Mr Fleming's kinkiness is widely known (see the scenes in Fleming in the TV section).
Naturally it also showed in his works.
The Living Daylights
James Bond's choice of reading matter, prompted by a spectacular jacket of a half-naked girl strapped to a bed, turned out to have been a happy one for the occasion. It was called Verderbt, Verdammt, Verraten. The prefix ver signified that the girl had not only been ruined, damned, and betrayed, but that she had suffered these misfortunes most thoroughly. James Bond temporarily lost himself in the tribulations of the heroine, Gräfin Liselotte Mutzenbacher, and it was with irritation that he heard Captain Sender say that it was five-thirty and time to take up their positions.
Dr. No
Bond's hand was on her left breast. Its peak was hard with passion. Her stomach pressed against his. Why not? Why not? Don't be a fool! This is a crazy time for it. You're both in deadly danger. You must stay cold as ice to have any chance of getting out of this mess. Later! Later! Don't be weak.
Bond took his hand away from her breast and put it round her neck. He rubbed his face against hers and then brought his mouth round to hers and gave her one long kiss.
He stood away and held her at arm's length. For a moment they looked at each other, their eyes bright with desire. She was breathing fast, her lips parted so that he could see the glint of teeth. He said unsteadily, "Honey, get into that bath before I spank you."
She smiled. Without saying anything she stepped down into the bath and lay at full length. She looked up. The fair hair on her body glittered up through the water like golden sovereigns. She said provocatively, "You've got to wash me. I don't know what to do. You've got to show me."
Bond said desperately, "Shut up, Honey. And stop flirting. Just take the soap and the sponge and start scrubbing. Damn you! This isn't the time for making love. I'm going to have breakfast." He reached for the door handle and opened the door. She said softly, "James!" He looked back. She was sticking her tongue out at him. He grinned savagely back at her and slammed the door.
[...]
The girl stood away from the table. She undid her blouse and threw it on the floor. Then her skirt. Under the glint of moonlight she was a pale figure with a central shadow. She came to Bond and took him by the hand and lifted him up. She undid his shirt and slowly, carefully took it off. Her body, close to him, smelled of new-mown hay and sweet pepper. She led him away from the table and through a door. The filtering moonlight shone down on a single bed. On the bed was a sleeping-bag, its mouth laid open.
The girl let go his hand and climbed into the sleeping-bag. She looked up at him. She said, practically, "I bought this today. It's a double one. It cost a lot of money. Take those off and come in. You promised. You owe me slave-time."
"But..."
"Do as you're told."
For Your Eyes Only
Bond gloomily measured the situation. He looked the ridiculously beautiful wild girl up and down. This was good hard English stock spiced with the hot peppers of a tropical childhood. Dangerous mixture. She had keyed herself up to a state of controlled hysteria. He was quite certain that she would think nothing of putting him out of action. And he had absolutely no defence. Her weapon was silent, his would alert the whole neighbourhood. Now the only hope would be to work with her. Give her part of the job and he would do the rest. He said quietly: 'Now listen, Judy. If you insist on coming in on this thing we'd better do it together. Then perhaps we can bring it off and stay alive. This sort of thing is my profession. I was ordered to do it--by a close friend of your family, if you want to know. And I've got the right weapon. It's got at least five times the range of yours. I could take a good chance of killing him now, on the patio. But the odds aren't quite good enough. Some of them have got bathing-things on. They'll be coming down to the lake. Then I'm going to do it. You can give supporting fire.' He ended lamely: 'It'll be a great help.'
'No.' She shook her head decisively. 'I'm sorry. You can give what you call supporting fire if you like. I don't care one way or the other. You're right about the swimming. Yesterday they were all down at the lake around eleven. It's just as warm today and they'll be there again. I shall get him from the edge of the trees by the lake. I found a perfect place last night. The bodyguard men bring their guns with them--sort of tommy-gun things. They don't bathe. They sit around and keep guard. I know the moment to get von Hammerstein and I'll be well away from the lake before they take in what's happened. I tell you I've got it all planned. Now then. I can't hang around any more. I ought to have been in my place already. I'm sorry, but unless you say yes straight away there's no alternative.' She raised the bow a few inches.
