007 Too Young To Die

It was a bad hangover.

But Dom Perignon had never had that effect on James.

It was a first. Something was wrong.

He opened his right eye. Yes, he was still lying in the king-size bed at the center of the seven-star hotel room. He focused on last evening's events. And was hit by the remembrance. Hard. He had failed the gorgeous lady! The green-eyed brunette. The aristocratic chick.

He saw again her sharp moves as she was getting dressed, the zzzip of her pencil skirt closing up, her mocking goodbye. Even worse, he could perfectly remember his pathetic joke on his own failure, and Amanda Victoria looking down at him like the queen she was. "We are not amused."

Her voice was so chilling that he had to stop the air-conditioner before falling asleep.

Was he really getting too old? The new management of MI5 had suggested retirement. Several times. He could almost hear Ms.M's upper-class English resounding into his ears, "Agent double-oh-seven, if you don't feel up to this mission, double-oh-eight can replace you."

The haughty bitch! She wanted to replace him. After so many successes. After such a distinguished career! And who was this double-oh-eight anyway? Probably a nerd just out of the intelligence academy, a bespectacled guy ready to shit himself as soon as he got under enemy fire. Maybe one of those recruits he had met at the 'Soft Weapons' seminar, a compulsory course in which they had taught all the agents about feminine dresses and perfumes--lingerie included--on the basis that they were the means through which the opposition could distract them. Imagine that! Being killed by a guepiere! He remembered even too well the young agents attending the seminar, their sculpted beards, their fake-macho perfumes, their manicured hands. And Ms.M wanted to replace him with these metrosexuals. The haughty bitch!

Thank God, he felt his cock waking up as well, autonomously. The lazy, stupid thing! Yesterday night it looked as erect as the ears of his Scottish cat. All the same, he felt reassured, Feeling his celebrated erection was always good. A good omen. He moved his right hand toward it for further reassurance--and maybe more.

But his hand would not move.

Just then, as if someone had checked his awakening, the room lit up, slowly, softly. Illuminating his naked body, wrists and ankles neatly fixed to leather restraints, the way classy ladies are tied to the bed in classic BDSM movies.

The door opened silently and Amanda Victoria glided in on her high heels, smiling her sexy smile: "Good morning, James, my dear. Slept well?".

She bent over him, allowing him a nice peek into her dress as her fruity perfume (Chanel Number Five) hit his nostrils. She checked his wrists, blocked by his hips, and nodded. Definitely, she was with the opposition. How had he been so careless not to spot the foe? Was he really getting too old? But he was an experienced agent, so he just tried to concentrate on present danger, not future worries. He had escaped worse situations. "Very well, thank you, Amanda. You look well-rested yourself."

Indeed, she looked gorgeous in her white dress (Lanvin), the long-draped skirt resembling a Greek kithon, one shoulder left bare. A Mediterranean goddess. Her naked shoulder--that minimal hint at her nude body--made his cock react slightly, and she raised an eyebrow. "Very well, James. Very well. We are making progress here. After some disappointments, it looks like you are approaching full service again. In some areas, at least." Bending over him, she casually arranged his balls and cock in a better way, looking pleased with the result, like an Ikebana mistress approving the aesthetics of a new flower composition.

He jumped slightly under her deft touch but didn't want her sarcasm or her penis-art expertise to distract him from his more urgent duties, so he ordered his cock to stop giving her that unfair advantage. It tried to resist, but after a little hesitation, it subsided, maybe helped by the sight of the black Walther PPK she had casually snatched out of his jacket's hidden holster. Not good. Even worse, she checked the PPK's charger with well-practiced, economic moves--all sixteen rounds were there, he always traveled with a full tank, you never know.

She engaged the safety catch of the handgun and set it on the lacquered bed-stand. That was better. She had no intention to kill him. Not immediately, at least. And he was resourceful, so he tried his famous self-assured smile as he noticed she had left his watch on his wrist. Unaware of her fatal error, the treacherous bitch was stupidly concentrating on his cock. Women! They can't admit being not attractive enough to generate an automatic erection.

