lighter in gentlemanly fashion. She took a small puff. "I think I know where it is."
Bond moved closer. "Can you tell me how to get there?" he asked as if he was sharing a confidence. Donna put the cigarette to her mouth and blew into it. He felt the needlestick, swatted at it, then took a swipe at her, but she easily and gracefully spun out of reach. The Walthers... His hand stopped working, the world became blurry, then went black.
Grinding out the special dart cigarette, Donna removed a fresh, normal one from her case, and lit it with her own lighter. No sense in taking any unnecessary risks. She smiled. "Of course I can tell you how to get there, 007," Donna said to his unconscious form. "But I’ll do better than that. I’ll take you there."