Bond thought: Damn this girl to hell. He said angrily: 'All right then. But I can tell you that if we get out of this you're going to get such a spanking you won't be able to sit down for a week.' He shrugged. He said with resignation: 'Go ahead. I'll look after the others. If you get away all right, meet me here. If you don't, I'll come down and pick up the pieces.'
The girl unstrung her bow. She said indifferently: 'I'm glad you're seeing sense. These arrows are difficult to pull out. Don't worry about me. But keep out of sight and mind the sun doesn't catch that glass of yours.' She gave Bond the brief, pitying, self-congratulatory smile of the woman who has had the last word, and turned and made off down through the trees.
Ian Fleming's James Bond novels / short stories
Re: Ian Fleming's James Bond novels / short stories
THE HILDEBRAND RARITY
No wonder this short was first published in the Playboy. This is choke full of kinky references...
In the Indian Ocean, where the sea poisons are at their most virulent, one scratch from the ray’s sting would mean certain death. Cautiously, keeping the ray on a taut line, Bond trudged after the furiously wrestling fish. He swam to one side to keep the line away from the lashing tail which could easily sever it. This tail was the old slave-drivers’ whip of the Indian Ocean. Today it is illegal even to possess one in the Seychelles, but they are handed down in the families for use on faithless wives, and if the word goes round that this or that woman a eu la crapule, the Provençal name for the sting ray, it is as good as saying that that woman will not be about again for at least a week. Now the lashes of the tall were getting weaker and Bond swam round and ahead of the ray, pulling it after him towards the shore.
[...]
“That’s a good one. Lucky you hit the right spot or he’d have towed you over the reef and you’d have had to let go your gun. They take the hell of a time to die. But come on. I’ve got to get you back to Victoria. Something’s come up. Something good. I’ll send one of my men for the gun. Do you want the tail?”
Bond smiled. “I haven’t got a wife. But what about some raie au beurre noir tonight?”
[...]
She said without bitterness: “Only with me. He loves Americans. It’s when he’s abroad. You see, his father was a German, a Prussian really. He’s got that silly German thing of thinking Europeans and so on are decadent, that they aren’t any good any more. It’s no use arguing with him. It’s just a thing he’s got.”
So that was it! The old Hun again. Always at your feet or at your throat. Sense of humour indeed! And what must this woman have to put up with, this beautiful girl he had got hold of to be his slave - his English slave? Bond said: “How long have you been married?”
[...]
“Vermont birch panelling, Corning glass lamps, Mexican tuft rugs. That sailing-ship picture’s a genuine Montague Dawson, by the way...” Mr Krest’s catalogue ran smoothly on. But Bond was looking at some thing that hung down almost out of sight by the bedside table on what was obviously Mr Krest’s side of the huge double bed. It was a thin whip about three feet long with a leather-thonged handle. It was the tail of a sting-ray.
Casually Bond walked over to the side of the bed and picked it up. He ran a finger down its spiny gristle. It hurt his finger even to do that. He said: “Where did you pick that up? I was hunting one of these animals this morning.”
“Bahrein. The Arabs use them on their wives.” Mr Krest chuckled easily. “Haven’t had to use more than one stroke at a time on Liz so far. Wonderful results. We call it my ‘Corrector’”.
Bond put the thing back. He looked hard at Mr Krest and said: “Is that so? In the Seychelles, where the creoles are pretty tough, it’s illegal even to own one of those, let alone use it.”
Mr Krest moved towards the door. He said indifferently: “Feller, this ship happens to be United States territory. Let’s go get ourselves something to drink.”
[...]
Liz Krest broke in eagerly: “But that’s just it, Milt, isn’t it? It’s really rather important to bring back plenty of specimens and things this time. Weren’t those horrible tax people talking about disallowing the yacht and the expenses and so on for the last five years if we didn’t show an outstanding scientific achievement? Wasn’t that the way they put it?”
“Treasure,” Mr Krest’s voice was soft as velvet. “Just supposin’ you keep that flippin’ trap shut about my personal affairs. Yes?” The voice was amiable, nonchalant. “You know what you just done, treas? You just earned yourself a little meeting with the Corrector this evening. That’s what you’ve gone and done.”
