The Man Who Died Twice

James Bond had never felt more lively than in the presence of Death.

He suspected it was the company.

Mexico City was only a carnival in that it wasn’t a riot. The Dia de los Muertos parade proceeded up the street like a Viking raid, sweeping up more and more into its chaos. Dancers, professional and otherwise, seemed to catch fire from the music that went with the procession. Bands occupied the parade floats, again making Bond think of Vikings on their longships, and strummed out their songs.

If you stayed put and allowed one band after another to roll by you, it was much like listening to an orchestra proceed through a playlist. Many got swept up by a song that was particularly attuned to them, joining in the parade, even climbing onto the floats—something that was largely welcomed, as long as they were a pretty girl.

Down on the street, Bond knew, it was too loud to think and the scent of beer and burnt barbecue predominated. Twelve stories up, on the rooftop promenade attached to the penthouse of the Hotel de los Jardines, the effect was at a remove. In Mexico City, wealth was vertical. The rich literally lived above the poverty and violence of the streets. Or, in this case, the raucous celebration that was outré close up, but a pleasing spectacle at a distance.

But Bond had found Mexico had better attractions than parades and party.

Bond stood at the edge of the rooftop. Estrella—the current occupant of the penthouse suite—was bent over the parapet that protected the roof’s visitors from a twelve story drop. Her cries, lost in the anarchic noise of the celebration, urged him to glide between her open thighs and show her how far he could get into her heatedly ready passage.

“Si, James, si… si…” Estrella heaved out as he demonstrated to her just how deeply he could accept her offering. “I’ve never, never dreamed it could be like this!” She laughed. “If you thrust too hard—” Another laugh. “But what a way to go, eh?”

“I notice you’re not asking me to be gentle,” Bond quipped, making sure he had a firm hold of Estrella’s shoulder before he bore into her—this time jostling her enough that she felt an inch of travel over the yawning drop.

“Oooowieee!” Estrella wailed, welcoming the new depth of his stiff phallus far more than she feared the fall. Though that, too, made her adrenaline thrill through her.

Bond grabbed onto her hips with both square, powerful hands and used them to anchor Estrella, allowing him further into her throbbing passage without letting the force of the impact separate them. He drew back, still holding her in place, and then delved into her once more. Estrella shuddered in delight. The openness of what they were doing, the risk of where they were doing it, and Bond’s own skill served to overwhelm any inhibitions a politician’s daughter might be expected to have.

“Wh-where did you learn this?” she panted.

“Oh, here and there.”

“Tell me, James. It’s so marvelous. I must know!”

“I believe it was a gypsy girl who first introduced me to the idea,” Bond confessed. “But it’s much better with a building this high up. And you, of course.”

Estrella released a throaty chuckle as she preened. “But of course!”

Bond allowed himself three more impaling thrusts, driving him nearly to the limit of his self-control, before he stayed hilted in her—grinding in a long, steady rhythm designed to pleasure her clitoris. Estrella tossed her head from side to side, thrilled by the ecstatic friction he put her through. Her dark hair seemed to ripple in time with the frenetic bolts of pleasure Bond felt from being inside her. He began pumping again, briefly denying himself the sight of her rippling buttocks receiving his onslaught to instead take in the parade.

A parade balloon—the massive figure of a skeletal mariachi player—was coming down the avenue. Bond could already hear the shouts from the handlers as they sought to keep the balloon between the buildings on either side, such as the one he and Estrella were on. Others were leaning over the rooftop railings or out of their windows to try and slap the mariachi for good luck.

At least one person wouldn’t be getting it, no matter how much they slapped. Bond recalled that the sight of the mariachi meant it was almost time for the meeting. Much as he hated to rush a diverting encounter like this, Bond knew Queen and Country came first.

Or, at least, a very close second.

Inside of Estrella, her womanhood pure furor all around his manhood, it was all Bond could do not to come, let alone maintain the pace that was delivering Estrella to such pleasure. Jabs of pure rapture crashed through him and he knew from her moans that she felt the same. She trilled and shuddered through a powerful release—then, for good measure, Bond drove her to another, needing only seconds to do it.

“This must be what it feels like to be in the donkey show,” Estrella gulped through her delirium.

“And here I was trying not to make an ass of myself,” Bond couldn’t help but comment.

Although tempted to draw things out yet longer—it was one hell of a way to enjoy a parade—Bond knew it was past time to close out the show. Grabbing Estrella’s shoulder in one hand and her hair in the other, he unleashed on her with thrusts so rough, she’d never believe he was still in control. Estrella screamed, each pump seeming to send her hurtling out into space, but Bond’s grip would not allow her out of this delicious rendezvous until it’d run its course.

Estrella’s eyes rolled up in her head and even Bond allowed his eyelids to close, savoring the relief from his mad need as they both exploded in shared completion. Shivers and twitches, sighs and tiny yips, a cacophony of sounds and bodies to rival the celebration down below.

Slowly Bond withdrew and turned Estrella over. He almost startled at the reminder of her make-up: sugar skull paint darkening and lightening her gorgeous face, to go with the ghostly costume they’d left downstairs. It was as though he’d made love to Death itself. Which was, Bond mused, as succinct a description of his work as any.

Glowing with accomplishment, Bond zipped himself up and sat on the parapet beside the sprawled Estrella. He drew a cigar from the pocket of his topcoat—itself emblazoned with white bones to match his date.

“I think I’d like to try that again,” Estrella said dreamily.

“Perhaps in your suite this time,” Bond suggested. “A bed can break your fall far better than…” And he gestured to the ground with his cigar before lighting it.

Estrella smiled at him. “So full of worry for me. Were you about to lose control?”

“Just about,” Bond said, meaning never.

Estrella stood, stretched—putting to shame the putas that held to every shadow down on the street—and gave Bond a kiss now that their positioning was compatible with the romantic gesture. Bond accepted it warmly.

Seeing the satiety and peacefulness in her eyes, he envied the girl some. The release was most welcome, and the fiery demands of his passion at its zenith had been an invigorating challenge, but he couldn’t say he felt the same bliss that he read on Estrella’s face. Clear-headed, drained of the twitchy neurosis that could overwhelm even the experienced agent, he now felt the drive of the soldier.

The mission needed to be done. He could not rest until it was accomplished. And even after it was done, he knew another would come, and another. Each bringing its own challenge and its own unique thrill.

Some days, he was resigned to it. Others, he gloried in it. But Bond was through with fighting and struggling. This was his calling in life. If it burned him, he burned for a good cause.

“Go on,” Bond commanded, giving Estrella a bittersweet love tap to send her on her way. “Can’t have you falling asleep this high up. You go down and wait for me—I’ll be along as soon as I’ve finished.” And he exhaled a lungful of cigar smoke.

Estrella wrinkled her nose in distaste as the wind helpfully whirled the smell into her face. “Yes. My father would not appreciate the nice apartment he pays for smelling like ash.” Then she swiped the top hat from Bond’s head. “You’ll come back for this, yes?” she purred in closing as she flounced down the stairs, still wearing nothing more than her skeletal make-up.