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Sévérine was returning, almost certainly bringing him the gift of Mummy's new favorite boy--she was the most effective bait, especially for a man with Mr. Bond's record. And, ah, yes, a new dot popped up on the screen, broadcasting from Sévérine's boat. Silva positively giggled at the bandwidth readings. Oh sure, the signal would hit the right satellites and bounce over to MI6, that is if--Silva banged out a command on the keyboard--it weren't so easily redirected, if only for a few hours longer. Q Branch, where is your imagination these days? he mused before sending the order that Bond was to be brought to him, and Sévérine was to be dealt with elsewhere... 

Bond would have choked on his own breath when he saw Sévérine chained to the statue but for the need to keep a stoic facade.  The thought struck him that he was going to fail her, that he already had. Granted, despite what he told her in Macau, killing Silva was always the last resort plan--the chance that he had planned ahead for his untimely demise was too great and the stakes too high.  That's why MI6 were on their way, Bond reminded himself, to help take Silva in as alive as possible.

But what was Silva's game here? Fine Macallan whiskey in this concrete wasteland? Sévérine bloody and on display? Silva glided towards her, and Bond could faintly hear him say, "Darling, your lovers are here." He watched Silva kiss her, more forcefully the more she recoiled and resisted. Then as Silva balanced his scotch glass on her head, he realized Silva had a quite literal game in mind.

When he presented Bond with one of his antique dueling pistols (and of course he had antique dueling pistols), Bond felt truly shaken for the first time since he had arrived in Macau. Silva, for his part, could not resist another innuendo, pressing his cheek against Bond’s own, enunciating, “Let's see who ends up on top.”

Bond felt the gun at his temple that threatened to take him out if he didn’t comply with the game--its bearer was far too focused on him to risk trying to knock it out of his hand, he’d almost certainly get shot himself. So all he could do was try to shoot a small glass off the top of a terrified woman’s head.

He knew he couldn’t. Silva was right, he should never have been sent into the field if he couldn’t shoot with enough precision to “win” this game easily. He raised his arm and his hand shook involuntarily.

Silva tutted, “I can't believe it. I can't believe it. Did you really die that day? Is there any...any of the old 007 left?”

Fuck it, Bond thought, and fired as wide as he felt he could control while still making it look like he tried. He hoped that Silva had some remaining affection for Sévérine.

“My turn,” Silva said and promptly shot her in the head, knocking the glass to the ground. “I win. What do you say to that?”

What was there to say? “It's a waste of good scotch,” he said barely masking his frustration with himself. Then he sprang into action.

When the last henchman fell to the ground and Bond had a handgun trained on a now unarmed Silva, Silva spat out, "What are you doing to do now? Take me back to Her? All on your own?"

"Who says I'm on my own?" Bond replied. Though why it was taking so long...

Silva cackled. "You mean your reinforcements that your little radio is calling to my island?" Bond froze and felt the blood drain from his face.  All he could do was stare back at Silva, who took the opportunity to dive towards him and knock the gun out of his hand.  Before Bond could retaliate, Silva drove two fingers into his bullet scars, sending a fiery jolt down his spine, knocking his legs out from under him.  Silva caught him before he hit the ground, and now on down one knee, he cradled Bond in his arms, with one hand hovering strategically around the scars.

Silva began stroking Bond's face. "What did I tell you about the incompetence, the irrelevance of Q Branch?" he said softly. "Not a single signal goes unnoticed within a twenty mile radius of here, surely they had to have expected that?"  He dipped his head closer to Bond's so that his next words ghosted sickly on his forehead, "Are you still sure Mummy didn't set you up for failure? Assigning you that child as a Quartermaster, who has never breathed air that wasn't packed with information at every given moment, never dreaming it could so easily be stopped..." he leaned back and gazed at Bond with false concern and barely contained glee.  Bond's mind, dulled with pain, warred with itself, not wanting to believe that he had been abandoned by M, but unable to come up with a clearer answer.

Bond's eyes had teared up from the pain of his scars, and now Silva dragged his thumb along his lashes and said, "Come now, it's not that bad is it? Knowing where you stand now?" He took his now salty wet thumb and brought it to his lips. With his eyes boring into Bond's, he licked the tears off the pad of his thumb, then sucked the tip of digit obscenely into his mouth, closing his eyes and moaning with apparent bliss. He then brought his thumb down to Bond's face and stroked down the middle of his lips.  "Look on the bright side, James. Now I get to claim my prize!" Silva smiled widely and wickedly, showing an unnerving amount of teeth.