The girl’s hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes were wide. She said in a whisper: “Oh no, Milt. Oh no, please.”
[...]
Bond moved slowly on, his eyes automatically taking up the search again while his mind turned to considering the girl. She had spent the previous day in bed. Mr Krest had said it was a headache. Would she one day turn on him? Would she get herself a knife or a gun and one night, when he reached for that damnable whip, would she kill him? No. She was too soft, too malleable. Mr Krest had chosen well. She was the stuff of slaves. And the trappings of her ‘fairytale’ were too precious. Didn’t she realize that a jury would certainly acquit her if the sting-ray whip was produced in court? She could have the trappings without this dreadful, damnable man. Should Bond tell her that? Don’t be ridiculous! How could he put it? “Oh Liz, if you want to murder your husband, it’ll be quite all right.” Bond smiled inside his mask. To hell with it! Don’t interfere with other people’s lives. She probably likes it - masochist.
[...]
“Oho! Listen to the cheeky feller.” Mr Krest’s moon-burned face turned slowly from Bond to his wife. He made a contemptuous, Hapsburg-lip grimace. He took a silver whistle out of his pocket and whirled it round on its string. “He sure don’t get the picture, does he, treasure? You ain’t told him that those Heinies up front ain’t just for ornament?” He turned back to Bond. “Feller, you move any closer and I blow this just once. And you know what? It’ll be the old heave-ho for Mr goddam Bond” - he made a gesture towards the sea – “over the side. Man overboard. Too bad. We back up to make a search and you know what, feller? Just by chance we back up into you with those twin screws. Would you believe it! What lousy bad luck for that nice feller Jim we were all getting so fond of!” Mr Krest swayed on his feet. “Dya get the photo, Jim? Okay, so let’s all be friends again and get some shut eye.” He reached for the lintel of the hatch and turned to his wife. He lifted his free hand and slowly crooked a finger. “Move, treasure. Time for bed.”
“Yes, Milt.” The wide, frightened eyes turned side ways. “Goodnight, James.” Without waiting for an answer, she ducked under Mr Krest’s arm and almost ran through the saloon.
[...]
Half an hour later, after taking a shower in the crew’s bathroom forrard, Bond was making a bed for himself among the piled Dunlopillo cushions when he heard a single, heartrending scream. It tore briefly into the night and was smothered. It was the girl. Bond ran through the saloon and down the passage. With his hand on the stateroom door, he stopped. He could hear her sobs and, above them, the soft even drone of Mr Krest’s voice. He took his hand away from the latch, Hell! What was it to do with him? They were man and wife. If she was prepared to stand this sort of thing and not kill her husband, or leave him, it was no good Bond playing Sir Galahad. Bond walked slowly back down the passage. As he was crossing the saloon the scream, this time less piercing, rang out again. Bond cursed fluently and went out and lay down on his bed and tried to focus his mind on the soft thud of the diesels. How could a girl have so little guts? Or was it that women could take almost anything from a man? Anything except indifference? Bond’s mind refused to unwind. Sleep got further and further away.
[...]
Inconclusive. Bond had fixed himself some breakfast in the galley and was eating it there when Liz Krest had come in to do the same. She was dressed in a pale blue shantung kimono to her knees. There were dark rings under her eyes and she ate her breakfast standing. But she seemed perfectly calm and at ease. She whispered conspiratorially: “I do apologize about last night. I suppose I’d had a bit too much to drink too. But do forgive Milt. He’s really awfully nice. It’s only when he’s had a bit too much that he gets sort of difficult. He’s always sorry the next morning. You’ll see.”
No wonder this short was first published in the Playboy. This is choke full of kinky references...
In the Indian Ocean, where the sea poisons are at their most virulent, one scratch from the ray’s sting would mean certain death. Cautiously, keeping the ray on a taut line, Bond trudged after the furiously wrestling fish. He swam to one side to keep the line away from the lashing tail which could easily sever it. This tail was the old slave-drivers’ whip of the Indian Ocean. Today it is illegal even to possess one in the Seychelles, but they are handed down in the families for use on faithless wives, and if the word goes round that this or that woman a eu la crapule, the Provençal name for the sting ray, it is as good as saying that that woman will not be about again for at least a week. Now the lashes of the tall were getting weaker and Bond swam round and ahead of the ray, pulling it after him towards the shore.
