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M's office was as it always was: plush carpet, curtains open to see the last of the daylight, Moneypenny clacking away on her typewriter behind the door Bond had just closed.
"You called for me, sir?" Bond asked, curious and a little excited, wondering what sort of assignment he would recieve. He'd been on tenterhooks the past two months, as he'd fully recovered from his last adventure, and couldn't wait to go out again.
He was gagging to hear an order from his superior.
"Yes, yes, a moment," M said absently, scratching out some notes on the sheaf of papers in front of him, and then copying some of the information from the papers fastidiously into a little notebook.
Bond stared at the rotary telephones on M's desk. One was bright red (the line that went straight to the Minister—M's own M); another black (which went to the Army and MI5 and the Navy and the other defence and intelligence apperataii that held up the nation, or so the voting public was lead to believe); one Kelly green (of which Bond thought served a similar purpose to his own telephone for office calls, and was the one M seemed to use the most, judging by the wear on the handle and the fact M always seemed to be putting the reciever down when Bond entered or picking it up when Bond left); and a mint green phone, which looked incongruous in his office with its colour palette of dark wood, forest green and burgundy, designated for what Bond assumed was outside calls. Bond's own red telephone calling had been the impetus which began this whole state of affairs. His telephone had rung, causing 008, Lil, and himself to jump at the sudden burr. They hadn't been expecting anything on a Tuesday. Nothing happened on Tuesdays, in Bond's experience. It happened on Mondays, as even villains took a day of rest; or Wednesdays, to break up the week; or Thursdays, to get one's evil affairs in order before C.O.B. Friday.
Bond watched M continue to copy the information into his book. Perhaps it was a his diary. Bond wondered what M wrote in his diary. All great men kept diaries, and M was the greatest man Bond knew personally. When M was done, he blotted the pages and then closed the book with a snap that shattered the silence of the room.
James looked at the clock on M's mantlepiece. It had only been a few minutes since he entered M's office. It felt like an eternity.
M's gaze had caught him like a trou de loup, his foot pierced at the bottom of a near seven foot tall pit, the vertical wall of dirt making it impossible to climb out with such an injury. He had no chance but to stay there.
M filled his pipe, not too fast or too slow, and with the methodical nature of a man who had begun smoking before the Great War. He tamped it down with his pipe tool, and then, with his large and slim-fingered hand, gestured for Bond to step forward.
"You've got a lighter on you, don't you, James? A profligate smoker such as yourself surely does," M commented, in the flinty way he did when he was coming around to ask a question but wanted to ensure his prey was fully cornered, "light this for me, would you? There's a good man."
Bond looked down at the red leather of the desk-top, where M's large match-box lay, slightly ajar, looking at least half full. Bond said nothing, too caught off guard by the use of his Christian name, which was such a rare occurrence from his beloved superior that he could not bear to have a single other thought lest it taint the memory, and lit M's pipe for him. Bond returned to his parade rest, but still in arm's reach of M, rather than the three paces away from M's solid wooden desk.
M took a thoughtful pull from his pipe, his cool grey eyes assessing Bond. Bond could not tell if he satisfied M or was found wanting. That day he had on a light grey wool suit with fine blue pinstripes, a matching blue tie, and a paisley kerchief in his pocket. Bond had thought it made him look quite dashing. Now he was left to wonder if it made him look silly, or unprofessional, or strange. Did M dislike the modern cut of his suit, with its American influences?
"Have you ever met my man, Hammond?" M asked, continuing his cirucuitous meander towards the point Bond was sure he was getting to.
"Only briefly, sir," Bond replied.
"And what did you think of him?"
Bond licked his lips. He wasn't sure if M looked especially closely at the motion. Part of him thought maybe M had. Part of him thought it was most likely a figment of his deep desire to catch M's attention whenever and however he could. "I couldn't say much one way or the other. He seemed quite responsible, sir."
"Yes, yes," M hummed, taking another relaxed pull on his pipe, "I suppose one could describe him that way." M lapsed into another one of his pensive silences. Tanner and Bond had pondered, once, if this was M mulling over his thoughts, or he did it just to make his subordinates squirm. "Would you like to learn to be responsible, James?"
Bond flinched as if he had been struck. M's tone was as mild as it had been the whole conversation, which made the offhand accusation triply hurtful. Why such the condemnation? He hadn't been on assignment in months, and he hadn't done anything out of the ordinary as far as he could recall. "Why do you ask, sir?" Bond tried, each word feeling like a evidence that would one day be submitted to court record.
"Only that you seem to lack responsibilities, James," M said curtly, "as Ms. Moneypenny has reported that both she and Ms. Ponsonby have to spend nearly an hour each day collectively shooing you away from their desks. Yet, curiously, you don't seem to be completing the work for your committee positions with any sort of speed that would give you all this leisure time.
"From this, one could only conclude you have no sense of responsibility, is all. Unless you have any other justification I'm not privy to?"