"Prize?" was all Bond could think to say.

"Oh, don't play coy with me, James, you must remember the stakes of our little marksmanship tournament?" Bond squinted back in response. Silva pressed his face roughly against Bond's cheek, and Bond remembered the words that Silva uttered the last time he had done so just as he now repeated the terms directly into Bond's ear: "To see who would come out on top."

Adrenaline surged through Bond and he tried to extract himself from Silva's grasp so he could--what, run off the island? Fight the former agent with only his bare hands?--but it didn't matter anyway. Silva simply wrapped his arms completely around Bond like a python before dropping them both to the ground and pinning him facedown on the concrete.

Laying with his chest flush to Bond’s back, his legs clamped around Bond’s thighs, Silva purred in his ears, “There’s no need for that, now is there, hm?” He began rubbing his face in Bond’s hair and continued, “Where would you go? Even if you could get off my island, swim the five kilometers to shore in your unfit state. If I let you go, did not order my men to shoot you--” he grabbed Bond’s chin and turned his head to the side, putting his lips right against the shell of Bond’s ear and stroking his cheek said, “And I do not want to shoot you James; what a waste of a fine man that would be,” Silva’s tongue flicked at Bond’s ear as he spoke, and Bond flinched every time. “She abandoned you here, unfit for duty, with a hopelessly fallible rescue signal--believe me, it will be much better if you just accept this now. And be grateful at least--” He began to grind his hips against Bond’s ass, demonstrating his semi-hard cock. “--that She left you for dead in better company than She left me. Hm?”

Bond’s silence clearly displeased him, and he sighed. “I don’t want to have to keep restraining you, James,” he said as he pulled Bond’s wrists to his back, cuffing them with a set of handcuffs he had pulled out of his pocket. (Bond tried to prevent himself from wondering if he always kept them handy in case the opportunity for light bondage presented itself during the course of the day, but he was unsuccessful). “But I need you to understand that I am not the one who has trapped you here. She has abandoned you, discarded you here. She’s known it was me all along, She must with all the clues I put in my messages to Her. But She clearly could not even bear to tell you my name, to admit what She has done to me.” Silva guided Bond to his feet and then wrapped his right arm around his shoulders, pressing gently on his still-tender bullet scars as a warning. “Now come along James, I have something very special I want to show you.”

Of course it was a bed. More specifically, it was like a very spartan porn set, complete with a top-of-the-line digital camcorder on a tripod aimed at the bed. The bed itself was in contemporary Japanese style-- lower to the floor than Western beds, with a futon-style mattress and plain white sheets, and the headboard styled to resemble a Shinto torii. The bed faced a simple dresser, which of course had a computer on it, like every other flat surface Bond had thus far seen in this place. He could see the bed from the camera’s perspective on the monitor. Fantastic.

“Do you like it, James? Of course it’s not quite as fancy as the one you fucked on last night, but I promise the company is even better.” Silva forced him onto the bed and, pressing his knee into his injured shoulder, distracting Bond while unlocking the cuffs and spreading his arms, chaining each wrist to the posts of the headboard. Silva then got off the bed and went to the camera, pressing a button which caused a little red light to flicker on.

Bond looked at the monitor past his feet and felt the disorientation of seeing oneself at a different angle than one was actually looking. “So what, you like filming your own snuff films?”

“James!” Silva gasped in mock affront. “I have no desire to kill you. Certainly not with you in this state of...vulnerability,” he finished throatily. Bond glanced over and saw Silva scanning him intently, his eyes both soft and dark with arousal as they had been when he had been groping Bond in that chair.

“Great, so are we streaming or just recording? Are we going to get instructions from some lonely bastard in Utah or something?” Just keep talking, defuse as much as you can, be as unerotic as possible.

Silva just laughed, showing too many teeth again. “You sound as if you have some experience in this field, Mr. Bond. As the star, or as the lonely bastard, I wonder? As for your other question: both, for Mummy.” Bond went numb and his eyes widened. Silva put on a playful smile and said, “That’s right, Mummy is seeing this sooner or later. Possibly now if she’s at her computer—I’ve got her very interested in my videos now. Does it really matter when though? Because you want to know how early you can start reasonably despairing that no one is coming to rescue you?” Silva shut one eye and placed the other to the eyepiece of the camera, making slight adjustments to the angle as he said, “Much more exciting than a simple radio signal, don’t you think James?”