[...]
“That’s a good one. Lucky you hit the right spot or he’d have towed you over the reef and you’d have had to let go your gun. They take the hell of a time to die. But come on. I’ve got to get you back to Victoria. Something’s come up. Something good. I’ll send one of my men for the gun. Do you want the tail?”
Bond smiled. “I haven’t got a wife. But what about some raie au beurre noir tonight?”
[...]
She said without bitterness: “Only with me. He loves Americans. It’s when he’s abroad. You see, his father was a German, a Prussian really. He’s got that silly German thing of thinking Europeans and so on are decadent, that they aren’t any good any more. It’s no use arguing with him. It’s just a thing he’s got.”
So that was it! The old Hun again. Always at your feet or at your throat. Sense of humour indeed! And what must this woman have to put up with, this beautiful girl he had got hold of to be his slave - his English slave? Bond said: “How long have you been married?”
[...]
“Vermont birch panelling, Corning glass lamps, Mexican tuft rugs. That sailing-ship picture’s a genuine Montague Dawson, by the way...” Mr Krest’s catalogue ran smoothly on. But Bond was looking at some thing that hung down almost out of sight by the bedside table on what was obviously Mr Krest’s side of the huge double bed. It was a thin whip about three feet long with a leather-thonged handle. It was the tail of a sting-ray.
Casually Bond walked over to the side of the bed and picked it up. He ran a finger down its spiny gristle. It hurt his finger even to do that. He said: “Where did you pick that up? I was hunting one of these animals this morning.”
“Bahrein. The Arabs use them on their wives.” Mr Krest chuckled easily. “Haven’t had to use more than one stroke at a time on Liz so far. Wonderful results. We call it my ‘Corrector’”.
Bond put the thing back. He looked hard at Mr Krest and said: “Is that so? In the Seychelles, where the creoles are pretty tough, it’s illegal even to own one of those, let alone use it.”
Mr Krest moved towards the door. He said indifferently: “Feller, this ship happens to be United States territory. Let’s go get ourselves something to drink.”
[...]
Liz Krest broke in eagerly: “But that’s just it, Milt, isn’t it? It’s really rather important to bring back plenty of specimens and things this time. Weren’t those horrible tax people talking about disallowing the yacht and the expenses and so on for the last five years if we didn’t show an outstanding scientific achievement? Wasn’t that the way they put it?”
“Treasure,” Mr Krest’s voice was soft as velvet. “Just supposin’ you keep that flippin’ trap shut about my personal affairs. Yes?” The voice was amiable, nonchalant. “You know what you just done, treas? You just earned yourself a little meeting with the Corrector this evening. That’s what you’ve gone and done.”
The girl’s hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes were wide. She said in a whisper: “Oh no, Milt. Oh no, please.”
[...]
Bond moved slowly on, his eyes automatically taking up the search again while his mind turned to considering the girl. She had spent the previous day in bed. Mr Krest had said it was a headache. Would she one day turn on him? Would she get herself a knife or a gun and one night, when he reached for that damnable whip, would she kill him? No. She was too soft, too malleable. Mr Krest had chosen well. She was the stuff of slaves. And the trappings of her ‘fairytale’ were too precious. Didn’t she realize that a jury would certainly acquit her if the sting-ray whip was produced in court? She could have the trappings without this dreadful, damnable man. Should Bond tell her that? Don’t be ridiculous! How could he put it? “Oh Liz, if you want to murder your husband, it’ll be quite all right.” Bond smiled inside his mask. To hell with it! Don’t interfere with other people’s lives. She probably likes it - masochist.
[...]
