The Girl with a Sun-Kissed Mole

Reads: 174  | Likes: 2  | Shelves: 2  | Comments: 2

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Status: Finished  |  Genre: General Erotica  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

Featured Review on this writing by Missink31

She's Back! Jane Bond, oh, oh, oh!

Hvar, off the Croatian Coast, 2019:

Belg stared up at the giant fan on the ceiling. It rotated slowly, providing him scant comfort in the stultifying heat. He tensed, a tight bundle of knotted neurons congealing with ecstasy at the prospect of her, fully aroused. He lay on the dishevelled bed watching her wade out of the sea, her new hair dripping wet, her body slim, tanned and fit from the pleasures of her recuperation.

He arranged himself, permitting his head to sink into the soft pillows, spreading his legs wide apart until his toes were gripping the sides of the bed, then he turned his head to face the screen, frantically twiddling with the knob on his console as he zoomed in.

She was reclining on her beach mat, her teak hair splayed all over the towel. Belg examined her, starting with the hair. The specialists in Harley Street had done an excellent job teasing out the last vestiges of her clinging alopecia, balming her scalp, inserting their needles, then sowing the stem cells which flourished and bloomed like black roses in furls of shiny new hair.

Belg homed in on her forehead. There were no joins in her widow’s peak. No tell-tale cuts in her central parting. Her facial gestures were a delight to behold. She blew lightly through her toffee nose, raising her brows for his camera, then shut her eyelids. Under the drying salt lay a simple slick of make-up. Her lips were plump with pout.

He grew hard, caressing his scrotal sac, giving his testes a woman’s squeeze, running his right hand up and down his stiff shaft. The Nord spoke to her image in a whisper, as if she were his lover,

‘Give me a smile, baby. Open your mouth. Lick your lips for me.’

She smiled for him thinly. Opening her mouth. Languidly rolling the glow-red tip of her pink tongue along the curl of her bottom lip. Unfurling her langue to its full length so that she lazily tickled the tip of her turned-up nose.

She’s dreaming of her blonde girl, he speculated, fantasizing.

Belg recoiled as she sat up suddenly, stared him in the face, reached behind her back, and untied her skimpy grey bikini top. Having divested herself, she reclined and moved her right hand to the bright scarlet weal under her full left breast. She rubbed at her flesh wound lightly, with the tips of her fingers. Teasing him unashamedly. Driving him crazy.

He strained his head to get a closer view, dropping his sac. Grabbing the console, which lay by his waist, he zoomed in on her full left breast, her strawberry nipple, the wound administered by her would-be assassin mud wrestling naked with her in the pouring English rain.

The drone had been a brilliant idea.

She even felt brilliant.

A view to a thrill.

His thrill

His kill.


Ipswich, Suffolk, England:

Alison woke up in the position that he left her in lying face-down, flat on her belly, with her short black party dress hitched high above her waist, in her shiny sling-back shoes. She raised her shattered head and craned her neck, her red eyes taking in his fifty quid spread across the stained-glass coffee table. Her calf itched. Alison scratched it with her other leg as she reached for her half-filled wine glass of pink gin, desperate for another drink.

How had she sunk to these depths? After her mother had saved her from the dreaded glue that freezing night on a deserted railway platform. Well, she hadn’t saved her. Alison had clambered aboard the train to London, found her mum and saved herself. She’d battled her glue addiction, kicked the habit, met Paul, fallen in love, and found a new life. Then their car collided with the lorry, the impact hurling Paul and her mum through his windscreen into the driver’s cab, killing them both instantly. While she sat pinned to the backseat and watched.

She’d never recovered from her guilt. Why didn’t she die with them? She wished, she had. Her life sank into an abyss of depravity. She hit the bottle, smoked eighty cigarettes a day, and took lovers. Clients, she called them. Esteemed, bestial clients. She reached for her glass, slopping her gin, propped herself up on one elbow, held her damp hair off her face, and took a swig: hair of the dog.

He’d left her with her panties bunched around her knees. She lay flat on the sofa, reached back with both hands, and hitched them up. Alison still hurt. Her head rang with the dull throb of a full-blown hangover. She checked the cheap plastic watch on her wrist.

What time is it? Six o’clock? Got to get up, log-on!

She hauled herself up, edged along the couch, and reached for her tablet:


Password: allbymyselfXX18

A spiral wound, another spiral. The screen opened. She ignored the millions of lonely tweeters, and concentrated on her own messages, forcing herself to read the conversation from last night,

Why are you following me?

Feel lonely. Thought you might fancy me.

Fancy you? How do you mean? Come on, I’m a busy man.

Fancy me like this…

She sent him a text of her face.

I want to see your body, let me see your body.

Look at her, she’s waiting for you, baby…

She sent him a very revealing sext.

Sickened by her own filth, Alison clicked (I) and terminated the conversation,

Message 2

How are you this morning, Girl?

