Where it happened: on a boat
Langauge: english/french
Sex: Female
Rating: 4
Category: Straight
at 16 i looked 25. blessed with what everyone said was “beauty” i was supposed to feel lucky for my good fortune. One sailor said to my father “a Bond Girl in the making”, and i took my father’s silence as direction or approval. And a Bond Girl was only available to the ultimate of mavericks, the most dangerous of men, the most unavailable of “gentlemen”. And if James wanted you – then James got you. No matter how long it took, he would win. And of course, being a Bond girl meant never mistaking his desire for affection. His passion for love. His force for fidelity. Bond Girls are high class escorts who are defined by how James sees them…if you are lucky enough to be seen by him. Pussy Galore indeed.
So at 16, on a deck of a yaught, the captain of the ship- we shall call him James -captures the moonlight sunbather in his grasp. It doesn’t matter that the bathing beauty, still salty from the day’s snorkling, is actually staring at the stars thinking about geometry tests. It doesn’t matter that Nabokov is not on her reading list for years. It doesn’t matter that her biggest desire at that exact moment, her largest dream, was to come first in exams (again.) It doesn’t matter, because what James sees are the perfect breasts; the flat, long stomache; the sun bleached long hair blowing in perfect photo shoot fashion around her sweet yet sultry face. So perfect. This young thing born embued with a sexiness she does not understand. Yes, she has tried kissing herself in the mirror. Yes, she has touched the soft sprinkling of hair beneath her polka dot bikini bottoms. And yes, she has snuck into her father’s bathroom and seen the naughty magazines he hides behind the extra rolls of toilet paper there. But she does not truly understand his desire. And will not truly understand her own real desire for many years to come.
When James touches her – moves the bikini triangle away to reveal her left breast – she does not move. When he puts his mouth to her nipple, she is at first embarassed. Not because he has seen her breast, but because immediately she fears she has peed her pants, so fast does her wetness appear. When he, an experienced hunter, smells the musk of awakening he is smart, and quick to capture his prey – impale the young bird on his pitch fork finger: His thumb circling inside the wetness, his middle finger insisting itself behind. “Don’t poo” she thinks. “Ew. Poo.” So stuck on this thought, it never occurs to her that his thumb has moved even deeper inside her in sharp insistance. She is entirely focused on the task at hand which is, of course, not to poo.
Yes, pee and poo are the extent of her thoughts. Past his penis in her mouth. Past his salty spray on her mouth. Past his pat on her bum as he sends her, like little Cindy-Loo Who off to bed. (“But Santy Clause, why?”)
But what hurt? What hurt more than the blood on her bum? More than the worry that she had done something terribly wrong? More than the fear that her father would find out the something terribly wrong that she had done? What hurt was the look James gives the next day to another Bond Girl on the beach. That same look he had given her the night before. What hurt was recognizing that Bond Girls never end up with James. Some other Bond Girl will always come along.
Yes. At 16 i was supposed to feel very lucky for the good fortune of my “beauty.”
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