JAMES BOND, THE EXECUTION

(The character of James Bond is a trademark of and copyrighted by Harry Saltzman & Albert R Broccoli.  Nothing is implied regarding media figures used in this story.)
       
(Bi Ped, Inc.)
       
       
       
       “Mr. Bond, you are a bright man, her majesty’s regard assures it; you are an engaging man, erudite, suave, and, I understand, with an actual penchant for that which is shaken, so I need not bother going into excruciating and graphic details over how your execution is to begin, why, you’d just laugh, Mr. Bond.”
       He tried to at least smile but a rattle from the stainless steel tray held two feet away bode thresholds neither covered in the shelf of volumes so lovingly tended and updated by Moneypenny nor in training lecture or film.  Even anecdotal bar talk, often of such value, was of now help, nor could he think of anything that was.  There’d be time enough to smile, tomorrow, though laughing seemed some million miles away.
       
       “Mr. Bond,” the voice on the inevitable speaker went on, “we have ascertained you are a normal man.  Your actions with various finely breasted and lovely limbed ladies has, in general, lasted one half hour to forty minutes, and nothing could be more normal than that.  You assure yourself with, if needs be, a quick phone call, that those you close the door with are not only eighteen, but at least twenty-two.  That’s so normal, it causes us to wonder if perhaps you are posturing, Mr. Bond.  In that light, we have stripped you of this clever gadget and that clever device, examined your teeth, subjected you to both x-ray and ultra sound, and assured ourselves by our diligence that our truly wonderful surprise will be no surprise.  You do not have super power, mister less-than eight, while we have leather fit to attach an animal of twenty times your weight to a cannon weighing over a ton.  
       “Are we evil, Mr. Bond?  Surely you must be wondering.  Also, why you are here and other musings common to the type who consistently establishes a glassy look and slight haltness of gait, as stated, within forty minutes by the clock.  So normal, sir, that at first glance, and we see you glancing every time Cob Job is rude enough to rattle his tray, it must appear we are some species of oddity if not outright wackydoodles, and, it goes without saying, dangerous.  But are we?  Or are you?
       
       “Let us review, and, since you seem to have no options for other activities, why don’t we do so together?  Yes, splendid, I couldn’t have said it better, myself.  In fact, at-least-you’re-more-than-six, let’s find you on your first trip abroad.  Sweden, do you remember?  Well, we do.  You were tailing her mother, yes, precisely, and, in your own developing style, had decided to tail her, well, in your own developing style.  She joined you for lunch, but didn’t you look away just a trifle quickly, Jim?  She’d heard you were nice, and that’s what counted, though she like the look of you, long-legged and rough, a hawkish, black-eyed face and raven hair, something quite different than various popular images, though perhaps Mr. Brosnan has come the closest so far.  She wanted just your eyes for a few seconds, spend an hour with shears an bobbins lowering the cut of her dress and resetting the lace, all for that few seconds, but alas, Mr. Bond. Karina was but ten years old and you looked away in less than a full second.  Noble Mr. Bond?  Then, sir, why are you here?”
       
       “We have, my fine licensed friend, tamed the lowly computer, then trained it.  You could have had another life, yes, we know all, and so could Miss Tupeva.  And are we being capricious and arbitrary, James Bond?  Hanging you for a sheep, when it was a lamb’s ignorance that led you to look away from Karina before you had the manners to look at her?  You would have gotten away with that.  As they say in American, no problem, no harm, no foul.  But how sad that this is not the end of your story, for the very next day you were in a sequestered and private sauna and the lovely ten year old came to share a bench with you, to talk, to ask you questions, and to be your friend.  At ten, was she a danger to you, sir?  Likely to turn on you with nails dipped in rattlesnake dung or teeth fresh from carrion?  That’s where the history splits, in that isolated log building with it’s charcoal firepot.  The same edifice you, sir, abandon moments after the young lady in question’s entrance.  Now see how far from the track our trolley is as we focus sixty gigabytes of alternative reality that will last a little over half an hour, proving the more things change, the more they remain the same.
       
       
       
       “Relax, new friend, your hours are but few, so enjoy them as you may, and waste time laughing only if you really can’t help yourself.
       “C.J. will now left-click.”
       