Feel like shit. Still pissed from last night.

Strangers in the night, exchanging glances…

Fuck off, that’s not funny.

That’s a dirty habit you’ve got into. You should give it up.

Can’t afford to. You know that.

You will soon. If you do as I say.

Her heart leapt. A fresh assignment. She undressed on the sofa. Suddenly felt ashamed. Needed a hot shower. Coffee. Get dressed. Her hoodie. She’d wear her hoodie. Torn-out jeans. Trainers. Needed a fag. Badly. Excited. He excited her with his promises. Infamy beckoned…

What would you like me to do?

Church Langley, Harlow at 10…

She glanced at the sealed package lying on the coffee table, delivered yesterday. UPS. Through the letterbox. No signature. No questions asked. Penetration of the national defences came easy after the relaxation of border checks. She permitted herself a smile, eyed the screen, and wasn’t shocked by his chiding remark. Felt she kind of deserved it after last night.

Wash your arse, get over to Harlow, and do it.

Thank you. I won’t let you down.

His last words chilled the embryo forming in her pregnant womb.

Of course, you won’t. If you want to stay alive.

She draped the semen-stained party dress over the back of the sofa bed with all the other frocks that needed dry cleaning. Her soiled panties she threw on top of a grubby heap of stockings, knickers, bras: all destined for the self-serve launderette. Alison felt dirty. Her crotch ached. Had she no morals? Were there no depths to which she wouldn’t sink to fund her habit? She tried to stand up, wobbled, steadied herself with the coffee table, knocking over half a bottle of gin in the process.

Fuck! Need to get my head straight. Sort myself out.

She gripped her nicotine-stained fingers and tried to concentrate. How much had she made last night? Three hundred and thirty quid? Less thirty-five for the cleaners and laundry. For what? She’d given herself to six strange men. Noticed a yellow discharge. How long had it been since she had herself checked out at the clinic? Nine months? Then there was the bastard lying in her swollen belly. God knew who its father was.

The prospect of a new life abroad: a luxury apartment, a flash motorbike, designer clothes, an abortion, hung in her tormented mind like the golden apple of life on Eve’s tree. Still wearing her bra, she hobbled as far as the bedsit door. She had to sober up, cleanse herself.

The Mickey Mouse clock on the mantelpiece that Granma gave her said six-thirty-five. Her red scooter was primed with lead-free, waiting for her in the concrete front garden. According to Maps the journey to Church Langley via the A12 and A414 would take about an hour, thirteen pounds of petrol. On her scooter. Her little popper as she liked to call it.

She opened the door and waddled across the landing to the staircase. The WC was downstairs. Gingerly, she stepped to the hall. The door had a stained-glass window which reminded her of the church her mother took her to at Christmas - when she was a little girl.

There were three women living in the Victorian terraced house in Hatchett’s Road. At eighteen, she was the youngest, most in demand. Worship, a Jamaican beauty, 21, worked as a hairdresser during the day. Alison wondered at her incredible physique: how she managed to keep her skin looking so fresh without her beauty sleep. But Worship was calm, relaxed, at one with herself. Unlike her, she didn’t suffer a guilt complex. Then there was Breda, an Irish fifty-something, who did all the housework, kept the bedrooms clean, or tried to. Who was always on the toilet,

Alison yelled at her through the keyhole, ‘How long are you going to be, Breda, I feel sick?’

‘Won’t be long.’

‘How long’s long?’

‘Oh, five minutes.’

They hid no taboos, no secret’s, except hers. Alison kept an extremely dangerous secret,

‘Well hurry up, I have to go out.’

She heard the rustle of paper, the sound of a loo being flushed, the key turning in its lock. The door opened and Breda appeared in all her glory: peroxide hair, moustache, running mascara, smudged rouge, turkey neck, puppy ears, stretch marks, saggy bottom. Death warmed up. Past-it, well and truly past-it, with nowhere to go and no-one to love her until the day she died,

‘Go where? Not like you to go out in the morning. What happened to sleep?’

‘I’ll catch up on sleep later. Got to go to the launderette, haven’t I? Got a busy night tonight.’

Alison brushed past the old girl, feeling her dry skin, slammed the door behind her, knelt in front of the toilet, jabbed her fingers down her throat and brought up all the vile spirit. Feeling better, she rinsed her face, flushed, skipped outside, and dashed upstairs to the bathroom. The door was locked, its smoked-stained glass panel fogged with steam. She sighed,

‘How long are you going to be, Worship?’

‘Oh, half an hour, an hour, just chilling, you know.’

‘Sorry, babe, I don’t know.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ the black woman said.

‘I’m in a hurry, have to go out,’ the white woman replied in a child’s voice, ‘Please, Worship, let me in?’

Black, white, the same, yet different. True racial equality can be found in the strangest places.

‘Go out where?’