Bond swallowed. "No, sir," he said, although with his dry mouth it was more of a whisper.
"Pour me a drink, would you?" M waved a hand carelessly in the direction of the crystal on the console table towards the side of the room. Bond poured M a whisky. Without instruction, Bond did not pour himself one. Normally he would, as he thought M found his little insolences amusing, but with M in such a mood he thought he best not chance it.
"Sir," he said, and placed the glass on the coaster that lived permanently on M's desk.
M ignored the drink, still focused on his pipe. "Where was I?" he said, "ah, yes. Responsibility. Mr. Hammond was once quite similar to you, James. He served under me in the Navy, you know."
The dregs of the autumn light, when mixed with the warm glow of his desk-lamp, lit his features with a golden sheen. Looking at the face Bond devoted himself to, despite the way M had cut him down like a burnt wick, he could not help but feel a swelling of affection. Much like with a candle, there was surely a reason M had decided he needed trimming.
"I always knew he had potential, of course, and I see the same potential in you, James. Tell me, have you ever sucked a cock?"
The sudden vulgarity startled Bond, and all the breath left Bond's lungs. He couldn't speak. All he could do was flush and blink fiercely and let his mouth gape open, like the clown head sculptures of a carnival game, or an ashtray.
M's face changed, ever so subtly. Had Bond been asked to describe how it had, he wouldn't have been able to. It was something about the corners of his eyes, or maybe the tails of his eyebrows. No, it was his crow's feet, Bond thought. They had ever so slightly deepened. M had turned from impassive stone to a warm compatriot, with the most miniscule twitch of his muscles.
"You needn't feel ashamed or rebuked, James, we are speaking as friends, here," M offered, the warmth tinging his tone. It was now room-temperature, not the coldness of a stone wall, but the inoffensive nothing of a plaster one. "I ask because, like Mr. Hammond, I think you're in desperate need of one."
"I…" Bond croaked, "sir…"
He tried desperately to think of something to follow that, so he didn't look like an imbicile, but he had nothing to say.
"Come here," M instructed, pulling his chair out from his desk and directing Bond to the well beneath it. There was a thick pillow laying on the floor, and M's shoes were off his feet and set to the side. Bond came to M's side, feeling like he was floating out of his body.
"Now," M said, "you must tell me if you don't want this. You're free to refuse. I think, however, you would benefit greatly from following as directed."
Bond was torn between his first-order revulsion, the part of him that said anything between two men (despite however much he enjoyed it) was only to be done when at sea or in boarding-school (and even then, only when maids were not otherwise interested or available), and never to be talked of again; and the part of him whose mouth watered, and gingerly uncovered those scant memories of dark encounters in boarding-school and at sea, and only let himself enjoy it during the witching hour.
Bond tore his eyes from the cushion on the floor and back to M's face, and saw the satisfied expression that lay across it. Bond had only very rarely seen that expression of lax pleasure. He revelled in it. He trusted M, of course he trusted M. How could he not? M held his life in his hands. If he was honest, M held his heart, too. He'd once told a lover he was as good as married to M, and now he had the opportunity laid before him to consommate it. He didn't need to know if he wanted this or not, if he even liked the company of men or simply found the circumstances of those previous encounters especially erotic, but in that moment it didn't matter at all. He could be repulsed by men's bodies and have done anything M told him to regardless.
"Kneel down, would you, James?" M asked. Bond did so. M took the glass and held it to Bond's lips, giving Bond a sip. The whisky was peaty and strong. Bond wanted more, he wanted something, he wanted anything. He wanted.
"Good man," M told him, and sedately unbuttoned his braces. Bond watched, rapt, as M opened his flies and pulled out his cock. It was proportionate, Bond thought, to M's hands, which had always struck him as slightly to big for his body. They were perfect, though around the soft skin of M's penis, its pink head drawing Bond forward.
He was having no problems with dry mouth now.
"Open your mouth, James," M told him, and Bond did so. With a gentle hand on the side of Bond's head, M drew Bond to his crotch and rest the tip of his cock on Bond's bottom lip. Bond felt weightless. He felt rooted. He was beyond feeling. "Mind your teeth," M warned, as Bond tried to slide down, thinking about what girls had done to him in the past. M fed him another inch of his cock, controlling Bond with only the lightest pressure of his hand.
The oud of M's cologne mixed with the tobacco smoke and the smell of body, wrapping Bond in this new fantasy world of the cave underneath M's desk and between his legs.
Bond tried to bob his head, or suck, or a combimation of the two, but M's hand clenched in his hair with a viper quickness Bond didn't know he had. "No need to suck yet," M told him, "I will tell you when. I want you to just stay still for now. Settle. There we are."
Bond imagined all his muscles in his body relaxing, one by one, from his toes all the way to the top of his head. It was like sniper training, he thought, when one learns to focus on a single point and wait for something that would happen at an indefinite point in the future. M's cock was a warm weight in his mouth. The soft wool of his suit pants brushed Bond's cheek and hands. The heat of his body made Bond flush.