“Oho! Listen to the cheeky feller.” Mr Krest’s moon-burned face turned slowly from Bond to his wife. He made a contemptuous, Hapsburg-lip grimace. He took a silver whistle out of his pocket and whirled it round on its string. “He sure don’t get the picture, does he, treasure? You ain’t told him that those Heinies up front ain’t just for ornament?” He turned back to Bond. “Feller, you move any closer and I blow this just once. And you know what? It’ll be the old heave-ho for Mr goddam Bond” - he made a gesture towards the sea – “over the side. Man overboard. Too bad. We back up to make a search and you know what, feller? Just by chance we back up into you with those twin screws. Would you believe it! What lousy bad luck for that nice feller Jim we were all getting so fond of!” Mr Krest swayed on his feet. “Dya get the photo, Jim? Okay, so let’s all be friends again and get some shut eye.” He reached for the lintel of the hatch and turned to his wife. He lifted his free hand and slowly crooked a finger. “Move, treasure. Time for bed.”
“Yes, Milt.” The wide, frightened eyes turned side ways. “Goodnight, James.” Without waiting for an answer, she ducked under Mr Krest’s arm and almost ran through the saloon.
[...]
Half an hour later, after taking a shower in the crew’s bathroom forrard, Bond was making a bed for himself among the piled Dunlopillo cushions when he heard a single, heartrending scream. It tore briefly into the night and was smothered. It was the girl. Bond ran through the saloon and down the passage. With his hand on the stateroom door, he stopped. He could hear her sobs and, above them, the soft even drone of Mr Krest’s voice. He took his hand away from the latch, Hell! What was it to do with him? They were man and wife. If she was prepared to stand this sort of thing and not kill her husband, or leave him, it was no good Bond playing Sir Galahad. Bond walked slowly back down the passage. As he was crossing the saloon the scream, this time less piercing, rang out again. Bond cursed fluently and went out and lay down on his bed and tried to focus his mind on the soft thud of the diesels. How could a girl have so little guts? Or was it that women could take almost anything from a man? Anything except indifference? Bond’s mind refused to unwind. Sleep got further and further away.
[...]
Inconclusive. Bond had fixed himself some breakfast in the galley and was eating it there when Liz Krest had come in to do the same. She was dressed in a pale blue shantung kimono to her knees. There were dark rings under her eyes and she ate her breakfast standing. But she seemed perfectly calm and at ease. She whispered conspiratorially: “I do apologize about last night. I suppose I’d had a bit too much to drink too. But do forgive Milt. He’s really awfully nice. It’s only when he’s had a bit too much that he gets sort of difficult. He’s always sorry the next morning. You’ll see.”
Re: Ian Fleming's James Bond novels / short stories
Here's the sort of whip they are talking about by the way...
https://artgallery.yale.edu/collections/objects/162897
It is very plausible that this inspired the whipping (on a boat as well if I recall correctly?) in License to Kill...
viewtopic.php?t=430
https://artgallery.yale.edu/collections/objects/162897
It is very plausible that this inspired the whipping (on a boat as well if I recall correctly?) in License to Kill...
viewtopic.php?t=430
Re: Ian Fleming's James Bond novels / short stories
Thunderball
Miss Moneypenny gave a secret smile. 'You know he thinks
the world of your or perhaps you don't. Anyway, as soon as he
saw your Medical he told me to book you in.' Miss Moneypenny screwed up her nose. 'But, James, do you really drinl'
and smoke as much as that? It can't be good for you, you
know.' She looked up at him with motherly eyes.
Bond controlled himself. He summoned a desperate effort at nonchalance, at the throw-away phrase, .'It's just that I'd rather die of drink than of thirst. As for the cigarettes, it's really only that I don't know what to do with my hands.' He heard the stale, hangover words fall like clinker in a dead grate. Cut outthe schmalz ! What you need is a double brandy and soda.
Miss Moneypenny's warm lips pursed into a disapproving line. 'About the hands - that's not what I've heard.'
'Now don't you start on me, Penny.' Bond walked angrily towards the door. He turned round. 'Any more ticking-off from you and when I get out of this place I'll give you such a spanking you'll.have to do your typing off !l block ofDunlopillo.'
Miss Moneypenny smiled sweetly at him. 'I don't think you'll be able to do much spanking after living on nuts and
lemon juice for two weeks, James.'
Bond made a noise between a grunt and a snarl and stormed out of the room.