“Riveting,” Bond deadpanned.

Silva chuckled as he toed off his shoes and pulled off his socks. He strolled over to Bond’s feet and began stripping his feet. “I don’t know about Mummy’s preferences, but I can never get into it when anyone is still wearing shoes or socks.” He dragged a finger lightly up the bare sole of Bond’ right foot. “Except maybe some strappy stilettos.”

“You put that thought away right now,” Bond demanded without thinking.

Silva laughed as he continued to stroke Bond’s feet lazily. “James, glad you finally joined me in this endeavor.” Bond cursed himself inwardly for giving Silva the satisfaction of a response to his overtures. And given that he had yet to explicitly reject anything else that was going on, he couldn’t help but feel that his silence on the topic now read as consent. But he wasn’t going to give Silva the satisfaction of begging him to stop either. What good would it do anyway?

“Is that what this is?” Bond asked. Just keep him talking, keep him busy with other thoughts.

“Would you prefer to think of it as a performance?” Silva cocked an eyebrow towards the camera. “An engagement, perhaps?” He bent his knees and lowered himself to the bed, kneeling astride Bond’s ankles.

“There are rules to engagement,” Bond retorted.

“Yes,” Silva replied silkily as he leaned forward, getting on all fours above Bond, and lowered his head to Bond’s ear, “Lie back and think of England. Think on what Queen and Country have asked of you. Think of what She has done to you. And think on my offer. Keep an open mind, hm?”

“And the camera enters into this how?”

“So She can watch me unmake you. As I unmake Her work with pleasure, as mine was undone with pain.”

Yes, he was out of his mind, alright. “That would require me to enjoy it,” Bond countered.

Silva looked deep into Bond’s eyes and caressed his face again. “You will, James, you will. After all, it’s not like this is your first time.” His eyebrow raised in challenge. Shit.

After a few moments of Silva stroking his face as they engaged in a quasi-staring contest, he sat back on his heels, casually grinding his arse against Bond’s cock through his trousers, causing the slightest stirring in his groin-- a purely physical reaction, he reassured himself. Silva, Bond reluctantly noticed, was almost completely hard. He ran his fingers down the silk lapels of Bond’s suit jacket. “You wear suits so well, James. I hate having to do this,” he purred as he pulled out a vicious-looking knife-- a hunting knife, about five inches long with a curved blade and an aptly-named gut-hook on the otherwise flat edge of the point; at the inch before the hilt, the the not-so-flat edge also had large serrated teeth.

“Or you could uncuff me,” Bond offered, fruitlessly he knew, though he gave the chains a slight rattle against the headboard for effect.

“Maybe later, if you’re a good boy,” Silva demurred. He worked the gut hook in the seam of the shoulder and, after flashing a smile at Bond and telling him to “keep your chin up,” he yanked the blade towards Bond’s neck, ripping open the jacket shoulder and barely missing Bond’s throat, as he barely had time to judge a safe position for his vital arteries. It was a few moments later that his chin started to sting when he realized he had been nicked.

“Pleasure and not pain?” Bond challenged Silva.

“I warned you. And besides,” Silva leaned in and licked the thin line of blood welling on his chin. “In our line of work, the line between the two is often very thin.”

“I was referring to the suit. It’s a Tom Ford,” Bond retorted. Show no weakness, show no pain, show no fear.

Silva patted him on the cheek above the cut before repeating the process on the other shoulder. This time Bond avoided the blade entirely, but he held himself still just a moment too long, took a breath too sharp and too loudly. Silva pressed a finger to his chin, pulling down so he and Bond were face-to-face. “You need to relax, James.” He pressed his lips to Bond’s, and Bond thought of Sévérine moments before he killed her.

His ‘offer’... Bond inwardly scoffed as Silva made steady work, gut-hooking the rest of the seams of Bond’s jacket sleeves. His offer to make Bond his hired gun and probably fucktoy as well? And that was supposed to be appealing after watching him shoot his previous one in the head as a game? No matter what M has done to him, to either of them, he was still here for her, Bond realized.

“James, have I lost you again?” Silva broke in through his thoughts, and Bond became aware that his disassembled jacket had been tossed aside, and Silva was now sliding his knife between Bond’s shirt and his bracers, blade down. One quick move and the hook would slice the bracers, and one wrong move would slide that blade across his abdomen.

Yes, this is all still part of the mission, whether she sends someone or not. Just like getting his balls beaten by Le Chiffre was still part of his mission though no one could find him. He can still do his job now.