       “This must be the smallest sauna in the country,” the girl said as she poked her braided, blond head through the door.  “But if you move just a little, I think I can fit beside you.”
       “Does your mother know you’re here?” the tall, athletic agent said.
       “She drew me a map, Mr. Bond, and found this silk in her closet.”
       “You look very becoming in it, Karina,” the manners bubbled, “but mother or no mother, I think it might be wise if we found separate facilities, and we can play tennis later and have dinner together.”
       “That’s good of you to say,” the bright eyed child noted, “and if you hadn’t, why, someday, in my eighties, for instance, I might think the less of you if you had not given me a comfortable exit option and encouraged second thoughts.  But what if the second thoughts are the same as the first?  And the first go back to mother’s first report of you, doubling very nicely, thank you, when I first clapped my baby-blues on you, you, and all of you that I could see?  Second thoughts are yesterday’s news.  That leaves only future thoughts, and the only one I have a hard time imagining is you doing the bare-foot soft-shoe out of here, or forcing me to.”
       
       “You account well for yourself, and there is much to be said for that.”
       “And I have a problem I need recount,” Karina responded.  “Specifically, a beautiful and wonderful daddy who is as resistant to his flirtatious daughter as the books say he should be.  Mr. Ice, and I love him for it, but ice can be carved and shaped, and heat can change it.  By now you’ve guessed that it’s my mother’s up-to-tricks-always twin, Margarista you were sent in pursuit of, leavening you the afternoon free of cares and other obligations, that is if you want me to hand over her address.  So, James, you beauty, here is the deal.  You make me fit to be with my father, a sullied scamp rather than a virginal princess, and you get the elusive Margarista wrapped, tied, and ready for pickup at your convenience.”
       “You don’t account well for your aunt,” the young Englishman noted.
       “She’s a union-loving moron,” the girl snapped, “and she’ll ruin what’s left of Blighty if you don’t put paid to her.”
       
       “It sounds like a job for Supergirl,” Bond said.
       “Not a chance,” spoke the child, “my dad’s coming home tonight from two years foreign duty, not spelled with and ‘e’ for easy.  Mother’s been great.  She and Daddy do not have a sophisticated relationship, but they do stray a little from convention.  Before she’d go on a date with my father, she’d be receptive with her older brother, then tell Dad.  If you want to patent a method of ensuring and ardent and passionate marriage, there’s your artwork.  And yesterday, Mr. Bond, she was receptive with you.  Again, she will tell Daddy and their marriage will not suffer, what with his heroic absence and your seed still alive and well in her belly.  And when he finds how I’ve become my mother’s sister, there will be an end to my problem.  And one last thing, Jim,” the girl concluded, “you are to join us at ten in the evening in our suite, and spend the night.  Reality is the antidote to fantasy and the former is stable and the latter is Kafka.”
       
       “A girl your age,” the expert said after a frowning pause, “if she is with two potent adults, is likely to mature enough to carry a child.  Our training is very inclusive.”
       “Tempt me all you want, sir,” the girl said, “I’m not leaving until you’ve first showed me what it’s all about with an adult male, and, second, left me with more than hope in my heart.”
       “If you are athletic and agile,” Moneypenny’s friend said, “I, thanks to daydreams of your mother, and, I might add, your own presence and level of awareness, might be able to cross your heart.”
       
       Karina was by now glowing, eyes flashing, yet shy and bashful of demeanor.  “Have you ever been with a child before?” she whispered.
       “No, darling,” the young man said as she reached to his face and began tracing his cheekbones and jaw line.  “How about you, have you been touched or seen or heard anything?”
       
       “Yes,” the girl responded in a murmur, flushing in most effective accent of the red sulk wrapped and fastened as a towel worn by a female.  “It was a man your age with a boy a little older than I am, eleven.”
       “Did you see a lot or just get a glimpse?” the agent asked.
       “I was playing Aunt Margarista who takes spying too seriously to allow the government to tell her when to stop,” the girl explained, “and I build an igloo behind one of the saunas with a lock on the door.  I enhanced a crack with a file and settled in my sleeping bag with two thermos jugs of hot cocoa and even a pee-pee container.  They came in after about half an hour of waiting.”
       “Could you hear as well as see?” J.B. asked.
       “Yes,” the girl said.
       “That’s excellent,” the man said, “because, yes, I’ve read manuals and official paperwork on the subject, but one always wonders at the veracity of such documents, if perhaps a little hyperbole and glorification haven’t crept into the prose over the years.”
       “That’s amazing,” the girl said, “because they were even scientific about it.  They had a microscope with a battery light, you know, in a wooden carrying case.  Helms was a biology teacher and Christian was his top student in several years.”
       “How far from them were you?”
       “They were within three to six feet,” the girl said.
       “What happened?” the man said, not having to add, his position implying it, “tell me everything.”
       