----
...and then some torture in bondage later on
When Largo was alone he got to his feet, stretched and gave
a great cavernous yawn. Then. he turned to the sideboard, opened a drawer and took out a box of Corona Cigars. He chose one and, with a gesture of distaste, lit it. He then took the closed red rubber container that held the ice cubes and walked out of the door and along to the cabin of Domino Vitali.
He closed the door and locked it. Here also, a red riding light hung from the ceiling. Under it, on the double bunk, the girl lay offered like a starfish, her ankles and wrists strapped to the four comers of the ironwork below the mattress. Largo put the icebox down on the, chest of drawers and balanced the cigar carefully beside it so that tho glowing tip would not spoil the varnish. The girl watched him, her eyes glittering red points in the semi-darkness.
Largo said, 'My dear, I have had great enjoyment out of your body, much pleasure. In return, unless you tell me who gave you that machine to bring on board, I shall be forced to cause you great pain. It will be caused with these two simple instruments," he held up the cigar and blew on the tip until it glowed brightly, 'this for heat, and these ice cubes for cold. Applied ~scientifically, as I shall apply them, they will have the inevitable effect of causing your voice, when it has stopped screaming, to speak, and speak the truth. Now then. Which is
to be?'
The girl's voice was deadly with hate. She said, 'You killed my brother and you will now kill me. Go on and enjoy yourself. You are already a piece of death yourself. When the rest of it comes, very soon, I pray God you will suffer a million times more than both of us.'
Largo's laugh was a short, harsh bark. He walked over to the edge of the bunk. He said, 'Very well, my dear. We must see what we can do with you, very softly and very, very slowly '
He bent down and hooked his fingers in the neckline of her shirt and the join of the brassiere: Very slowly, but with great force, he tore downwards, the whole length of her. Then he threw aside the torn halves of material and exposed the whole gleaming length of her body. He examined it carefully and reflectively and then went to the chest of drawers and took the cigar and the bowl of ice cubes and came back and made himself comfortable on the edge of the bunk.
Then he took a puff at the cigar, knocked the ash off on to the floor and leant forward.
Miss Moneypenny gave a secret smile. 'You know he thinks
the world of your or perhaps you don't. Anyway, as soon as he
saw your Medical he told me to book you in.' Miss Moneypenny screwed up her nose. 'But, James, do you really drinl'
and smoke as much as that? It can't be good for you, you
know.' She looked up at him with motherly eyes.
Bond controlled himself. He summoned a desperate effort at nonchalance, at the throw-away phrase, .'It's just that I'd rather die of drink than of thirst. As for the cigarettes, it's really only that I don't know what to do with my hands.' He heard the stale, hangover words fall like clinker in a dead grate. Cut outthe schmalz ! What you need is a double brandy and soda.
Miss Moneypenny's warm lips pursed into a disapproving line. 'About the hands - that's not what I've heard.'
'Now don't you start on me, Penny.' Bond walked angrily towards the door. He turned round. 'Any more ticking-off from you and when I get out of this place I'll give you such a spanking you'll.have to do your typing off !l block ofDunlopillo.'
Miss Moneypenny smiled sweetly at him. 'I don't think you'll be able to do much spanking after living on nuts and
lemon juice for two weeks, James.'
Bond made a noise between a grunt and a snarl and stormed out of the room.
----
...and then some torture in bondage later on
When Largo was alone he got to his feet, stretched and gave
a great cavernous yawn. Then. he turned to the sideboard, opened a drawer and took out a box of Corona Cigars. He chose one and, with a gesture of distaste, lit it. He then took the closed red rubber container that held the ice cubes and walked out of the door and along to the cabin of Domino Vitali.
He closed the door and locked it. Here also, a red riding light hung from the ceiling. Under it, on the double bunk, the girl lay offered like a starfish, her ankles and wrists strapped to the four comers of the ironwork below the mattress. Largo put the icebox down on the, chest of drawers and balanced the cigar carefully beside it so that tho glowing tip would not spoil the varnish. The girl watched him, her eyes glittering red points in the semi-darkness.