“You know, those detach from the trousers. No knives necessary,” Bond commented as he wracked his brain for an angle from which to approach Silva. Playing along would keep him alive (probably) but to what end?

Silva’s smile gleamed unnaturally next to the knife as he brought it between their faces. “I’ll put this away, if you promise to remember that you had choice.”

Bond nodded. He was tiring of this charade, Silva pretending to offer him choices, pretending he wasn’t chained there, every word, every action daring him to object. Silva, for his part, didn’t even put the knife away, he just tossed it barely out of arm’s reach on the bedside table, where its blade and hook continued to taunt Bond. What Silva did next however, took him completely by surprise.

“Because I didn’t have a choice,” he said bitterly. He then discarded his jacket, opened his waistcoat, and began to unbutton his horribly loud shirt. As he pulled it off, Bond’s eyes widened and he recoiled, involuntarily pressing himself into the mattress as if he thought he could sink through it, away from what he saw.

To call what he saw on Silva’s torso ‘skin’ would only be true in the strictest biological sense. It appeared to Bond’s eyes to be nothing but a mass of scar tissue-- the thick lines left by knives and whips, the whorls left by severe burns, the discoloration of acid stains. And, oh dear god, his nipples had been sliced clean off. Bond could not imagine that he was not in constant agony.

Silva turned to the camera, which Bond had almost forgotten, and faced his torso towards the lens. “Look upon your work, Mother,” he addressed M for whenever she might be watching.

Of course, Bond thought. This was all about M. Silva could have his body for all he cared. He knew how to get into that twisted mind now.

“What did she do?” Bond asked, filling his voice with concern and sympathy. “She didn’t actually do that, did she?”

Silva snapped his gaze back towards Bond, looked down at his own chest briefly as though he had forgotten what it looked like, and squeezed his eyes shut as he shook his head. “She gave me to the people who did.” He opened his eyes and looked down at Bond, staring at his chest as he had when Bond was tied to that chair and pulled open his shirt, sending studs flying everywhere. “But that’s enough, isn’t it? She didn’t actually shoot you,” his fingers danced across the bullet scars on Bond’s chest, “But She’s why you got shot--needlessly.” He lay his palms flat against Bond’s chest, rubbing in circles. “I remember having skin like yours, smooth, firm, the kind that invites a lover’s touch. A vanity I didn’t know I had until She betrayed me.”

“So vanity is your sin? The pile of dead agents in your wake aren’t from wrath, you want revenge for your lost beauty? You lust after me because you want my skin, is that it?”

Silva’s eyes flashed in anger. “My cause against her is righteous, I lost my life because of her.” he snarled, before his face broke into his crocodile smile. “And James, how can you think me so superficial? I don’t want your skin, I want your flesh.” He raked his nails down Bond’s torso and chuckled as Bond hissed. His hands reached Bond’s waistband and he yanked down his trousers, the bracers snapping off as Silva exposed him to the camera, to M. “Oh Mr. Bond,” he said huskily before engulfing Bond’s cock in his mouth.

Bond snapped back in shock, the handcuffs cutting into his wrists, contrasting to the vibrations shooting up his cock as Silva laughed at him. Shit, he was getting hard. Focus, it’s just a physical reaction, don’t fight so hard to stop it that you can’t do anything else, he’s probably counting on that. Think about M. Bond froze at that last thought. Think about what M means to him...

He needed more information. Now was play-along time. He supposed having to play along with getting a blowjob was not the worst fate in the world. This was no different than seducing a crime boss’s wife, he told himself. Take the pleasure, leave with the information. He began slowly rocking his hips in time with Silva’s head. Silva moaned contentedly at Bond’s new responsiveness, which only shot a new wave of vibrations up his cock, breaking his concentration again. But then Silva drew back, letting Bond’s cock slide from his lips and he grinned wickedly up at him.

“There James, I told you this would be nice, yes?” He took Bond’s cock in hand and began steady, firm strokes.

“Not bad,” Bond replied noncommittally.

Silva laughed. “Oh James, it will be so sweet when you come undone. Your cock rather seems to have a higher opinion, though. He’s almost ready for me. I shall have to get ready for him.” Silva slid off the end of the bed, opened the top dresser drawer and pulled out a condom and tube of lube. Remembering his comment about who ended up on top, Bond flinch inwardly, though at the same time he supposed was grateful Silva was planning on preparing him and wearing protection.