‘Fuck it, sister, don’t you start!’

‘Sorry I spoke.’

Worship opened the door and stood before her, dripping wet, the most beautiful woman in her world. Alison embraced her, kissing her on both cheeks. Worship responded, pressing her wet ebony breasts against her ivory boobs. Her only real friend. She resolved to take Worship with her when she escaped from the dire shithole. Alison gently pushed her lover off her, moaning,

‘I really must go. I promise I’ll love you when I get back.’

‘Come to my room, Honey,’ Worship grinned, ‘You know I keep it clean for you.’

‘I know that. I love you.’

‘Love you too, Girl. Now take it easy on those busy roads.’


She knows what I do! Does she know what I do?

Two hours later, Alison was scootering past the garden centre in Writtle, the package tucked safely into the breast pocket of her hoodie. She was pouring with sweat. Was it her discomfort, her anxiety, the tropical weather? Or was it her heart, pounding away, to the thrill of the kill?



She wondered how he wanted her to wear her hair, deciding to wear it up for him, in the sexy French style. There was still time for her to have fun with him. Before he succumbed to her charms.

The Nord was young, fit, muscular and tanned. His curly hair was purest blonde. He had shiny blue eyes, a freckled nose, pale skin, high cheek bones. Her Nord! He looked as if he could stay the course a few more seconds before he came. She surveyed the tectonic plates of muscle shifting on his bald chest as he blushed, gasped, and panted at the sight of her heaving breasts.

Heidi would love this! The deadly games she played. Heidi, who saved her life when she was half a needle’s length away from being put to sleep in the dungeon in Nuremberg. Who single-handedly despatched the beast who kissed her mole, the paedophile who injected her groin, the ringleader who jabbed the tainted needle in her neck.

Heidi, H22: since promoted to the all-powerful desk job of M11 at HQ, the rabbit warren that wormed its way under N2’s dress-making workshop at the run-down factory in Seven Sisters. Heidi, her wife and the adopted mother to her adored son Tom, who she would throw her arms round and hug and kiss as he protested in front of his laughing school mates, at the end of term,

‘Mum,’ he’d protest, ‘Stop embarrassing me in front of my mates! Mum!’

‘But school’s out, darling?’ she’d cry, crushing him to her chest, loving his hair, his scent, her flesh and blood, before she drove him back to the safe house. Where they could play unseen in the privacy of their back garden. Always the garden, never the beach. Tom, her protected child.

She propped herself up on one elbow and drew her gaily-coloured beach bag towards her. Her surprise lay inside. She positioned the bag with its contents displayed by the towel where she rested her head, taking out her sacred cloth pouch: golden yellow embroidered with edelweiss: the tiny gift that her lover gave her when she nursed her back to health.

The secret holiday was M11’s idea, an instruction following the successful operation to remove a malignant tumour from her bowel. Afterward, her fiancé had loved, nursed, and cared for her,

‘You need a complete rest, darling, after all you’ve been through,’ Heidi had said, tears of love welling in her blue eyes, ‘I’m sending you to Croatia to get your strength back. I don’t want to hear from you until you walk through my front door. Have I made myself understood?’

‘Perfectly,’ she’d replied, smiling, reaching for her wife, unbuttoning her crisped white shirt.

‘Agents are not allowed to fraternize with their superiors at work,’ M11 reminded her, as she felt her woman’s fingertips slide under the fabric of her soft cotton panties, parting her fine hair, tenderly caressing her. They’d made passionate love on the office carpet. How she missed Heidi’s light touch, the slop of her tongue pushing between her moist lips, probing her as they lay on their crumpled bed, their inverted feverish bodies intimately entwined.

Her thoughts returned to the threat of the Nord. There was no doubt in her mind that he would track her down and kill her once he had gratified himself at her body’s expense. She examined the revolver with its unnecessary and largely ineffectual silencer lying beside his naked body. She rehearsed her final words to him, when he came across her, thigh deep in seawater, dodging the razor-sharp rocks with their nasty, flesh-slashing, black sea urchins,

‘You can put your gun away, Commander. Come in and give me a hug. The water’s lovely and warm!’

‘Thank you, baby, but I have to kill you. Goodbye!’

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

She shielded her eyes from the glary sun with her slim hand and gazed at the fixed black dot hovering over the sea in the distance. Her sexual magnificence rendered her adversary clumsy, cack-handed, in the control of the drone, which was clearly homing in on her, closing in to get a better look as the aroused man neared his climax. She pinned up her hair in a rough bun, leaving damp wisps of hair kissing her gilded neck, imagining the dramatic effect that she was having on him, the power that a sensuous woman, like her, could exert over a sad, young man.

