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The Queen's Boy

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He's a Queen's boy: an elite 00 agent. A weapons expert, yet skilled at hand-to-hand combat. Flexible, cunning, highly adaptive. Oh, and mostly brilliant, if in a brutish, physically reactive manner.

Licensed to kill, of course. As the 00's are.

I'm not the only one to use the nickname. Calling them the Queen's boys and girls is a sneering, petty attempt to scale them down to size. I admit it. There's absolutely no doubt they're formidable with proper guidance and superior technology.

Usually formidable, I should say. Not now. It's hard to project the 00 brand of danger and violence when on your back, bleeding, panting on the ground.

His heart pounds. I feel the trip of it beneath the sole of my boot, see the beat of it in the hollow of his throat. His white shirt is soiled, torn and bloody, bright against his bronze skin. Sweat and blood mix and trickle over his face. His arms and legs are spread and tied. Crudely, securely bound. I took the liberty of attending to details while he was unconscious because he's 00. One can never relax their guard with them.

The 00's are MI6, and as such, MI6 is about to get symbolically and literally fucked.

Oh, well. I should say that a cog in the wheel of MI6 is about to get fucked. After that, we'll see. There are hundreds of delightful steps I could take, each higher than the one before. But this one, I already know, is the one I'll enjoy best.

His name is Bond. A 007.

"James Bond," I intone, deep and mocking, and I laugh down into the bright stone of blue eyes fixed on mine.

The brilliant eyes widen. Minutely, yes, but I call it a victory nonetheless. He's never heard me speak so.

He pulls at his bindings.

"It's quite useless." I kneel beside him in the dirt, reach out and wipe the trail of bloody sweat trickling toward his ear. His skin is slick, ablaze with heat.

He glares at me, but at least he doesn't bite.

I pull the shears from my pocket and begin at the blue veins of his wrist, feeling his pulse leap against my fingers. I take my time, clipping a neat line through the expensive, utterly ruined cloth toward his armpit. The cloth falls away. The muscles in his arm shift and jump in hard knots.

I pause at his armpit, brushing the blades against the hair, pressing gently against skin. If he decides to use his teeth I'll retaliate.

Bond's gaze is fixed to a point somewhere above, but the muscle in his jaw jumps, his mouth a line set in granite. He understands.

I cut around the curve of underarm and chest. The ridged muscle is quite impressive. He's making an effort to breathe evenly.

I smile at him, entranced.

Slowly he turns his head to look at me. He studies me. "What is it you want?" He sounds disdainful, impatient. It's all demeanor with him. Such a force of personality.

"I thought I was being quite clear." I gesture with the clippers, and his eyes follow. I bring them to my lips, press them against the blades.

His eyes are such a sharp, electric blue.

I lower the shears, slip them over the smooth skin of his bare, golden chest. Around a nipple. I smile again, press the blades the smallest bit closed.  Closer.

Then I release him. "Nothing so hurtful," I say. "Unless you try to escape." 

I resume cutting, letting the tip of a blade skate over the dip of muscle and bone occasionally. As a reminder. 

The shirt slips completely to the ground. Bond is left only in his pants. His feet are bare. His nipples peak in the chill.

I yield to temptation, lean over and tongue the indent down the middle of his stomach, feel his breath start and then stop again, quicker. His skin is slick, salty and firm. At the narrow waist I stop and unbuckle his pants, feel his hips squirm. Ignore it.

His cock is swollen, the outline large beneath the soft, form fitting underwear.The head bulges just outside of the waistline, rosy-colored, the opening small and gaping, filling with fluid. I lick it, tasting salt and Bond's unwilling arousal, breathe deeply of the tang of musk from the air. His legs and hips jolt, stiffening.

I move to his feet, and Bond makes a small, stifled noise. I think it's impatience. I pat the top of one of his feet. I'm quite sure he growls in response. His temperament is rather tedious.

Taking my time, I cut up one leg and then the other, making sure, once again, to scuff and drag the blades occasionally against his legs, once leaving a bloody furrow along his thigh.

He groans in response. It's not in pain.