       
       “I think it will look the same,” Helms said.
       “But I should be sure for the paper,” Christian responded, “I know it’s really embarrassing, but I’m embarrassed, too, because I hardly even know about it from books, but if we take our robes off, it will happen, even if it takes awhile, and I can chill the Petri dishes in the snow while I make some quick sketches with the microscope.”
       “Have you ever wanted it to happen with a male?” the teacher asked, or are you, so to speak, bending all in the name of science?”
       “I don’t even know what came first,” the boy said shyly, “the thought it would be a chance to be alone with you, not falling in love or anything mushy like that, but alone, in private, and the legitimate nature of an investigation into the scientific side of puberty and maturing from a reproductive standpoint.”
       “And the chance to present the first paper of its kind, at age eleven, in the history of the world played no part in your decision.”
       “I saw you at the pool once,” the boy responded, “and that played a much bigger role.”
       The handsome Nordic swimmer and skier flushed openly.  “I’ve never seen you bare chested,” he whispered.  For long moments they stared at each other, boy up to tall athlete, man at boy. Finally the teacher’s hand went to the child’s shoulder and he turned him and pulled him gently against his hard stomach.  “You better get the dishes out of the case,” he whispered, letting the eleven year old move to the wooden bench of the sauna.  Christian opened the wooden box and retrieved two glass dishes.  He pulled out the microscope as ell as a pair of slides, slip covers, and a glass transfer rod.  This all took a minute and the young adult eased gently closer to the boy, stroking his crew-cut head and slim neck.  Everything arranged, the Petri dishes a couple of feet apart on the bench, the slides behind them, the boy stood, instinctively holding his hands high above his head in welcome.  Helms’ hands went inside the terrycloth robe causing the boy to hiss, rise on his toes, and locked his hands behind the athlete’s powerful neck.
       
       “Christian,” the teacher whispered softly, “will you want to do this again?”
       “Yes,” the boy replied immediately.
       “And I want it to happen with you with other men,” the older male said, “Tan Senders and Vi Whitten speak of you often when we have conferences.”
       “I like them, too,” the boy said.
       “Would you let me do this with you while they were watching?” the man husked.
       “Yes,” the boy said, “and I’d like to watch you standing behind my friend, Esen.”
       “That would give you semen from three adults and two adolescents,” the teacher noted.
       “It would also help on my next paper,” Christian said, “because I want to do one on any differences that occur in highly aroused males and those who are less excited when it happens.”
       “And your control group would be…?”
       “Ourselves in a month or so,” the boy replied, “it can’t be like this all the time, that would be unnatural.”  Helms agreed it would be difficult to run a country from the confines of a million or two remote bath houses, a nod to his student’s overall acumen.  He turned Christian toward him and unfastened the belt of his robe as the boy stood shyly, hands at his sides, but shrugging the garment free as soon as he could and standing naked, hugely aroused, as his handsome teacher also stripped.  The beauties stood a foot apart, each tracing his partner’s heaving chest then letting his hands roam lower until they were openly fondling each other.
       “If you’re with younger children,” the teacher whispered, “always warn them what’s going to happen, and let it happen with you, first, while they’re fully aroused.”  The student nodded as the twenty-two year old braced himself on the upper “bunk” of the sauna, spreading his legs widely to position himself over his specimen dish.  Christian positioned himself at his teacher’s right hip, holding the panting young adult with his left arm as he began fondling him and then stroking firmly, his eyes fixed on the flaring glans of the older male’s heavily built, circumcised penis.  In minutes the athlete’s breathing deepened harshly and he began hissing and shaking, then whispered urgently to the boy and began a hard, fast spurting of his hot white seed into the dish and all around it, giving Pussy Minor to know why they had been placed so far apart.  His cum lasted most of a minute, and it took him several more to recover, during which time young Christian quickly dabbed a slide, mounted it, and jotted a few sketches and notes in his journal.  The recovery period for the athletic teacher was brief and soon he gently manhandled the child to the second receptacle where the eleven year old braced and spread his legs.  Helms eased his left arm around the slim boy’s heaving chest, and, looking intently over Christian’s shoulder, masturbated the boy fully and completely, bringing him to a long, wet climax in a matter of minutes.
       
