Are you comfortable, Mr. Bond? Your strains, nice and tight? I think we will find escape
as quite impossible, despite your proficiency for it. You perhaps wondered why I dispensed
with the usual steel table, the laser pointed threateningly at your crotch, where instead
you find yourself stripped, helpless, held up by ropes laid bare before me. I have created
the ultimate trap from which you can never escape. So arrogant, so sure of himself. We
shall see. I have read your files, Mr. Bond. All of them. Even the classified ones. You
have an impressive record. So many successful missions. You always get your man, it would
seem, except when it comes to me, Mr. Bond. I seem to be the lone exception. So many times
we have sparred with each other, and yet you have never managed to kill me. I wonder to
myself why this is, Mr. Bond. You have a license to kill, clearly there is no moral obstacle.
You are an impressive shot, having outperformed world-class assassins. Numerous times you
had the opportunity to dispatch me, and yet, still I live. Oh, you have stopped me many
times, but never killed me. So why am I the sole blunsh on an otherwise spotless record?
And it occurred to me, Mr. Bond, you do not want to kill me. You enjoy this. All little
game. Capture, escape, defeat, repeat. This is my trap, Mr. Bond. You are a rat who does
not wish to leave his maze. All of the others with their ridiculous machines, torch devices,
and brute plans, they did not understand you. But I, I do, Mr. Bond. In order to destroy
you, I must do so from the inside. I must get inside you, your head. I know what drives
you now, Mr. Bond. I am your weakness. You have an impressive physique, Mr. Bond. So
many scars, the signs of past battles, I presume. This one on your shoulder is particularly
large. Was this one of mine, I wonder? A little keepsake, perhaps? A gift from me? But then,
we have left our marks on each other in more ways than one, Mr. Bond. Every humiliating
defeat, snatching victory from my grasp, thwarting my plans. I remember them all, Mr. Bond.
Do you think of me when you see this scar, I wonder? When you bed a wound, does she kiss
it? And perhaps a thought of me emerges. Do you find that distracting, Mr. Bond? Or perhaps
it excites you, thinking of me, of our game? What would happen if I kiss it, I wonder?
Does that repulse you, Mr. Bond? Your arch enemy, kissing this scar she left you?
Or does it perhaps excite you? Protest, if you wish. I understand. Egos are fragile things,
ours in particular, Mr. Bond. The lies we must tell ourselves to prevent everything from
crumbling down around us. Even now, I suspect you are planning, telling yourself what you
will do when you are able to seize the opportunity to escape. Identifying weapons to use against
me, methods of escape. But what would you really do if freedom were granted? Do you
truly wish to be untied? I think this is a question we both wish to be answered. Or is
it perhaps the suspense, the tension that we truly enjoy? I see you shudder at my breath
on your ear. But why is it you shudder? What is it that you feel, Mr. Bond? What is it
that you are telling yourself under your breath with such intense concentration? If you truly
do not want this, you would not need to fight it. I have seen you tortured a great many
times, being inflicted upon you. You understand what it is to endure, to withstand. This is
different, is it not? I see such conflict in you. Perhaps I can take the scales. A little
physical incentive. It has not escaped my notice that your nipples have hardened. You
are so sensitive. You shiver. Is it the cold, perhaps? I think not, Mr. Bond. I see that
something else has begun to harden also. How does this feel, I wonder? You are sweating
in my hand. The gasp of breath as I break this barrier, this unspoken taboo. Do you
like it as much as I do, Mr. Bond? The rawness of this. But so right, is it not? I've stopped
resisting. Could it be that the great James Bond is defeated, or are you merely biding
your time? Have you spotted some opening, some opportunity for a release? I can feel
you surging my hand with every word. You hate me, Mr. Bond, but this excites you. You are
at my mercy, and you know it. But more than that, you do not wish it to stop. You fear
the unasked question, and yet you crave its answer. Like a deer in headlights, you cannot
look away. You weren't clothed before, Mr. Bond, but it is only now that you are naked.
I see you at last exposed or pretend stripped away. This is what you want, Mr. Bond. I could
untie you right now, and yet in my position you would remain. I'm impressed, I must confess.
I have heard rumors of your prowess, your endowment. You do not disappoint. Though I
wonder, are you always this harm, Mr. Bond? The litany of women you bed, do they see you
this way, or is the state of sheer arousal reserved only for me? You strain against my
grip, and yet when I soften it you begin thrusting at me, mindlessly. You buck your hips wildly,
but are you fighting my hand, or trying to fuck it? Do you even know? Stop fighting your
thoughts, Mr. Bond, let them go. All these years you've been a prisoner. Let me give you
your release. The scar on your neck, Mr. Bond. I recognize this one in particular. How does
it feel? Your cock pulsing in my hand while I kiss at the scars I haven't inflicted. So
many of them. Your skin is more mine than yours at this point. The same could be said
for your mind, I think. Is there any resistance left in there, in your thought of loyalty?
Do you have a queen in your country? Have I taken over everything? Is all you want pleasure
now? Release, and you will have it. Come for me, Mr. Bond, given you need this as much
as I do, Mr. Bond. The time for fighting is over. Come for me, Mr. Bond, you know. Come
for me now, Mr. Bond, yes. Doesn't that feel good, Mr. Bond? So much better. We are so
much more than enemies now. Finally, we have tossed aside those ill-fitting costumes. Now
we know who we truly are. I am a woman of my word, Mr. Bond. I shall cut these ropes
you are free to go. Kill me if you wish, Mr. Bond. But I don't think you will. We will
meet again soon, Mr. Bond. Of that, I am said.