My Name Is Bond....

Christina Jane Bond, the Hotel’s Sales and Marketing Director, is my wife.

Something out of the ordinary, that wouldn’t cost her a penny. I had been limited to not forgetting the date. This we had agreed after I had completely forgotten our first anniversary. She had given me the most incredibly expensive sunglasses. She hadn’t known that I don’t wear sunglasses because I consider them a passive form of arrogance.

Birthdays and Anniversaries, I know all the dates off by heart. Associating the day with its annual expiry date, which is what I have trouble doing, is a virtue I envy in others.

Bubbles, the secretary I share with the General Manager, Günter Pichler, aka The Kaiser, had reminded me that today was the day. She is a vivacious and lively person that likes to take everything seriously, and dresses extremely well. Bubbles, as in French Champagne, was going to buy my present for Chrissie, on this our second anniversary.

My name is James, better known as Jim. I know what you are thinking. No, nothing like him at all. Dark, a damned sight taller, and I’ve none of his appeal, sex included. Deputy General Manager of the Palace Hotel, Rio de Janeiro. At your service.

No, nothing to do with spooks either, just sit back and listen.

The first I heard about the problem was from a passing waiter. Dona Christina was looking for me; there was a blackout in the Convention Hall.

Why Chrissie had sent for me didn’t bother me too much. Chrissie with her neat manner and Brazilians with problems do not mix well in a crisis.

I called Bubbles and told her to have Moura meet me in the Convention Hall and made my way there myself.

Tall men move fast enough at a stride and as DGM, never run, and never ever panic. The International Fashion Show was a hell of a big deal for the budding Brazilian fashion industry, and nothing could go wrong. It was due to start in less than three hours.

Bubbles and Moura were at the Convention Hall doorway. “The Kaiser wanted me to tell you personally that he’ll have your balls on a platter if this photographer thing gets out of hand”, she said. Bubbles was flustered. She always is when doing The Kaiser’s bidding.

“It’ll be OK,” I said. The photographer had blown the fuses with his lighting gear. At least, that was what we hoped had happened.

“Did you sort out my present?”

Bubbles was incensed, and with a dismissive “’course I have!” went on her way.

Moura, the Uruguayan Head of Maintenance, was carrying a torch.

“You disconnect all the equipment he set up, I’ll see to the breakers,” I said, pushing open the doors to the convention hall.

“Afirmativo,” he answered. He loves his radio-speak.

The hall was in semi darkness. The emergency lighting was sufficient to see where the photographer was and to see the entrance to the back area. All the action for the catwalk, general fussing and clothes changes, for which being naked was an essential convenience, happened there. One does notice these things. The breakers were in a cabinet on the back wall.

It was darker in the back area. I made a beeline for the breakers, hands outstretched. I was feeling for possible tubular wheeled wardrobes, the only things that would litter this area. The dressing rooms were further back.

I walked straight into a naked girl. She appeared out of nowhere and embraced me, whispering “shh!” in my ear. Naked because my hands quickly scanned her back looking for somewhere decent to hold her and stop myself. I didn’t, she was naked. I did stop, one leg in between hers and my weight on the other leg, about a yard behind her, one hand cupping a deliciously soft warm buttock and the other holding her against me as I managed to straighten and regain my balance. Her long hair tangled in my fingers.

Then she kissed me. Soft warm lips inviting me to kiss back, which I did, my legs still held apart by her insistence in pressing her body up against mine, making herself comfortable and purring like a kitten, a very sexy sound coming from the back of her throat. I relaxed and gently nibbled at her lips, so soft, warm and yielding, like her body under my hands. She ground her mound passionately against my rising cock, easing the throb as it made space to swell in growing desire. I was breaking out in a sweat, incredibly aroused and literally breath taken.

Then she was gone, just disappeared.

“Jefe!”, Moura called out. The man was getting impatient.

“OK!” I answered, “um minutinho só!” Time I needed to recover from the surprise and get the breakers back on.

The Hall lit up again. Moura, a bull of a man, intimidating when angry, was already explaining to the incomprehending photographer how to use several extention cords for his lighting and not just the one. Brazilians have a special respect for bull like Uruguayans. More than seventy years of FIFA World Cup soccer had seen to that. Which saved me the bother.

I did look for the girl on my way back out, but she had gone. I sat for a minute to recover from the unbelievable ‘incident’.

She was a very tall girl, had to be to reach and whisper that shushing noise that had set me tingling, and to grind up against me at that height, even though I had my feet set apart. Had to be one of the models, they are all tall, some very tall, with long hair, down to the waist. I was missing something about the perfume. What a kiss!

Moura was beginning to carry on a bit, so I dragged him off and sent him back on his regular duties. Bubbles was relieved that the problem wasn’t going to result in my castration. The Kaiser was flamboyant with his language, and Bubbles insisted in taking him seriously. Somebody had to, because I certainly couldn’t.

Bubbles told me that Chrissie wanted to talk to me in the Conference Hall. No problem, she assured me.