Largo said, 'My dear, I have had great enjoyment out of your body, much pleasure. In return, unless you tell me who gave you that machine to bring on board, I shall be forced to cause you great pain. It will be caused with these two simple instruments," he held up the cigar and blew on the tip until it glowed brightly, 'this for heat, and these ice cubes for cold. Applied ~scientifically, as I shall apply them, they will have the inevitable effect of causing your voice, when it has stopped screaming, to speak, and speak the truth. Now then. Which is
to be?'
The girl's voice was deadly with hate. She said, 'You killed my brother and you will now kill me. Go on and enjoy yourself. You are already a piece of death yourself. When the rest of it comes, very soon, I pray God you will suffer a million times more than both of us.'
Largo's laugh was a short, harsh bark. He walked over to the edge of the bunk. He said, 'Very well, my dear. We must see what we can do with you, very softly and very, very slowly '
He bent down and hooked his fingers in the neckline of her shirt and the join of the brassiere: Very slowly, but with great force, he tore downwards, the whole length of her. Then he threw aside the torn halves of material and exposed the whole gleaming length of her body. He examined it carefully and reflectively and then went to the chest of drawers and took the cigar and the bowl of ice cubes and came back and made himself comfortable on the edge of the bunk.
Then he took a puff at the cigar, knocked the ash off on to the floor and leant forward.
Re: Ian Fleming's James Bond novels / short stories
From Russia with Love
'Madam was late,' said the attendant. 'She came along the corridor. She must have entered by the last carriage.'
Bond went down the carpeted corridor to the centre coupe. A black 7 stood above a black 8 on the white metal lozenge. The door was ajar. Bond walked in and shut it behind him. The girl had taken off her veil and her black straw hat. She was sitting in the corner by the window. A long, sleek sable coat was thrown open to show a natural coloured shantung dress with a pleated skirt, honeycoloured nylons and a black crocodile belt and shoes. She looked composed.
'You have no faith, James.'
Bond sat down beside her. 'Tania,' he said, 'if there was a bit more room I'd put you across my knee and spank you. You nearly gave me heart failure. What happened?'
'Nothing,' said Tatiana innocently. 'What could happen? I said I would be here, and I am here. You have no faith. Since I am sure you are more interested in my dowry than in me, it is up there.'
---
Some tagliatelle verdi came, and the wine, and then a delicious escalope. "Oh it is so good," she said. "Since I came out of Russia I am all stomach." Her eyes widened. "You won't let me get too fat, James. You won't let me get so fat that I am of no use making love? You will have to be careful, or I shall just eat all day long and sleep. You will beat me if I eat too much?"
"Certainly I will beat you."
Tatjana wrinkled her nose. He felt the soft caress of her ankles.
'Madam was late,' said the attendant. 'She came along the corridor. She must have entered by the last carriage.'
Bond went down the carpeted corridor to the centre coupe. A black 7 stood above a black 8 on the white metal lozenge. The door was ajar. Bond walked in and shut it behind him. The girl had taken off her veil and her black straw hat. She was sitting in the corner by the window. A long, sleek sable coat was thrown open to show a natural coloured shantung dress with a pleated skirt, honeycoloured nylons and a black crocodile belt and shoes. She looked composed.
'You have no faith, James.'
Bond sat down beside her. 'Tania,' he said, 'if there was a bit more room I'd put you across my knee and spank you. You nearly gave me heart failure. What happened?'
'Nothing,' said Tatiana innocently. 'What could happen? I said I would be here, and I am here. You have no faith. Since I am sure you are more interested in my dowry than in me, it is up there.'
---
Some tagliatelle verdi came, and the wine, and then a delicious escalope. "Oh it is so good," she said. "Since I came out of Russia I am all stomach." Her eyes widened. "You won't let me get too fat, James. You won't let me get so fat that I am of no use making love? You will have to be careful, or I shall just eat all day long and sleep. You will beat me if I eat too much?"
"Certainly I will beat you."
Tatjana wrinkled her nose. He felt the soft caress of her ankles.