The scissors gleam. I'm at his hip, at the indent of skin. I trace the line up and down, feel what I'm sure is an unwanted quiver. He tries to suppress it, too late. Bond grows rigid in outrage.

He's seen the amusement on my face.

The pants are gone, then the underwear falls away. His cock thrusts out from a neat, severely trimmed thatch of dark gold hair. The head's leaking, and veins trace thickly over his angry red cock. Magnificent, really.

He shouts when my mouth engulfs him. I taste his anger and the fear he'd die before showing. I taste his bitterness, his arrogance, take it inside me and work him hard, grunting, utterly unashamed beneath the onslaught of salt and musk and heat and raging need pouring from him.

He tries to gag me with his length. He's huge but I take him to the root, spit sliding easily over the heaviness of him sliding against my tongue. I feel his pulse in my mouth. I feel him swell, and slide quickly off.

He moans, part rage and all want. His mouth is open, lax. His body bows against the restraints, long thigh muscles carved of stone, arm muscles like rock. All of him, straining for me.

I stuff him full with my fingers. He's wide open for me. Nothing, no one to stop me.

He keens, a thin stream of pain and arousal. His body rises higher in the air, stomach muscles quivering. Then he drops onto my fingers, growling, grinding into me. I feel the stretch of him against my touch, so hot, so tight.

I gasp.

He grins, a grim twitch aimed at no one, and bucks again. Pulls his thighs wider, inviting. His cock is dusky, huge, bouncing with movement against his stomach.

I fumble out of my pants, scoot on my knees to sprawl between his legs. Panting, I stare at his face.

There's a sly gleam in his eyes. "Hurry up, won't you?"

He thinks he's goading me. I stroke myself, not looking away, letting my mouth fall open, back curving into the feel. I need, need to be inside him. I've been waiting. I slide my thighs under his ass, spit on my hands, fumbling to get myself wet. I push in.

Bond moans, thigh muscles trembling as he pulls his legs wider.

He's so incredibly tight. For a moment I don't think I'll get inside him. The thought is unbearable. "Fuck you, Bond," I hiss, immediately regretting the lack of self-control.

He laughs, more than a bit sardonic. But he relaxes.

I slide in, both of us gaping rather stupidly at one another, and then I begin to move. He's got me in an iron grip, and for a moment I don't know who is in control. It firms my resolve. I plow inside him steadily, faster, heat clasping at me, pressure, then sliding away from it, the moment of coolness against my cock. Then slamming back home to the exquisite, greedy, grasping, demanding heat that is Bond.

He's sweating rivers, trying to arch up, rub his dick against me. I grin at him, taunting him, see him grit his teeth in answer before he thrusts up even higher. He gasps, eyes widening, legs going boneless. I've hit his prostate.

Evidently he enjoys it.

He's grunting at me, cursing, driving himself to meet me. The blood on his face is mostly sweated off.

I lean down and lick his cheek. He glares at me, jaw jutting. Come sprays over his belly. He can't stop himself, his lower body moving in jolts against mine. He squeezes his eyes shut.

"Look at me," I pant at him. It sounds like nothing more than a plea, though I'd meant it as a demand. His eyes snap open. I can't look away. So much heat and wildness in them.

Inside him.

Coming with him is like fighting, which is a sport I've indulged in more than you'd believe, mostly defensively. There's a winner and a loser most of the time.

But sometimes it's a draw. Like now.

Who am I, you ask? Terrorist or double agent or mastermind criminal? Traitor, betrayed? Duped or evil? Brainwashed, even?

I rather think you know. But all you really need to know is that I have my reasons. And because of those reasons, Bond pants up at me, his semen spilled tacky over his thighs and my stomach. The taste of him is overwhelming, fierce on my tongue. Every time I close my eyes, I'll savor the strength and musk and wildness. I'll never forget.

I smile into his glazed, beautiful, stony killer eyes. I've only just begun, and there will be no draw. I will win.

The look he gives me in return is exquisite. He can't disguise the self-condemnation. He sees who I am now.

"Yes. You should have known." I nod. I kneel next to him to resume.

Bond knows now. He's played all the games.

Now he'll play for me.