He’d closed his eyes, she noticed, dreaming of her breasts, her belly pressing against his firm torso as she held him to her, wrapping her arms around his waist, resting her soft head on his shoulder, encouraging him to get closer to her, kissing him on the lips…

She shook her head out of the naughty daydream. His curtains were blown in from the light sea breeze in the bedroom. The balcony doors were open. She lay back, turned her head to face the beach bag and drew out the console. Her drone sauntered through the open doors, glided across the hotel bedroom, traversed the bed, and hovered over the man’s face.

Quickly, she untied her bikini bottoms, stripping them off, exposing her bitter chocolate mole, her mole-with-a-hole, as she called it, after the clumsy attempt to inject her with a fatal cocktail.

‘Oh, I love you!’ she whispered, marvelling at the devil’s technical prowess.

Here goes! Hope this works! Cue volume!

‘Open your eyes, darling, get me all naked, showing myself to you on your private little screen.’

He twisted his head to the right, opening his eyes, ogling her hairy groin, her sun-kissed mole. She arched her body upwards. He grunted for her, her demented boar. She came over all giggly,

‘I have an even nicer surprise for you, Commander. Look up for me!’

Instinctively, Belg stared up at the drone.

‘I put my finger, here!’ she laughed, priming her lethal weapon, ‘I put my finger, there, I…!’

Too late, Belg scrambled his left hand towards the gun, ‘What? No! No!’

‘Bye-bye Belg!’

The drone ejaculated its molecular nitric acid, squirting at him, etching his skin with its searing heat, burning out his eyes. The gun fired twice, blowing out his face, wiping the dirty smirk off his smutty Nordic mush forever.

Deliriously happy, back in the fray, she slipped on her floppy tee shirt and knee-length shorts, grabbed her towel and beach bag, and found a place in the shade of a pine tree. Now she could relax and catch up on some much-needed beauty sleep. There was the sound of a distant plop as his drone fell into the sea.

She thought of her freshly-grilled fish lunch, the welcome glass of chilled prosekka. Her local men, Miho and Pero, dancing. Kisses on her cheeks. Strong fishermen’s arms around her waist. Bedtime with the boys. Mmmn, her siesta! She lay back on the towel and undressed.

‘Sorry!’ she shouted, pressing a red button on her console, ‘Night, night! Make sure the bugs don’t bite!’

Her drone exploded, setting the bedroom on fire, cremating the man on his squalid funeral pyre.

Jane Bond closed her eyes and fell into a deep and dreamy sleep…


North Weald, Essex:

There was a bus shelter a few hundred yards down the road. Alison took the first left at the roundabout next to the pub and pootled to a halt beside a tubby black bin. It started to drizzle. It always drizzled in her mind the morning after a busy night. She dismounted, pulling down her prongs, went to stand out of the rain, gave a little shiver and sneezed. Her prim and proper mother used to tell her little girl never to sneeze over dinner,

‘Sneezing over dinner will give Mummy a bad tummy, dear,’ she once said, ‘It’s a dirty habit.’

Dirty? Me?

‘Always wear a clean vest and pants in case you have an accident and have to go to hospital,’ was another one of her mum’s pearls of wisdom.


She never felt truly clean. The filth of men was engrained in her, as deeply as the tar lining her lungs. Alison leaned against the graffiti-riddled shelter and coughed out a grey gob of phlegm. She closed her eyes and thought of the beast last night. How the prick had left her lying spread-eagled on the sofa without so much as a goodbye kiss or a guilty thank you. He couldn’t wait to pull up his dirty chuddies and leave her once he had finished with her.

Fuck that for a life. Soon be over.

Next week if she kept her nerve. She turned her back on the steady flow of traffic heading towards Epping and reached inside her fleece for the key to her new life. The gift was sealed in a small, padded envelope. She tore off the end, took out its contents, and dropped the wrapper in the rubbish bin. The glass phial was bubble-wrapped. Her contact was meticulous. He left nothing to chance. She picked off the sticky tape and unwound the prism from its covering. The thick glass pyramid contained a suspended pool of golden liquid which reminded her, the carrier, the courier, of pus. It had a gold pull-off top. She gently pushed the phial into her tight jean pocket where it couldn’t fall out, then pulled out a cigarette, lit up, and took a deep drag.

This, she resolved, would be her last fag. She’d quit the drink, take up exercise, and get fit, when she lost her old self in Reykjavik. The Nord promised her an island of beauty beyond her wildest dreams: a land of hot bubbling spas, invigorating mountain streams, spouting geysers, gigantic waterfalls, mountains, glaciers. Alison performed well for him. It helped her that she despised men, wanted to punish them for their sins against her. Helped her to perform the act.

The Police, EHOs, and doctors hadn’t made the connection yet. To date, more than fifty towns had fallen foul of her callous misdemeanours. This mission would be her last. Job done. The phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out and swiped it. She had a new message.

Shit, now what?