Silva turned around and looked at Bond, spread out, naked, hard on the bed and gasped dramatically. “Oh Mr. Bond, you are breathtaking. Perhaps I should have positioned the camera here. But no matter, I suppose Mummy is getting a good view from there too.” He looked down at himself again, and after a slight hesitation, took down his trousers, his cock standing proud against the battlefield of scars that covered his thighs and hips. “I only wish I could offer you a better view,” he strained to sound playful about it, but it was all too obvious that he was sincere. A crack in his veneer.  A place to start chipping at.

When Silva got back on the bed, he surprised Bond yet again by rolling the condom over Bond’s cock. He reached behind himself. With a sharp moan, he slid his fingers inside himself and looked up at Bond with heavy lidded eyes. “You thought this was for you, didn’t you?” He grinned, working his fingers in and out. “You need a better imagination James. Or perhaps more experience?” Silva moved forward to kneel over Bond cock, and removed his fingers from his arse. Taking Bond’s cock in hand again, he aligned it and lowered himself down with an obscene moan. Yes, he was warm and smooth and his sphincter tight around Bond’s cock. That fact acknowledged, Bond concentrated on his next move.

Silva got a good rhythm going, letting out self-indulgent little whimpers every time he bounced down on Bond’s cock, stroking his engorged cock. Bond breathed heavily in a way that, if one was so inclined, one might interpret as response.  Among these heavy breaths, he asked Silva, “Who did that to you?”

“Oh Jaaamesssss,” Silva threw his head back and moaned. “You will have to work on your pillow talk.”

“Tell me and I’ll suck your cock.” Silva’s rhythm faltered, stopped pulling at his cock mid-stroke, and his fixed his lust-filled eyes on Bond. Bond, for his part, doubted the information was worth that much, but if his plan went right, he wouldn’t have to pay out.

Silva got his rhythm going again before gasping a single phrase: “The Chinese.” He shuddered in a way Bond was sure was not pleasure.

“Why?” Bond asked.

Silva shook his head as he continued to ride Bond’s cock and resumed wanking. “James, let me feel good. You feel so good, James…”

“I will eat you out if you tell me.”

Silva fell forward, arms barely catching himself before landing on Bond. Still impaled on Bond, he started rocking back and forth, but the physical pleasure Bond had accustomed himself to was mitigated by the rising repulsion he felt at Silva’s rock-hard cock rubbing against his abdomen, leaving behind wet trails of pre-come.

“Hacked them, a lot. Unauthorized, fine. Should have…covered…my tracks…better. Dios, James. All…invaluable…information. Found six...lost agents…alive. She traded me…for them. For Her…peaceful Handover.” By the time he gasped that last phrase, Silva had started to tear up, his teeth bared in a twisted smile which failed to cover his pain.

“What are you going to do to her?”

“Naughty boy, James. Not while She’s watching.”

“Tell me and I’ll come for you.”

A sob of ecstasy tinged with pain escaped from Silva’s throat. His hips started pumping away furiously at Bond’s cock as he lowered his head to whisper in Bond’s ear, “Kill her, at her hearing.”

Though he had never felt less like it in his life, Bond switched off the part of his brain that kept the sensations from his cock from reaching the pleasure centers of his brain and came hard with one loud, low cry. Silva’s eyelids fluttered and he started keening.

“Don’t come,” Bond commanded.

Cristo, James you bastard, that is the last thing to say when you mean it!”

“Remember what I promised? Uncuff me, now.”

Silva couldn’t jump off Bond fast enough. When he bent over to fetch the key from his trousers, Bond glimpsed Silva’s swollen red arsehole. He had a fleeting sense of disappointment that the condom had prevented his jism from running down Silva’s thighs. Shaking the thought from his head, he took stock of his surroundings once more. Silva was soon unlocking his wrists, kissing the red welts where the cuffs had dug into them, and in the process made the mistake Bond had most been hoping for.

“Kiss me,” Bond demanded.

In the haze of his enthusiasm to comply, Silva misinterpreted the hand Bond circled around his wrist, and did not notice the knife in his other hand until its point was digging into the soft underside of his chin, a bead of blood growing at the point of contact.

Silva spat, “Look at my body, I’ve suffered knives and things a thousand times worse.”

“And I’ve sacrificed my cock to worse things than your arse in the line of duty. Now, move where I guide you…”

In a few moments, Silva was chained to the bed and Bond stood at the foot. “James, you are sending me mixed signals. I am doubting whether you are going to keep your promise and suck me off,” Silva taunted bitterly.