       
       “There was much not heretofore covered,” James Bond said to Karina as the girl, her story complete, reached to the top of her silk “towel”.
       “No, my dear,” the gentleman said gently, “that’s for your dad, the first sight of you and the look in your eyes as he takes you for his woman.”  So saying, the agent positioned himself behind the girl, bracing her ten year old body facing the sauna bench much as she had described, then adjusting her robe as he moved up close behind her.  He guided himself to her, then held her gently by the hips as he started thrusting tentatively, his lower back and thighs cording rhythmically as he began his mounting of the athletic schoolgirl.  “You’re very deep,” the girl whispered after a few minutes, beginning to meet his increasingly urgent way with her.  He didn’t batter and hammer at her, just let her awaken as a husband might, avid for her eagerness but not forcing it.  For ten minutes they were full and frank with each other then he whispered.
       
       “Tell your dad to be still with you when it happens,” he urged, “then you’ll be able to feel everything.”
       “Is it happening with you?” came the answering whisper.
       “Yes,” Bond said.
       “It does feel wetter,” the girl murmured.
       “If you hadn’t spied on the biology fans,” the man said, “I’d be cumming on your chest so you’d know what’s happening, and the fact I didn’t does make a difference.”
       “Well it feels really nice,” the girl panted.
       
       Their movements slowly ended.  James slipped back into his robe and they talked before finally heading back to the hotel, where Mr. Bond received his tidings regarding a missing loved one from a grateful family.
       
       “So how would you score that,  Zero Zero Whatever?” the mechanical voice snorted.  “Unions to choke a maggot, and the greatest civilization in history, times one thousand, reduced to the status of a fractious infant sucking on a North Sea titty, almost wholly in the name of Labour.  .Yes, well done, sir, and I’m sure you share with myself and my staff the irony of your own pension going begging.
       “And what did you do for an encore?  What did you learn from your lesson?  Well now, why don’t we just review for a moment or two.
       “The book was a modest work, not much over a hundred fifty pages.  It delineated not the exigencies of our recent enemies, a country alone against the hoards, but a proven paradigm of political/industrial common sense that converted a beaten husk into a dazzling creative force and world power in a matter of historical minutes.  A blueprint more than a book, however stringent some of the shorter chapters, Mr. Bond, something that not only would work, theoretically, but something that had recently worked better than anything has ever worked before.  And it’s content, J.B.?  Foul and tainted; condemned by association.  So you were advised and so you proceeded.  The publisher, a small house; how much C-4 did you use, Jimmy?  There was little collateral damage, so the precise amount.  And the delivery boy on his evening rounds, yes, the one returning the corrected galleys, you tried to be nice, Nels Charles tried to be nice; couldn’t you see it in his big blue eyes, but that’s where it ended.  I’m sure what you did with Nels does not appear in Her Majesty’s records, but we’ll let Mr. Job use his mouse again, shall we?
       
       “I’ve carried a number of messages back and forth,” the thirteen year old bicyclist said to the athletic young adult casually blocking his way into the lane.  
       “And in doing so, you’re perhaps come to know both parties?” Bond asked the nervous boy.
       “Very well,” the child said, “I help them when I’m not substituting for my older brother with the courier service.  They only let me do one run a day, if that, because I’m underage.”
       “And you know what they do?”
       “They don’t do anything,” the boy replied, “they just want to tell.  It’s not very complicated and it’s not very simple, but I guess a lot of things are that way.”
       “And once you drop off the manuscript, are you done for the day?” the agent asked.
       “Yes,” the boy said, “one of my uncles has a rental property just a few blocks from here.  He said a tenant had just moved out and left a collection of the kind of literature you can buy in certain places, but not many, and he wanted me to spend a couple of hours bundling it up until we can figure out what to do with it; supposedly it’s highly artistic and not to be just tossed in with the trash.  If you’d like to know more about Mr. Abernathy and Mr. Petrel, perhaps you could come over and help me for awhile.  We can talk and work, and there’s a café at the end of the street where I could pay you off by buying dinner.”
       “Is the property isolated?” James asked.
       “Very much so,” the boy replied, “just a single apartment  in the corner of an abandon warehouse, always taken by writers or artists.”
       “How jolly,” the agent responded, and followed the boy as he wheeled his bicycle.
       “You could read some of this, too,” Nels said, nodding at the thick packet in his basket.  “They don’t need it until tomorrow.”
       “I’d be happy of the opportunity,” Bond said, and a few minutes later they arrived.  True enough, not only was the building empty, it was surrounded by abandon structures in various stages of decay.   The entrance served as a foyer to both the basement and upper floors.  
       “Anything down there?” the adult asked.
       “No,” the boy said, “all the machinery was moved out when the shoe factory went bankrupt.”
       “Would you mind if we took a look?”
       “Not a bit,” the boy said, leading the way down the stairs.  Bond reached in his briefcase and as the stairs opened into the massive cavern he pulled forth a waxy lump of clay the size of an American softball.  Odds and ends of furnishings remained and he and the boy seated themselves as he pinched a half-thumb size lump of putty, showing it to Nels as he rummaged further in his attaché.  
       