Now Chrissie enjoys watching me squirm, in the friendliest of ways. I think she does it to wean me out of my shyness. The more I squirm the less likely I am to squirm, some such theory anyway. Her favourite was to introduce me to people for no good reason other than that I am the DGM of the hotel. The Kaiser was good at that sort of thing, but you have to be insufferable at something, I disliked being insufferable at anything. Chrissie’s right of course, as a budding GM I have to pick up some social graces somewhere.

“Dona Cristina?” I asked at the hall. Somebody pointed at the back area of the hall and I strode up, hoping that there was no brewing problem a couple of hours before the fashion show. The place was empty, as it had been earlier, so I walked into the dressing room area.

Quick glance around and I knew what she was up to. A crowd scene welcomed me. People busy with an assortment of what looked like unfinished dresses, fussing in hurried flurries about partially naked models; sexy, provocative, nubile mannequins, suffering the fitting and pinning of messy high fashion.

Chrissie was chatting to three girls in tangas, the thong bikini that is all the rage down by any kind of water in Brazil. Topless is allowed, not really an option, but to bare your buttocks entirely is, and they do. There is nothing like a full firm buttock on a pretty woman. The girls talking to Chrissie had every right to show it all.

I decided to show a little presence of mind.

“Going to try a tanga on Chrissie?” I asked, glancing at the models around her, careful to look into their eyes, and ignore their shapely, sensual, erotic and uncovered bodies. My lechery I hid by smouldering at Chrissie waiting for an answer, and she was twinkling away, as usual.

“This is Mr Bond,” she introduced me. Now that was nasty. In Brazil nobody, but absolutely nobody is known, or even introduced with, their family name. Everybody is known by their christian name, or by their nickname.

“James Bond.” She really was rubbing it in.

It was the first time Chrissie had pulled the Bond theme out of the hat. She had forgotten about the twenty-eight years I’d had to suffer the name.

I stepped forward to the first of the models and held out my hand.

“Jim” I said, Chrissie hadn’t spoken in Portuguese so I carried on in English “Carina” she said, and turned her cheek to receive the first kiss that I was leaning forward to give. Two kisses, one on each cheek, great custom, love it. Then as I moved away I raised her hand and indicated a spin under my arm, and I looked at the beautiful body turning gracefully before me.

“Really pretty tanga, Chrissie, this one would suit you fine!”

Trish and Kelly went through the same motions, and I was careful to highlight a different aspect of the wonders of tangas, making sure that Chrissie was listening. Then I asked them if Chrissie had shown a preference for a particular model.

I knew that Chrissie wouldn’t be seen in a tanga, not for all the tea in China. She had a complex about the lack of flesh, well, compared to Brazilian girls anyway, on her buttocks. She wears a bikini with the ‘normal’ amount of cloth over her bottom. To compensate, she does make up for any shortcomings with full firm breasts, sufficiently proportioned to make her extremely sexy, from certain angles.

“James, Sr Carlos wants to meet you, he’s the producer of the show”, Chrissie was laying it on thick.

She led me to a smallish man in a shiny suit who was talking to a perfectly naked model, with long blonde hair. Perfect in every detail, and oblivious of her nudeness as in the day she was born. I had to look at Chrissie.

She had the devil dancing in her eyes. “Impressed?” she asked. She does think I’m too laid-back.

Leaning in and whispering, I replied, “stirred, not shaken!” Chrissie shook her head and smiled, raising her eyes to heaven. I noted that she had just taken a shower, one of two or three a day, as one does in the tropics.

“I’ve got a story to tell,” I whispered,

“I’ll see you at dinner” she replied.

Sr Carlos had insisted on meeting the man who had tamed the photographer. He wanted to feel free to require similar service during the evening. I assured him we were all at his disposal.

Perfection in the nude had raised her arms to dress a slip, a breath-taking sight. Sr Carlos was now occupied with his appreciation of the view, and I turned to find that Chrissie was on her way back to the three marvels of nature.

I watched her walk away, very tall, auburn hair in a French something or other at the back of her head and legs that complemented the business suit admirably. She looked back at me, and made a deliberate shooing motion, I was being dismissed.

I went up to my rooms for a shower; it was hot work.

Bubbles had a porter deliver a beautifully wrapped parcel, which I took down with me to the Restaurant.

Chrissie was sitting at our usual table. I put the gift on the table and sat down.

“I got kissed by a naked girl about two hours ago,” I said. I was certain there was a catch somewhere.

“Really?” asked Chrissie, unperturbed, “Is this mine?” reaching for the gift.

“When the condition is met, yes,” I reminded her

“Jim, you are so dense at times, I have met the condition and you don’t even know what’s in this do you?”

I knew I was missing something about the perfume.

It was such a coincidence though; the timing, the location, the blackout, Bubbles at the door, Moura leaving the breakers to me, the models, Sr Carlos….

“You set it all up, didn’t you? And you switched those breakers off!” I said. I was in awe.

“And you chose your present!” I realized in dismay, Bubbles took things too seriously not to have consulted Chrissie.

Never say never again, but I have never been so laid-back about an anniversary since!