“It is my intention never to let you come,” Bond said, and slowly pulled the condom off his cock. Though considerably full and slippery on the outside, Bond managed to stretch and tie it tightly around the base of Silva’s cock. He wiped the unavoidable mess from his hands on Silva’s cream-colored blazer. Silva growled.

“You know, Mr. Silva, in different circumstances, I might have empathized with you, or at least pitied you. I might have taken you back to London and recommended you get therapy rather than prison. Even after we lost Ronson, our embedded agents, the six at HQ, after my three months of death, and maybe even after how cruelly you disposed of Sévérine, I might have considered you worth saving regardless. But,” Bond placed the tip of the vicious knife at the base of Silva’s now-purple cock. “I will never let you kill her.” He scraped the knife slowly upwards as he spoke, barely breaking the skin, but enough to leave a line of miniscule blood droplets in its wake. Silva hissed and whimpered simultaneously.

Bond scoffed, “So you were a better agent than me, yeah?” He scraped another line up Silva’s cock. “Must be why she traded you for six useless agents-- identities known, destined straight for retirement when they got home, secrets probably beaten out of them—”

With a strangled cry, Silva yelled “I kept Her secrets! I protected Her! Even when I realized she betrayed me—” he started his grinning-crying again “—I'd rather have died!”

“Why didn’t you, then? Do us all a favor and kill yourself?” Bond taunted, running the serrated inch of the knife under the head of Silva’s cock.

“I tried!” Silva yelled. “I tried…” He began sobbing.

“What kind of agent can’t even kill himself?” Bond asked, snagging the guthook in Silva’s slit. Over Silva’s cries of pain, Bond continued, “She was well rid of you, then.” Silva sobbed again.

“You know nothing about it!” he screamed. “Life clung to me like a disease! Do you know what hydrogen cyanide does to you? Come pull on my upper teeth if you don’t believe me!”

“Fine,” Bond replied, and climbed up the bed on his knees, straddling Silva’s chest. Before reaching into his mouth, Bond held the blade above Silva’s eye and said “You bite me and I bite back.”

Silva said darkly, “No Mr. Bond, I want you to see this.”

Bond quickly drove two fingers into Silva’s mouth, curved them behind his teeth, and yanked. As Silva’s whole upper jaw, palate, and left cheekbone came out of his mouth, Bond kept a stoic façade that belied his inner shock. How inhuman Silva looked now, even more than before, with his face collapsed like this. Good.

“So now you can’t bite me, even if I couldn’t cut you.” Rubbing the flat of the blade against Silva’s drooping cheek, Bond said, “But remember that I can. Now clean my cock.” He pulled down Silva’s lower jaw, and before he could protest (or approve), Bond had shoved his whole, sticky, still half-hard cock inside the gaping maw.

Silva grunted against Bond’s cock. Bond brandished the knife and commanded, “Clean. With your tongue and everything.” Silva soon complied, but looking down, Bond saw that he was scowling. Slowly, Bond began moving his hips, looking down at Silva triumphantly. “If only she could see you now…Oh that’s right…”

Soon he was thrusting his newly hardened cock furiously between Silva’s lips, fucking down his throat, not caring if he choked. He threw out insults to the agent Silva once was, asserting that M was right to have discarded such a coward who couldn’t handle the occupational hazards, and what a nuisance he must have been to her, how she must have been so glad to be rid of him.  Bond knew Silva’s tears then were not due to any choking.

Bond soon came again, and with a jab of the knife at Silva chin, Bond ordered him to swallow. With no palate, Silva nearly choked on it, but whether out of fear or determination, he managed it. At the exact moment he did, the slipperiness of the condom tied around his cock overcame the friction of the knot, loosening just enough for Silva to finally come. He whimpered in pain and in shame, saying nothing as Bond wiped him clean with his blazer and uncuffed him from the bed. He remained docile while Bond dressed him in his loud shirt and trousers before locking him in the ordinary handcuffs. Bond dressed himself in what remained of his tux, and he stood over Silva, who sat on the edge of the bed, looking down, shaking, and heaving, until the helicopters finally arrived. 

The look on M’s face when she saw Bond after his return was one of both horror and disappointment. He supposed, by the time all had ended at Skyfall, it was incredible that Silva had not personally flayed him to death. But Silva of all people knew what it was like to become a monster for Her. It was what she had made them.