But the chick had resources, too, or maybe she had planned that, because--after bending over him and giving him another peek at her generous bosom--she hovered in front of him smiling that naughty smile of hers, until he reached a place by the vanity, slightly to his right side, well lit under a strategically pointed spotlight where he could see her entire figure, standing in a statuesque pose. There, still smiling that peculiar smile that was quickly becoming rather irritating, she undid the shoulder buckle. And the white dress slid to the floor like an old-fashioned silk parachute, leaving her almost naked, and at the same time fully dressed. Dressed to kill. He couldn't resist bending his neck and checking her attire from the floor up. Loubie pumps (pearl, red soles, five-inch heels), stockings (white silk, ultra-thin, the real thing, not the ugly pantyhose modern chicks favored), corset (white silk, La Perla, complete with garter strips fastened to the stockings). The true conservative escorts' underwear. Had the opposition studied his tastes?

Indeed they had. He looked in disbelief at his own cock as the stupid thing reacted again, against his will. His sight glued to her dressed-nude body, he swiveled his head--the only part of his body he was still able to move according to his will--as she paraded back and forth, moving finally from left to right as she circled the king-size bed, clockwise.

The clash of wills between him and his unruly half-erect cock became well-balanced again as she disappeared behind him, like a she-Moon behind his male-Earth. But he couldn't resist looking east, at moonrise, until Amanda Victoria reappeared from his left, sashaying in front of him to that well-lit spot she was using as her stage for a special strip-tease show of which he was the only lucky patron. She stopped on the lit spot, smiled that really irritating smile, and with a slow yet fluid move slid her lacy panties (La Perla) to the floor. Her luscious bush appeared, trimmed into a perfect triangle pointing down as if she had studied his geometrical tastes. She had. An old-guard straight man, he couldn't stand the novel fashion of bare pussies. And he had always been unable to resist bottomless chicks.

Just then, he realized she was not the twentysomething girl he had believed. Small smile wrinkles carefully concealed through make-up, tight corset probably concealing small tummy issues, or maybe slightly sagging breasts. She was at least thirty. Alas, as of lately, she was unable to resist thirty-something classy ladies sashaying bottomless in Loubies, silk stockings, and La Perla corsets. But he had still his iron will on his side, and his training, and his experience. So, he tried to ignore her back-and-forth deliberate provocations, her round ass wiggling naturally at each step, her really really irritating smile as she looked down at him.

She sat down at a vanity, still in plain sight, left her long hair fall on her bare shoulders, and started fixing her already perfect make-up. Her white ass was on display for him, and he noticed a tiny but well-defined tattoo. The Union Jack, right there, on her right cheek.

Taking advantage of the brief respite, he forced her sight off the national flag and managed to concentrate on his emergency plan: the stupid slut had left his pistol on the bed-stand, and--as soon as he got rid of the restraint--he could grab it in a single swift motion, jump behind the bed, and crouch there in the fire position. His watch could release a whiff of instant-sleep gas and at the same time inject into his wrist an antidote. At the same time, he could activate on a vocal command the micro-robotic milling cutter hidden in his belt and guide it toward his restraints and...

Amanda was smiling a new smile--a super-irritating one--as she casually picked up a black leather thing from the vanity. An ugly-looking but elegant single-tail whip. "Now do you think you can frighten me with that thing, Amanda?"

She just kept smiling, sashaying to her stage spot before turning back to face him, "Oh come on, James, this is not to frighten you... think better!" She put on her glasses (Gucci), accurately measuring the distance. Her oversize lenses looked like the telemetric unit of a battleship. Then, with a fluid movement, she cracked the black leather, deftly whipping him on his exposed balls.

He yelped in surprise. A small sting, and the pain was minimal. But just after the whip had caressed his balls his cock reacted automatically, and he couldn't restrain it. Smiling the Cheshire Cat's smile (the Cheshire Pussycat's smile, actually) she snapped her wrist again, and again he felt the small sting and the velvety caress, and his cock continued moving upward, as unstoppable as the rising sun. The lady was obviously a world expert in the new art of whip-jobs.

He was unwillingly fully erect when she adjusted her corset, its cup becoming magically half-cups and exposing her erect nipples. She was actually enjoying herself. And hopefully becoming distracted. That was the moment.

He made the wrist move he had often practiced, releasing the gas. But nothing happened. He did it again, and the insufferable slut giggled. "Rolexes are not as reliable as they used to be, uh, agent double oh-seven?"