Change of plan. Supermarket has shut down fish counter. Go to Epping Market fish stall. Ask for mackerel, head off, tail off, gutted. Leave your deposit. Return to your filthy brothel and wait. Your passport, flight tickets, hotel reservation, car hire and payment will arrive by courier next week.

Alison punched her fist in the air, ‘Yes!’

The fish stall is low-hanging fruit, she laughed inwardly.

Her activities would be hidden from CCTV by the throng of elderly plodders who habitually blocked the market’s narrow passageways. With her sleight of hand, her poison sneeze would go unnoticed by the crowds of hungry shoppers. Gingerly, she swung her legs over the saddle, kicked up the prongs, revved the engine, honked her funny horn, and scooted off to the market.


Fully refreshed from her sleep, Jane sat up on her beach mat and took in the beautiful vista, which stretched as far as the pale blue horizon. Other than a few wispy strands of cirrus, cotton wool fluff she called it, the sky was clear, the sun riding high, its hot rays searing her all-over tan a deep hue of golden brown.

She estimated, accurately, that the time was twelve-thirty-four, and felt hungry. Pero would be filleting a gilt-edged bream for grilling on the open fire while Miho gently tossed her salad. One of them would come for her when the fish had blackened and its eyes turned white. Then they’d walk the lonely forest trail, past the deserted fisherman’s dwellings, holding hands as they staggered up the steep rocky incline, before winding their way down the red-sand path to the thatched beach hut with its three loungers and parasols.

Pero would adjust her lounger for her so that she could bask in the shade while he fed her fish, forking mouthfuls of white flesh into her. Miho would ply her with copious dregs of prosekka. Afterwards, she would stretch out on the divan: relishing the sensation of rough hands balming her body with oil, massaging her to the point of arousal; then retire to their mattress in the dingy hut and take her sexual siesta, sandwiched between them. Ah, she would miss Pero and Miho.

Oh, well! Back to work next week!

She couldn’t wait to lie in the arms of Heidi again. Until her next death-defying mission.

The sea was an inviting warm bath of turquoise, slewing into ultramarine where the deep water would swell around her, cooling her hot skin. She selected a shelf of barnacle-crusted mustard rocks, licked by lapping spume, two hundred metres from the shoreline. There was just enough time for her to take a dip before her escort arrived.

Bond was nude. The thought of swimming nude thrilled her. She felt safe on the tiny Croatian beach. Miho and Pero were quite used to seeing her padding around the beach hut naked, and they seldom wore a stitch, except for when they took the mountain path to her private cove. Or took their launch into Hvar to buy provisions.

Jane tiptoed over the hot sand, waded into the warm shallows, and plunged headfirst into the water. Crawling out to sea. Forcing her head underwater. Reaching out with her strong arms. She turned her face to the sky to gulp in air. Then she powered off again. Until she reached the rocks. The water there was deep and cold. At a stretch, her feet could just touch the bottom. Her left foot caught on something. She felt a spine tear her sole, impaling her. She felt it snap.

The pain set in as salt water entered her fleshy, pulpy wound: a throbbing pain that only eased when she started to bleed: the needle was embedded in her foot. The water was crystal clear. She watched her blood bloom in a rapidly-diluting scarlet ink around her doggy-paddling legs, and immediately struck out for the shore.

Miho was waiting for her in the shallows, dressed in his baggy black swimming shorts,

‘Are you ready for your fish now, Mrs Bond?’ he enquired.

She fell into his arms.

‘Not quite yet,’ she informed him, calmly, ‘I think I might have just trodden on a sea urchin.’

Then she passed out…


Epping, Essex:

Elsie Collard was a fat woman in her mid to late fifties: chubby-cheeked, rose-faced, wearing a white trilby hat and coat. It was raining hard. Alison inched forward and stood under the blue-and-white awning, pissed off by the flush of water falling in torrents on her back and shoulders, drenching her hoodie. She kept the hood up, her head down, shielding her face from view, took out the spent fag and ground it out with her wet trainers. The pavement was puddling.

Not a good morning for market traders. Some of them had called it a day, going to Gregg’s for a tummy-warming tea, hot bacon butties. Elsie decided to give it another hour. She regarded the wretch, hunched half-in half-out of the rain, with distaste. The girl looked like trouble if you asked her. Alison mumbled into her chin, reaching inside her fleece pocket,

‘Two mackerel.’

‘Sorry love, you’ll have to speak up, I can’t hear you,’ said Elsie, a Cockney.

‘I said two mackerel.’

Elsie huffed, slipped on her disposable glove and reached across the flatfish, herrings and trout, for the mackerel. She selected two beauties, holding them aloft like trophies.

‘Like me to head, tail and gut them for you?’


Was that a ‘please’ I just heard, not? Elsie wondered.

The cutting board was on a sturdy table, touching her ample rear. She turned away from the hussy and spread out the fish.

‘There was this hissing sound behind my back, a bit like a bottle of fizz being opened,’ she would recall at the public inquiry.