Soon, everything became just M's cock and nothing else mattered. M wasn't even erect. Bond was. Bond only knew he was, absently, with the same corner of his brain that registered M working above him, that heard the rasp of M's fountain pen and the muffled thump of his blotter and the ring of his telephones and the even tone of his voice. Bond's arousal was as meaningless to him as the goings on of a resident in Timbuktu. It was happening, of course, but of no concern to Bond at all, and if he had spared a thought for it, it would have been a useless distraction.
It could have been seconds or days when M's hand returned to Bond's head.
"Keep your mouth open," M told him, and Bond hadn't even thought to do otherwise. "Keep your body relaxed. I'll do all the work this time, although in the future you'll be responsible for more."
Bond said nothing. What was there for him to say?
M's hand on Bond's head went firm, and he began to move Bond's head up and down his length, slowly at first, and then incrementally getting faster.
Bond was in ecstasy.
The feeling of M's erection grow in his mouth was only second to the knowledge that M trusted him with a part of himself that was so vulnerable and secluded from most others others. Who else got to taste the first beads of precome that flowed from M as he reached full hardness?
M's hips started twitching and his breathing got louder. Bond thought perhaps he was in heaven. His jaw ached with an insistence that felt like the pleasure of sacrifice, the same thrill he got from serving his country.
It was the same thing, really. He most enjoyed himself when he was serving his master. This was what he missed when not on assignment. When he was in the field, no matter if he was being shot at or whipped or stabbed or drowned or poisoned, he never lost the thread of joy that came from fulfilling his life's purpose of being put to M's use, in a way few others could ever be. He was special then, and now M, in his benevolent wisdom, could make him feel special at home, too.
M's cock brushed the back of Bond's throat, and he gagged and then choked and reared back, straining against M's grip until M let go, and the backlash of that made him swing back and knock his head against the wooden back of the footwell. He continued hacking for a moment, and M laughed at him. It was fond. If it was the last thing Bond ever heard, he would die happy.
"So sensitive, James," M commented, entertained by Bond's reaction. M threaded his hand back into Bond's hair and drew his mouth onto M's cock again, "breath through your nose, there we are."
M started his slow pace up again, drawing Bond further down with each third stroke, and Bond's mouth was full of spit and precome and it began to escape from the corner of his lips. M only went faster.
Bond was hard enough he could break plate glass. The thought of touching himself had not entered his mind.
M pulled Bond down for a final time, deep enough that M's long pubic hairs brushed against Bond's nose but not as deep as to get anywhere close to his balls, and came down Bond's throat. Bond gagged even as M's retreated, finishing with a final two ropes of come that splattered across Bond's face.
Bond found his hands, outwith his concious movement, had wrapped around M's ankles.
M leaned down and took Bond's kerchief from his pocket, and either not noticing or not caring that it was silk, used it to wipe Bond's face clean. Bond pressed towards the restrained display of affection, wanting M to brusquely swipe his face clean forever.
"Hand," M instructed, and when Bond finally managed to unclench one from M's trouser leg and stretch it upwards, M dropped the used silk into Bond's hand. May would have a devil of a time berating him for it. "Now, how was that?"
Bond listed towards M's leg, a completely gormless look on his face, and rested his cheek on M's calf.
M tutted, but didn't push or order him away. He simply tucked himself back into his trousers and rebuttoned his flies and braces. "Good, then, I presume?"
Bond was able to gather himself enough to nod.
"Very well. I shall find a schedule to continue your lessons, then. I'll expect you now to come to me when you're in a need of a firm hand, rather than bothering Ms. Moneypenny. She's got an awful lot of important things to do, and oughtn't waste time on your nonsense," M's brisk manner put Bond at ease. There was nothing different to this than anything else M had ordered him to do. Nothing was to change.
"You can continue rest there, if you like, for the next half-hour. I've planned to leave at quarter-to. You may join me if you'd like the opportunity to learn from Mr. Hammond in person."
Bond wanted to, very badly, but he didn't know what to say.
"Take your time to decide, no need to answer now. You may stay there until I finish, or leave when you want. If you take care of yourself, be sure not to make too much noise or a mess."
Bond smiled up at M, dazed, but M had already turned back to his work.
The heat of M's body leached through his trouser leg and to Bond's cheek. It felt like the roar of a campfire in the middle of a desert night. Bond was sated and present.
How could he ever doubt M? M, his wonderful M, always knew what Bond needed, would make sure he had it. Bond was his tool, and M took good care of his things, although he was not precious about using them. Like all good leaders, M was pragmatic and loathed wastefulness. Bond trusted M to use him for purpose the benefit of the public and to whatever limit M knew Bond was good for.
M could requisition Bond whenever he wanted. That was his duty, his responsibility, his right. Bond was his for the taking.