She cracked her whip again, and again the soft leather caressed his balls. His cock was now inexplicably rock-hard. She jumped on the bed, straddling his hips, and as she moved down he saw a translucent tiny drop splashing from her labia onto his navel. She was ready to envelop his granite cock with that hungry pussy. Against his will. He idly considered if this was sexual harassment. Technically, she was going to rape him. But he doubted Mi-5 was interested in pressing charges.

He tried the vocal command to the micro-robot milling cutter, but he didn't expect it to work. "Do you believe I don't know Ms.Q's little tricks, James? I have spent more than one night with her. Q-tie has a lovely pussy, by the way. Mature ladies are soo hot!"

The aristocratic slut laughed softly. "But you see, James, you still command some privileges. What better ending for a man holding your reputation than dying while fighting a crucial mission, exactly when he comes into a classy lady?"

She grabbed the PPK from the bed-stand, and she released the catch just as she slid his cock into her pussy, slowly and deliberately, like an alien spaceship sent from the Bellatrix constellation to snatch his manhood. Only his burning balls remained out in the cold.

She started moving up and down, talking small talk, "Imagine that, James dear. How romantic! Being shot exactly when we come, together." Her breath was getting slightly faster, and his breath was becoming faster as well. Just then another thing materialized in her hand. A nasty-looking black cylinder. She was clearly aroused, because she handled it as if it was an unusual plain dildo. But it was not. She raised her arms over her head as she fitted the silencer onto the PKK's short barrel without even looking at it, giving him a vantage view of her erect nipples as she gyrated her hips and his shaft was turning inside her in slow conic trajectories, according to her will.

At that moment, he realized he had always considered that silencer as a symbol of his sexual power. A phallic symbol. Manpower. And now the haughty chick was deftly fitting it to his own PKK. Her high cheeks were becoming pinker in excitement as she moaned softly, eventually pointing the long barrel to his forehead, exactly halfway between his grey eyes, her breath now faster, her nipples hard, her hips swaying as she maneuvered his cock, round and round, deeper and deeper. He felt he could not resist too much before exploding. But just at that moment, he remembered something he had subliminally discarded, and was now possibly saving his life, and--even more important--his mission. He remembered Ms.M's slightly disgusted expression. "Very well. The mission is yours, agent double-oh-seven. But I'll have agent double oh-eight shadow you, just in case." Increasingly worried, but now more faithful, he snapped his left-hand fingers twice in sequence, the coded signal picked up by the ultra-high-frequency radio hidden in his belt that would alert his colleague, requiring immediate intervention. The nerd was hopefully at his computer screen in a nearby hotel room--and he needed just a few minutes to come to the rescue--hoping he was able to force a hotel door open, not only to hack computers. Now he needed to buy himself a little time. These crucial minutes.

Looking again at the lady moaning and swaying his hips over him he noticed an inspiring detail he had not seen before. Another tiny tattoo, just by her her groomed bush. Three red eagles. A royal crest. Oxford's Queen's College coat of arms.

"Amanda, you are British. You are British upper class. Like me, you attended Oxford University." He continued, slightly cheating on that "I am an MI5 agent, on duty for our common motherland. For our Queen... I mean, our King. You are no traitor, Amanda."

Amazingly, it seemed to have some effect, because she moved the pistol off his forehead, folding her arm diagonally between his breasts, mimicking his famous stance "You know, James, double-oh agents never retire. Because they get never old. Especially those who know a lot of secrets."

But before he could fully process her words' meaning, he heard a slight noise, from the door. A man's voice, "Room service, Sir!" Not the best trick, but fucking double-oh-eight was finally arriving, almost too late. His secret service instincts kicked in, and he pictured the next scene--the door smashed, his incompetent colleague barging in, his firearms blazing. Probably not the dependable PPK, maybe an Italian fancy weapon, a Franchi, or whatever.

But just then, he realized he didn't want this. He pictured Amanda's white corset shattered and dirtied by her blood as she got mowed down. And he wanted to save her. Why? Maybe for the first time he considered retirement. Finding a British wife. An aristocratic mansion, in Kent. Raising kids with Amanda Victoria. He didn't want her killed. She was too young to die.

And even the incompetent double-oh- eight could not miss at such a short distance. "Amanda! Lie down! Now! Double-oh-eight will kill you!"

She appeared to understand because--moving off the firing line--she bent over him, smiling a different smile--no longer irritating, so sweet, almost sad--as her Chanel Number Five hit his nostrils for the last time. "James, I am double-oh-eight."