The fishmonger quickly beheaded, tailed and gutted both fish, slipped them into a plastic bag, weighed and priced them. When she turned round the girl had gone.

‘What the…?’

She turned quite pale, felt giddy, queasy, gripping the edge of the table.

‘Elsie? Are you alright?’ a voice, her friend from the local library, said, holding her still.

She recovered. Her head cleared. Her tummy settled. She felt better. Well. Ridiculously well. Her friend pumped her brolly far away from the fish and stared at the bag lying on the board.

‘I’ll be fine,’ Elsie sighed, ‘Don’t know what came over me then. All of a hot flush I was!’

‘Must be going through the change, Else!’ Doreen laughed, glancing at her watch.

It was her thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. She and Don had taken a day’s holiday and were treating themselves to a slap-up lunch at home with a bottle of Sancerre. She eyed the mackerel.

‘Don’t suppose I can interest you in some mackerel?’ Elsie asked hopefully.

She couldn’t get the image of the girl out of her mind. The snarl on her lips. The look of hatred on her face when she looked up from under her hood, her dirty face.

Doreen took out her purse. It stopped raining. The sun came out. She felt the tenner. Felt odd. Light-headed. Wonderful. She felt weird. Mackerel, on their wedding anniversary?

‘Sorry!’ she exclaimed, throwing an arm, ‘But, I rather fancy two big bits of your prime filet!’

Elsie put on a fresh glove and reached for the salmon.


Miho cradled Bond in his strong arms, carrying her inert body out of the sea - to the safety of the beach. There, he gently laid her down on the beach mat, knelt beside her head, brushing the streaks of wet teak hair off her shining face, so that he could admire her. Bond was stunning: the most beautiful, dangerous, woman in the world.

He let his thumb smudge her lips, her plump pout, forcing her to smile, then crab-scuttled in the sand until he reached her full left breast. A light laying of his palm over her chest confirmed that her heart was still beating. Miho flicked the corky teats on her caramel nipples, bringing a blush to her cheeks, a cheeky smirk to her lips. Jane came to,

‘What happened to me?’

He ignored her at first, running the stubby tip of his index finger along her six-inch weal, her eternal wound. This incredibly brave woman played it clean, killed a man with her bare hands. Desperate to live, Schultz had drawn a solid iron rod rest out of his bag and attempted to stab her through the heart. Only to be thwarted by her strong wrists as she snapped his measly neck.

‘You fainted,’ the Croat replied excitedly, ‘It was a sea urchin!’

Jane thrilled as he ran his coarse fingers over her belly, pausing to probe her navel and remove some grains of sand, before caressing her hairline down as far as her coir of damp, matted quiff. She felt a twinge in her injured foot. Blood trickled from her wound, drying in a ferric crust on the hot sand.

Miho’s tent-pegged inside his baggy shorts! she noted, smiling,

‘I think you should remove the spine from my foot, don’t you Miho?’

‘Of course, Mrs Bond.’

He knelt between her thighs, couldn’t stop fantasizing over her sexual magnificence. Just him, a poor beach hut squatter from a deserted mountain village, and Jane Bond the most sensational woman in the world, spread-eagled naked before him. He nodded deferentially, edging the flat of his hand down her slender thigh in the direction of her calf. Moments later, she felt his mouth on her foot, sucking out the spine, and giggled,

‘Like sucking my foot, don’t you Miho?’

He rolled his pupils at her, continuing to suck her, ‘Mmmn.’

‘You can suck my toes if you like.’

Miho extracted the spine with his bare teeth. Jane yelped. He washed her foot with schnapps, then wrapped her in strips of bandage. She interrupted him, insistent this time,

‘Suck my toes.’

He sucked her big toe first, working his way through the slender ones, licking and nibbling the nails on her pinkies. She gasped as he gripped her ankle and feathered the smooth inside of her thigh. He caressed her divine cleft, leaving her writhing, uncontrollably, on the hot beach mat.

He felt her flush of warmth, arousing her until her breasts heaved and the flesh stiffened on her nipples. She threw her head back, snarling for him, baring all her teeth, her languid red langue, imploring him to release her. She arched her body upward, writhing in blissful orgasm for him. His body was covered in thick black hair. He’d gone to fat. He sported a pot belly. But he was a kind man, soft, cuddly, and rather well-endowed. She reached out for him, craving his thrusts,

‘Want you inside me,’ she murmured, hungrily, sliding his rigid, turgid, shaft deep inside her.


Ivy Chimneys, Essex:

His chair wobbled. The bolts worked loose. What kind of prat bought kitchen chairs with bolts in? He did. He pushed at the table leg with his thigh to give his varicose legs breathing space. That was the problem with flat-pack DIY tables: you could never be sure of the leg room until it was too late.