       “This is what we use when the going gets rough,” he said to the wide-eyed boy, fitting a small timer into the wadded ball in his fingers.  “They don’t pick us for maturity where I work,” he noted to the thirteen year old, “so some of us are not as grown-up as we might be.
       “Now, the game is,” he said, “to set this off and see who dares to stand the closest.  Since there will be something of an echo, hold your hands firmly over your ears, but there is nothing to serve as shrapnel so you can approach almost as closely as a few feet without suffering actual injury.”  James showed the timing device to the curious boy and instructed the lad in its activation, bidding the child throw his lump of putty at least fifty feet so the could acclimate themselves gradually.  The noise of the high explosive detonating was a shattering clap of sound, but both withstood it well.  As they pulled lump after lump from the softball, they conspired to come up with suitable variations including having the maker of a particular bomb hide it under a scrap of paper, and approaching a bomb made by the other party, of unknown size, backwards.  Twice they wee blasted off their feet, but, nimble and athletic, they laughed it off an played until they lit one final lump the size of a mouse, thrilling to the danger of falling plaster dust and agreeing it would be hard to have more fun.  Half an hour consumed, they made their way to the apartment and unlocked the door.  A note thanking the landlord lay on the coffee table and the dwelling was neat and clean, though not fussily so.  “I have not tied the bundles left in the bedroom,” it read in part, “in hopes someone might take a moment to look at the publications before disposing of them.”  String and scissors were on the dresser and it looked like a ten minute job.
       
       Somewhere in the United Kingdom there may have been a healthy, attractive pair of young males who would have read the note, assumed the contents of the six stacks of magazines, wrapped, and disposed of them without lifting a single cover, but such a pair were not to be found at No. 67Teddy Bear Court, “bear” misspelled, probably deliberately, on the various address labels.
       
       “If you’re nervous about looking at them with an underage boy,” Nels said, “I can take one in the kitchen.”
       “How do you feel about looking at them together,” Bond said, retrieving the top volume from the nearest stack as he sat on the bed, the boy roosting close at his left.
       “Sometimes,” the boy whispered in answer, “I stay an hour or two with Mr. Abernathy, Jason Abernathy, after everything’s finished in his study.”
       “Now long has that been happening?” Bond asked.
       “A couple of months now,” the boy said.
       “And you like staying with him?” the agent wanted to know.
       “Very much,” the child said. “we talk a lot and he takes his time with me.”
       “And he’s very gentle?”
       “Yes,” the boy whispered, flushing.
       “Was he the first man you were alone with?” James said.
       “Yes,” the boy said.  
       
