Erotic Adventures of Sexy British Super-Spy Jane Bond
Jane looked around M's spacious office. M's huge desk dominated the office. She wondered why M needed such a big desk, when all that was on it was an ink blotter, a stand holding a gold pen, and a telephone. She wondered if a big desk, like a big gun, was a macho spy's way of compensating for certain, um, physical inadequacies.
M was definitely from the old school. Not only did he not have a desktop computer, like practically everyone else at the agency, but his telephone was still the old plain, black rotary-dial type. No modern innovations for this top British spy. M was such a relic that he had even been reluctant to admit female spies like Jane into The Service.
The walls of M's office were of dark, real wood paneling, that bespoke old-fashioned, old-world elegance. She thought that the office had probably changed little since her famous father had first signed "On Her Majesty's Secret Service" just after World War II. Then she noticed that one wall of M's office was lined with nothing but photos of her famous father, posing with world leaders, with movie stars, and especially, with lots of scantily-clad women. But then, publicity and women had always been her father's style. She hadn't been in M's office since here dad brought her there once as a little girl, but it looked pretty much as she remembered it from that one visit in the 1960s, when her father was just reaching the peak of his Cold War spying fame.
"Do you know why I called you in here, Miss Bond?" M asked.
"I imagine since I just graduated from the academy, you wanted to officially welcome me to The Service."
"Well, yes, there is that. After all, I welcomed your father into The Service when he first joined after military duty, back in 1946. But I really wanted to talk to you about your style and philosophy as a spy for the English Government. Your father--"
"Excuse me, sir, but I am tired of comparisons with my father. All through my training at the Academy, all I heard was James Bond this, and James Bond that. I am Jane Bond, not James Bond."
"I am very glad to hear that, Miss Bond--"
"Call me Jane, please. Or if you must be formal, I prefer Ms. Bond"
M gulped. Being of the old school, practically the poster- boy for the old-boy network, first names seemed too familiar, and M still had a hard time adjusting to the post- Feminist term "Ms." Still, if those were his only two choices...
"All right, Ms. Bond. While I have the utmost respect for all that your father did during his years with us, I want you to know up front that I always thought James Bond was too high-profile to be an effective spy. A good spy enters---"
"unobtrusively, gets the job done quietly, and leaves without anyone knowing he or she was ever there."
"Very good, Ms. Bond. I see you were listening to your instructors at the Academy. You know, we never had an academy to train our operatives when we started. Maybe that's why your father never learned what you just recited from memory. Sometimes, I swear that man had all the subtlety of of a--"
"Rampaging elephant?"
"Very good, Ms. Bond. I couldn't have said it better myself. Yes, well, anyway, I wanted to talk to you, get to know you better, get to more about you."
M tried to be very subtle in looking her over from head to toe, remembering that an experienced master spy like himself should not be detected in any covert activity. 40 years ago, he would have done a lot more than just look, but now M was content to just admire her and long for her, feeling too old now (he would soon be 80) to act on his desires.
Despite his charming attempts at subtlety, Jane Bond nevertheless caught M looking her up and down, and thought sarcastically to herself, "Yeah, I'll just bet you'd like to get to know me better." Maybe M was cut more from the same cloth as her womanizing father, than he realized or cared to admit.
M found a lot to like in Jane's exotic South American features. Although she was just five feet two inches tall, Jane had long, dark legs, like her mother (one of James Bond's many conquests), deep brown eyes that a man's gaze could easily and completely drown in, and shoulder-length dark hair that gave her an aura of mystery and unattainability. But M's infallible instincts told him that the right man could unlock that mystery, break down that unattainability, and release the wild Latina passion that he just knew lurked somewhere beneath her reserved exterior. Reserved was the word M would have chosen to describe her. She wore a knee-length navy-blue skirt, and a matching navy-blue blazer, that covered up everything.
Forty years ago, M might have sweet-talked such a woman out of that skirt and blazer. Sure, James Bond's female conquests were and still are legendary--Jane was the result of one such conquest during a typically-dramatic 007 Brazilian mission--but M had conquered more than his share of beautiful women in his day (he was just too much of an old-school gentleman to have kissed and told the way James had). Unlike James, however, M had finally settled on one woman, and for over 30 years now, he had been concentrating all of his love and lust on her, making Mr. and Mrs. M both far happier than James had ever been, when Bond was spreading himself thin between so many different women, and never getting to know any one of them very well.
Jane could see that M was lost in a daydream, as his gaze lingered on her, trying to see something, anything, through her conservative outfit.
