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Thursday, October 07, 2004


Bond's Last Mission

Thanks to the wonders of ebay, we have uncovered this unpublished manuscript which disappeared from the estate of author Ian Fleming shortly after his death in 1964, showing his most famous creation, secret agent James Bond 007, in a completely new light which is certain to shock his millions of fans around the world.

The short story, entitled “The World Never Dies Twice Dr No Finger My Pussy Galore”, appears in full for the first time today, following our successful 75p bid on the internet's premier auction site.





“The World Never Dies Twice Dr No Finger My Pussy Galore”

With one final push, Bond was over the wall and into the compound. His body still ached from the thrashing that Pussy Galore had meted out on him, and he had been hardy able to sit on the scheduled flight into Moscow such were his injuries.

He smiled at the memory - Miss Galore had a brutal streak barely hidden under that voluptuous exterior, and it had been Bond's pleasure to experience the rough end of his temper. Even in his days studying Oriental Cultures as a Cambridge undergraduate and previously as an Eton schoolboy, had his firm, manly buttocks not been the subject of such a thoroughly entertaining thrashing. If only Pussy had a glass coffee table in her palace of the carnal arts, Bond mused, then his rapture would have been complete.

Dressed head-to-toe in black he crept across the grounds of the complex toward his goal - the hulking grey block house in front of him, where he knew the item he required could be found. He flattened himself against a tree as a searchlight scythed the area around him into a sharp pool of light, a guard shambled past, unaware of the intruder in his midst. One step closer though, and Bond would break his neck. But tonight, 007 is only interested in killing kittens.

An hour later, Bond found himself picking the lock of a rear door of the block-house. With consummate ease, and thanks to Q Division's ingenuity in combining a state-of-the-art lock-pick inside the hem of the Marks and Spencer pantie-girdle Bond favoured in the field, the large windowless door swung open.

Flipping on his night-vision goggles, Bond crossed the threshold, following a flight of stairs downwards into the dark. At the bottom, another door, with yielded to the agent's firm push, and Bond found himself in front of his objective.

A row of lockers. Each grey, utilitarian, small pieces of card showing their contents. He worked along the line, reading each one until he came to a locker undistinguishable from its comrades except for the two words written in the familiar cyrillic script: Rosa Klebb.

The locker's flimsy bolt was no match for Q Division's picks, and the door swung open as Bond concealed the tool back in its hiding place, the firm material of the girdle rubbing pleasingly against his groin, amplifying the ache of his riding crop-reddened buttocks.

Through the green glow of the night vision goggles, Bond rifled through Klebb's belongings -a pile of folders which held little interest, a pair of boots with Klebb's trademark poison stiletto hidden in the toecap, and what, at first glance, appeared to be a pile of neatly folded clothing.

A uniform shirt, the formal jacket of an officer in the KGB's SMERSH division - Smert Spionem! Death to Spies! Bond knew the penalties that would be inflicted on him should he be caught in this most vital, secret and personal of missions - a pair of breeches, and there, right at the bottom, the very item Bond coveted.

The hat. The high-peaked hat familiar to anybody who had seen a Warsaw Pact army officer. And most importantly, Bond's arch-enemy Rosa Klebb's hat.

Bond had forgotten how many times he had come up against Klebb. He was a spy, her job was to kill spies, and she had hurt him, physically and mentally on many, many occasions. Once, he thought he had killed her, but she came back and stole his girlfriend with her sapphic charms and KGB double-ended clockwork cucumber and left Bond a humiliated wreck, wearing nothing but a peek-a-boo bra as he was carted back to London by 008 for a lengthy stay in the best mental hospitals Her Majesty's Government could provide.

It would be several years before Bond was fully recovered, and it took a bout of frenzied slaughtering of henchmen and dozens of meaningless one night stands with women who offered unexpected, specialist services before M could decide that 007 was ready to go after his nemesis Klebb once again.

But now - revenge. The hat from her dress uniform in his hand, he slipped out of his trousers and girdle, and stood there in stockings and suspenders - a gift from Moneypenny on the night that a poorly tied sheet bend had prevented them from consummating their passion, and convinced the poor girl to undertake a life of self-pleasure - imagining that time in Manila when the words "shaken not stirred" had earned him a night in the cells.

Working up a rhythm, the hat of his desires clamped firmly around his manhood, the locker room swirled before him as he fulfilled the final part of this most dangerous of missions. His face a grimace of orgasmic delight, his seed burst forth into the soft lining of Klebb's chapeau. At the last moment he thought of Janette Krankie.

And then.... light. Brain-splitting, agonising, searing, blinding light. Bond ripped the night vision goggles from his face, tears of pain streaming down his cheeks as his eyes finally focused on a number of figures in the doorway.

Klebb!

"Ah, Mr Bond, we meet again. Only this time, it appears I am the one wearing the trousers."

Bond winced at the pathetic figure he was cutting in front of the vicious Klebb and her SMERSH bodyguards, both attired in skin-tight uniforms which left nothing to his turgid imagination.

"Olga! Katya! You know what to do!"

Then Klebb addressed Bond. "For far too long you have been a thorn in my side. Now my Sapphic Brigade will put an end to you for once and for all!"

The two guards approached Bond, riding crops and butt-plugs at the ready.

Rosa Klebb smiled - if only she knew - the nipple clamps springing open and closed as her hands trembled with desire.

Bond was in rapture. His plan had worked perfectly.


posted by Alistair Coleman at 4:15 PM



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