       They left it at that for some minutes as James let Nels do the honors with the first of the folios.   The boy moved into the elder males lap and opened to the first page.  “Bedtime Story” the exhibit was titled and the copy identified Richard, seventeen, reading to Sammy, nine years old.  Sammy was full of questions.  “How long did you believe in this stuff?” he asked his older friend in one panel, and that led to a fairly quick dismissal of ghouls, ghosts and goblins.  “If the moronic Americans hadn’t rebelled,” Nels observed as the boy in the photographs leaned happily back against his teenage friend and they turned a page, “this is what might have come to pass instead of endless adversarialism and rebellion for its own sake with results ranging from the horrifically permanent in Haiti to the squeamishly banal at best.  I mean the logic of democracy is so absurd.  Obviously people are going to vote for immediate gain and let their kids figure out how to pay for it.  Since ignorance and peasant quality thinking are at the root of glib manipulation, populism decrees faulty education as essential to its very existence.  If that bad-tempered genie hadn’t been unleashed by the louts of Massachusetts, we’d have grown sensibly and you’d be able to buy a book like this anywhere in the city and have any boy or girl over about five sit in your lap and read it with you.   The way things are, people feel so guilty and nasty about they way they’re running things they have to find a scapegoat for their confusion and disenfranchisement, a way to feel proud and good about themselves, so they stick the likes of Jason and me in a swamp, stand on a bridge, and unzip themselves.  Piss proud, that’s what it is, and one of these days someone is going to get tired of it, pull out a typewriter, and cut off every prong on the bridge, fitting it tightly to its owner’s cake hole.  Start by pointing out that men who like to spend time alone with boys populated the monasteries through the dark ages, and the best of them crewed the ships that brought the world as far forward as it has come.  Under businesslike leadership, this underlying force and reality would have been allowed to find a socially accepted niche in the scheme of thing, as happened in Greece and as has happened in many other successful cultures.  But no.  Emotion, greed, numbing belligerence, a burning jealousy that says if I can’t, you shan’t, and, needs-be, an untouchable underclass to sanction lording it over at least somebody.  That’s what we ended up with.  Socialist scum and naught but the socialist drum.  Plus, calling men like Jason poofs and shirt-lifters and sick deviants.  Being against, instead of with.  Probably even happens in their god-forsaken bedrooms, against each other instead of with”
       
       “They were right in Oscar Wilde’s case,” the agent observed.
       “I agree,” Nels said, “but because he insulted the boy, not because he molested him, unless, at the time, the boy submitted against his will.  But did he know he was a slimy lizard before someone told him he was?  What happened with Jason and me in his study felt so natural it would have been unnatural if it hadn’t happened.  And what happens when I stay with him, now?  Do we run screaming around the block or display from the chimney top?  Not exactly.  When I’m ready I take off my clothes and kneel on the sofa.  He gets naked and kneels facing me.  We put our heads against each other and talk as we engage in mutual masturbation.  At the end, yes, there are interruptions in the conversation; times when we can neither think clearly or speak in a recognizable way, but that represents five or ten minutes out of the entire day.  Cleaning each other carefully, not that we were dirty, in the first place, but you know what I mean, takes not even an extra minute, then we’re back in our clothes and back to the business at hand, if anything, more diligent to compensate for our hedonistic diversion, and the only consistent thought I have on the subject is to pity boys and girls who don’t have a young adult for a special friend.  I mean who needs to be stuck with just a pair of English parents?“
       
       “Someone has to toughen us sufficiently to survive the unions,” Bond pointed out.
       “You’re nice even when you’re not inventing fun games to play,” Nels responded, unfastening his shirt in emulation of the boy in the book who was wondering in a cartoon balloon how many buttons he could loosen before his handsome babysitter noticed, a shy rather than gamin smile on his intelligent schoolboy face.  He turned the page.  The teenager had noticed.  James Bond read the caption to Nels.
       “You’re sure about this, lad?” 
       Nels flipped the heavy sheet to see what happened next.
       “I’ve bathed with a boy your age,” read the copy, “and it happened twice.”
       Another page showed the handsome child bare chested in the hands of the mature male, head against the young adult’s chin.  “Did he wash you all over?” was the predictable caption.
       “Mostly inside the bathing suit he made me wear before he got in the tub with me,” the boy in the book said.
       “Was he wearing one, too?”
       By this time, Nels had shed his shirt and was lying back against the adult, head under the man’s chin, being touched like the boy in the bedtime story.
       “Just for awhile,” the child, now identified as Eddy, said.
       “Did he pull it down so his penis would be naked, or did you?” the spicy copy had the seventeen year old asking his young friend..
       “I wanted to before he pulled my suit down,” the boy said.
       
       In the next picture, both young males were naked, the boy in the teen’s lap, the latter’s erection probing high between the slim, soft legs of the child, whose own four inch boner was pressed firmly against the fully adult, circumcised shaft of his mature partner.  A sequence of three variations on the foreplay of the models followed, the pages devoid of copy and so requiring little concentration.  Nels and his friend availed themselves and quickly stripped, returning to the bed before continuing with the picture book.
       