He looked across the tiny imitation pine table at his wife of thirty-five years. She was half-cut. Threadworm veins protruded from her flushed cheeks, like blue mould. Pissed. Doreen had let herself go to pot after the boys left home: pot belly, pot arse, pot tits. The thought of her special treat this afternoon appalled him. They’d slept in separate beds for the past twenty-five years without indulging. So why bother now?

Don thought of the girl, young lass, always wore a short black party dress for him, in Ipswich, wondering if he could sneak out tonight. He reached across the table for the Sancerre, poured his wife more wine. With any luck she’d be out cold for hours with the crushed tablets. He was tee-total himself, had to be. He didn’t want to risk losing his HGV licence. His wanderlust. Not at his age. She leaned forward, her face so close to his that he could smell the fish on her breath, the wine’s fragrant bouquet. She slurred: drunken sot,

‘You haven’t finished your fish.’

‘Don’t want to, do I? It tastes funny.’

‘What do you mean, tastes funny? Only bought it this morning! Now eat it up like a good boy.’

‘You’re pissed. Go upstairs and have a kip.’

‘Only if you promise to come up and see me later.’

Doreen pushed back her chair with a screech, stumbling towards the hall door.

‘I will,’ her husband vowed, ‘After I’ve done the washing up.’


‘Yeah, promise.’

Don waited until his beloved had crawled upstairs to crash out, stood up, and went outside to the garden. The air was fresh, uplifting, following the shower. He took a deep breath, sniffing the aroma of wet cut grass. He felt giddy, light-headed. His stomach ached, hurt, bulged, bloated. He felt his guts twist, inside out. Felt his guts burst. Felt his stomach distend, strain and split.

He fell face down on the muddy lawn, his neck twisting with involuntary torsion. His mouth gaped wide open. Blood spewed out in projectile torrents, spraying the begonias, spattering the mossy garden wall. He twitched. His body heaved with spasm. His mind shut down, except for the girl: the image of her in her dress, beckoning him to the sofa, her gin. His heart pounded inside his collapsed chest cavity. His lungs gave out, rattling. The heart stopped beating. Don’s brain died. His squalid life expired with Alison’s face etched indelibly in his ebbing conscience.


‘How did that feel, Mrs Bond?’ he gasped, as they lay, spent and dreamful, ‘Comfortable?’

‘Heavenly, thank you, Miho.’  

The phone rang in her beach bag. Bond reached over him, swiped, and held it to her ear,

‘Hello? Who’s speaking, please?’

‘Bond, this is N1.’

N1! Not M11! N1, the man at the top of the Wet Squad! N1 who succeeded the traitor O1, then promoted H22 to M11, side-tracking P45, and dealt exclusively with Q8! Jane felt Miho’s lips sucking on her strawberry red nipple, and giggled,


‘What was that?’

‘I said, tickles! Miho’s sucking a sea urchin spine out of my foot, aren’t you Miho?’

The Croat sucked on her stiff nipple, her baby.

‘Sucked your toes, more like,’ N1 observed, ‘Who was that princess? Caught by the paparazzi? Had her toes sucked? South of France? Name escapes me?’

‘Fergal?’ she offered hopefully.

‘No, not Fergal,’ N1 resumed, ‘Bond, I need you to return to England immediately. There is hell to play in the counties of Essex, Suffolk, Norfolk and Lincs. A young woman is killing off happy shoppers by the hundred. Strangely, only men as it happens.’


N1 explained: ‘The victims all died of food poisoning after consuming fresh meat or fish purchased from chilled display counters or market stalls. D3 conducted numerous autopsies in the mortuaries of Eastern England and found nothing, not a trace. He concluded that cause of death was heart failure brought on by severe body trauma originating in the men’s stomachs. D3 strongly suspects the use of a biodegradable neurotoxin. It’s clean, efficient, fast-acting, environmentally friendly. The woman was detected waving a hand over fresh fish counters as far apart as Grimsby and Basildon on CCTV, videoed pulling her hoodie down, putting on her crash helmet, then scootering off to Ipswich.

‘How do you know she was travelling to Ipswich?’

‘One of our sleepers clamped a direction-finder under her seat…’


‘Yes, nice. The girl’s name’s Alison Moppit, 18, works as a prostitute …’

‘Really? Eugh! How awful…’

‘Needs must,’ N1 reflected, ‘Shares a house, eight, Hatchett’s Road, Ipswich, with two other whores. I’ll WhatsApp you the directions from Stansted…’

Miho stood staring out to sea with a heavy heart. She was leaving on an aqua plane. He didn’t know if she’d be back again. He hated to see her go.

‘Bye, bye, Miho!’ he heard her cry as she dressed, ‘I love you.’

Jane thanked him for nursing her back to health. Despondently, he flopped on the beach. Just as gangly Pero swept majestically into view on his high-speed launch, rounding the headlands, narrowly missing a few rocky outcrops, swirling to a washy standstill, in front of them.  