Re: Ian Fleming's James Bond novels / short stories
Live and let die
The man’s voice suddenly sharpened. ‘Wha’ dat Birdie he mean tuh yuh,
hey?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Perzackly,’ he paused to let the big word
sink in, ‘perzackly wha’ goes ’tween yuh ’n dat lowdown ornery wuthless
Nigguh? Yuh sleepin’ wid him mebbe? Guess Ah gotta study ’bout dat
little situayshun ’tween yuh an’ Birdie Johnson. Mebbe git mahself a
betterer gal. Ah jist don’ lak gals which runs off ever’ which way when
Ah jist happen be busticated temporaneously. Yesmam. Ah gotta study
’bout dat little situayshun.’ He paused threateningly. ‘Sure have,’ he
added.
‘Aw, honey,’ the girl was anxious, ‘dey ain’t no use tryin’ tuh git mad
at me. Ah done nuthen tuh give yuh recasion tuh ack dat way. Ah jist
thunk you mebbe preshiate a ringside at da Par’dise ’nstead of settin’
hyah countin’ yo troubles. Why, honey, yuh all knows Ah wudden fall fo’
dat richcrat ack’ of Birdie Johnson. No sir. He don’ mean nuthen tuh me.
Him duh wusstes’ man ’n Harlem, dawg bite me effn he ain’t. All da same,
he permis me da bestess seats ’nda house ’n Ah sez let’s us go set ’n
dem, ’n have us a beer ’n a good time. Cmon, honey. Let’s git out of
hyah. Yuh done look so swell ’n Ah jist wan’ mah frens tuh see usn
together.’
‘Yuh done look okay yoself, honeychile,’ said the man, mollified by the
tribute to his elegance, ‘an’ dat’s da troof. But Ah mus’ spressify dat
yuh stays close up tuh me an keeps yo eyes off’n dat lowdown trash ’n
his hot pants. ’N Ah may say,’ he added threateningly, ‘dat ef Ah
ketches yuh makin’ up tuh dat dope Ah’ll jist nachrally whup da hide
off’n yo sweet ass.’
‘Shoh ting, honey,’ whispered the girl excitedly.
Bond heard the man’s foot scrape off the seat to the ground.
‘Cmon, baby, lessgo. Waiduh!’
The man’s voice suddenly sharpened. ‘Wha’ dat Birdie he mean tuh yuh,
hey?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Perzackly,’ he paused to let the big word
sink in, ‘perzackly wha’ goes ’tween yuh ’n dat lowdown ornery wuthless
Nigguh? Yuh sleepin’ wid him mebbe? Guess Ah gotta study ’bout dat
little situayshun ’tween yuh an’ Birdie Johnson. Mebbe git mahself a
betterer gal. Ah jist don’ lak gals which runs off ever’ which way when
Ah jist happen be busticated temporaneously. Yesmam. Ah gotta study
’bout dat little situayshun.’ He paused threateningly. ‘Sure have,’ he
added.
‘Aw, honey,’ the girl was anxious, ‘dey ain’t no use tryin’ tuh git mad
at me. Ah done nuthen tuh give yuh recasion tuh ack dat way. Ah jist
thunk you mebbe preshiate a ringside at da Par’dise ’nstead of settin’
hyah countin’ yo troubles. Why, honey, yuh all knows Ah wudden fall fo’
dat richcrat ack’ of Birdie Johnson. No sir. He don’ mean nuthen tuh me.
Him duh wusstes’ man ’n Harlem, dawg bite me effn he ain’t. All da same,
he permis me da bestess seats ’nda house ’n Ah sez let’s us go set ’n
dem, ’n have us a beer ’n a good time. Cmon, honey. Let’s git out of
hyah. Yuh done look so swell ’n Ah jist wan’ mah frens tuh see usn
together.’
‘Yuh done look okay yoself, honeychile,’ said the man, mollified by the
tribute to his elegance, ‘an’ dat’s da troof. But Ah mus’ spressify dat
yuh stays close up tuh me an keeps yo eyes off’n dat lowdown trash ’n
his hot pants. ’N Ah may say,’ he added threateningly, ‘dat ef Ah
ketches yuh makin’ up tuh dat dope Ah’ll jist nachrally whup da hide
off’n yo sweet ass.’
‘Shoh ting, honey,’ whispered the girl excitedly.
Bond heard the man’s foot scrape off the seat to the ground.
‘Cmon, baby, lessgo. Waiduh!’