       “You’re very well developed,” Bond noted.
       “Jason says that’s because of the way it happens with us,” the currier whispered in response.  “At the end, he spills all over me, then massages me with his semen.  It seemed to make me more grown-up in just a few days, but at thirteen anything can happen or not happen, so it’s not conclusive that getting massaged that way really makes any difference, except, of course, for what happens to me while he’s stroking me with his wet, slippery hand.”
       “Have you even been the first to lose control of your loins,” Bond whispered hoarsely in the schoolboy’s ear.
       “He let me, once,” the boy panted, “and I’m going to tomorrow night.  Getting him wet makes him doubly excited, just like it does when his hand is all hot and slick.”
       “Has he always been with you the same way?”
       “Yes,” Nels replied, “the first time I was in my underpants when it started, like the boy in the story word his swimsuit in the bathtub with his babysitter, but now I get completely naked when I want to be with him and sense he wants to be with me.”
       “I see,” the agent mused, giving the deliver boy and political prodigy an opportunity to continue without being coached.
       “He said I should explore when it starts happening with another partner,” the boy said after a few moments, “and that’s what I want, too.”
       “I doubt there is better than what you have,” the adult advised.
       “I wouldn’t have the temerity to dream it,” the child agreed, and they returned their attention to the book where a new page awaited.  It wasn’t exactly “The Surprise Symphony”, but nonetheless a dramatic change of pace.  The boys had followed their heated imaginations to Eddy’s tub, not indulging to the extent of wasting hot water to fill it.  The teenage babysitter, now identified as William, stood braced against the wall while his little friend sat on the off edge of the bathtub.  The older boy was displaying, his legs widely spread, his hips thrust to the youngster who, in sequence, looked, touched, kissed, and then took the beautiful young athlete deep in his childish mouth.  The captioning gave out warnings whispered from the mature male to the boy.
       
       “Jason said the same thing to me,” Nels whispered, rising to his feet and pulling Bond to a wall of the bedroom, posing him as per the photo in the art book, and then kneeling on a stool between the agent’s long, muscular legs, “that it can happen without warning and be too intense for a younger child, boy or girl.  He said when it happened to try to get the adult to warn me, but I consider myself already warned.”
       “Exactly,” James whispered.  “I’ll do my best.”
       
       For a long time the bedroom was silent save for the panting of the adult and the young boy.  Nels moved quickly from shy and tentative to avid, finally becoming wanton as he hummed and grunted, his mouth and hands moving both faster and with greater deliberation as the man tensed until he was glistening with sweat and his muscles were corded and bunched.   “I’m going to cum,” he hissed between gritted teeth, causing the thirteen year old to snarl through his nose and again focus on the agent’s yet hardening shaft.  Both suddenly seemed to deflate, relaxing until only the rapid constrictions of Nels’ slim throat told what was happening between their panting, sweating young bodies.  Eventually, the man collapsed on the boy and they huddled on their knees, experimenting with kissing.  Then the adolescent was against the wall of the bedroom, and fifteen minutes later they were well beyond the experimental stage of kissing, the child’s thin semen perfectly ending what had started well enough.
       
       
       “So, captive friend, are you to be done away with as a sheep or a lamb?  Was your road paved with good intentions?  By a union crew?  And what became of young Nels Charles?  Have you ever wondered about that, James Bond?  Or did you hear the bomb and assume the best?  Did it occur to you a rabid dog might have appeared at a crucial moment in the boy’s life, causing him to drop his bicycle and run for a nearby fence?  That he made it less than halfway before he was blown bodily and face first through the boarding, only surviving because the trajectory of his flying body took it between the solid posts of the structure?  Would you imagine, sir, that the reason for a two pound sterling loudspeaker has anything to do with the physical countenance, or lack thereof, of he you left behind?  Well, Bond, dear Commander, you managed to kill the dog. so you just go ahead and hold that memory.  Cob Job, generally somewhat crude even when it comes to carving a goose, has been instructed to avoid major blood vessels, Double-O about one tenth at this point.  Why?  To give you time to laugh Mr. Bond.  Yes, we await the flow of mirth.
       
       “Laugh.
       “Laugh.”
       
007 – 006 – 005 – 004 – 003 – 002 – 001 - THE BEGINNING


Other stories are in the Bi Incest and Bi Adult/Young Friends archives.  Beware of faulty insulation on high-voltage wiring. 

xxx