He clambered out of the boat and waded towards her,

‘I take you to Split, Mrs Bond!’

‘I’ll need my passport, clothing, tampons, condoms, cash, cards, N1,’ she said, ignoring him.

‘All neatly packed in your case for you by the boys.’

‘And the weapon?’

‘M11 will meet you at the airport,’ N said, smiling broadly in Seven Sisters, ‘Your love awaits!’

Jane felt a lump form in her throat: Heidi! She loved Heidi so much.

‘Thank you, Nigel,’ she said, sincerely, ‘You know I’ll always love you. You gave me my son.’

He wiped a tear from his eye,

‘Our son, Bond. See you in Mistleigh. Dinner, I thought, with Tom, Heidi, slap-up breakfast, followed by a brisk country ramble and pub lunch? God bless…’

The phone went silent, she mouthed, ‘God bless, N.’

Pero stood over her, his body casting a welcome shadow over her sunburn, ‘We go now?’

‘No, I go, you stay. Thank you, Pero.’

The Croats looked on in amazement as Bond hobbled as far as the water’s edge, put her best foot forward into the warm spume, reached for the bow of the launch, and threw herself aboard. Her travel bag was under the thwart, as promised. Quickly, she found her comfortable tee-shirt, shorts, socks, old tennis shoes, dressed, and took the helm. Without further hesitation, she sped off towards the distant horizon, reflecting on N1’s brilliant assassination plan.

Preparing herself, mentally.

To kill a woman.


He wanted her again ten days later. She shuddered, the thought of him even touching her. The game. He forced her to play the same cruel game, every time. The same despicable technique.

Monday night was dead. He always came after dark when business was quiet and he wouldn’t be seen. Her only client that night. She checked her watch: a minute to midnight. He would be here any minute. She smoothed her short black party dress over her bare thighs. Fluffed her hair. She was nervous. Her calf itched. She scratched it with her other leg. The doorbell rang. It could only be her client. Breda and Worship were busy entertaining.

The Nord, Berg, failed to make contact. She tried to message him with no response. She called the number he gave her for use in emergencies. The line was disconnected. Alarm bells rang in her mind:

Your passport, flight tickets, hotel reservation, car hire and payment will arrive by courier next week.

The message was sent two weeks ago. Suppose, he tricked her? Suppose there was no payment?

I’d have to carry on working in this filthy brothel. What kind of life is that for a young woman?

She despaired. The doorbell rang, insistently. She slung on her sling-back shoes, then tottered out of her room onto the landing, closing her mind to the obscene grunting noises coming from the other rooms. The hall light was on. She went downstairs and opened the door. It was raining hard outside. The door led out onto the street. Rain drummed on the pavement. He was wearing a hoodie. She couldn’t make out his face. He stared down at his trainers. Rain gushed over him from the broken guttering above their heads. Her client slowly raised his head,

‘Feeling lonely, Alison?  I thought you might fancy me instead?’

The woman reached inside her hoodie…

Alison just managed to say, ‘Who the fuck?’.

Bond swiped out a compact Glock 43 and fired twice at point blank range. The bullets entered the target’s temple between her eyes, penetrating her skull, and blew her brains out through the back of her head, as if her skull were a bird’s egg having its yolk blown out, killing her, instantly.

Jane glanced over her shoulder as she sauntered over to her moped, singing softly to herself, in the rain. Her phone rang. She had a new voicemail. She smiled, recognizing the voice at once:

‘I imagine us there, my body wrapped around you, the two of us bathed in warmth as the steam lifts into the chilly darkness. I love the contrast of the crisp clean air with the lapping waves of heat cascading against our skin. Tom is well, spending the weekend with Nigel. Meet me at the Blue Lagoon, Iceland, tomorrow night at nine. I have packed you an overnight bag and left it on our bed with your flight tickets and passport. Oh, and don’t forget to wear your grey bikini, my favourite. I will be in the pool, waiting for you. I love you Jane.’

Jane Bond first appeared in Swallowtail.

She will return, once more, in Glacier.

Submitted: July 16, 2021

© Copyright 2021 hjfurl. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:



Love your writing. It's beautiful.

Fri, July 16th, 2021 10:59pm


Thanks MissInk31, so much!

Fri, July 16th, 2021 5:12pm


In One Word: PERFECTION! This is enticing and Phenomenal! I simply adore the provocative and vivid imagery in this! Truly a brilliantly intense and thrilling journey! Phantasmical in scope. Your signature writing style is sensational, vivid and mesmerizing. Never to be forgotten! Thank you very kindly! - Marvelous Wishes! - Zelda V.

Fri, July 16th, 2021 11:00pm


Thank you so much Zelda!

Fri, July 16th, 2021 5:11pm

Other Content by hjfurl

Short Story / General Erotica

Short Story / General Erotica

Short Story / General Erotica