Everybody ought to have a Dame!

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It's a bit of a cliché, being obsessed with one of your employees. It's even more of one when said employee is James Bond, the subject of female obsession on every assignment he's ever undertaken.

But M's obsession is different, or so she tells herself. To start with, it is M's obsession rather than Olivia's - Olivia is a respectable widow, she has refined tastes: poetry readings, Shakespeare plays, dinner parties. But M is more venal, exciting; she loves the smell of gun oil and cordite, the sound of an engine, the thrill of watching a chase and ordering a kill. The fact that so many of those kills have been carried out by Bond, by this man with his cocky smile and well-defined biceps, only makes him more alluring. 

And she’s the head of MI6. She has many tools at her disposal to indulge her obsession: access to security cameras on streets, in airports or hotel lobbies; field reports that render his assignments as daring adventures; even his medical records that speak of his muscle mass, dexterity, stamina. There are other things she can access in less legitimate ways, too: new technology Q branch can install that records and transmits ambient noise from his phone's microphone, or video from his laptop's webcam when he happens to be online. There have been many nights when she has listened to him breathe or masturbate, even have sex. On those occasions, she's slipped out of her knickers and into her sheets, turned the lights out and imagined he was with her.

Then one day the stars align: his laptop is out, open and connected when he emerges from the shower. It's late into the evening in London, but for him it's mid-morning. Sun shines in through the windows of his hotel room, and she can see palm trees swaying in a tropical breeze. He checks his screen in a towel - maybe reading an email - then moves away. His skin is sun-browned, his back muscles toned. He is about to step out of view of the camera. She has been waiting a long time to see him like this.

She activates the microphone. "Bond," she says.

It's immediately clear that he hears her, that he recognises her voice. How could he not, with her carefully trained cut-glass?

"Ma'am?" he asks, freezing in his tracks. He turns slowly in the direction of her voice, toward his computer, shoulders rippling with tension.

She will not confirm it. But. "Remove the towel," she whispers.

He turns more fully toward the camera. “Why?” he asks. 

“I want to see you,” M answers, demanding but breathy. 

“Are you spying on me?” he asks, reaching for the towel at his waistline. 

“Yes,” M answers. “Take off the towel.”

She wonders what it must be like for him, on a summer afternoon in a foreign country, listening to her disembodied voice issuing unreally from his computer. It must be strange. It must be terrifying. He can’t even be absolutely positive that it’s her. 

It must be a thrill, at least a little, because he does what she asks - curls his fingers around the edge of the towel and tugs it open, lets it fall to the floor. 

He’s just as beautiful as she always imagined he would be. Sculpted pubic bones, a thatch of light brown hair, a cock thick and uncut. 

“Magnificent,” she says, feeling her hand drift between her legs. “Now, I want you to touch yourself. Put on a little show for me.”

He does. 

Later, the story will be that some bad actor put the spyware on his computer, that a strange phone call she had received earlier that week must have captured and cloned her voice. She’ll admit he was probably recorded, will promise to take care of any blackmail or threats that arise from the existence of any footage, but when he looks her in the eye, he’ll know. 

He’ll know how she watched him, alone in her room, how she fucked herself with her fingers as she told him how to stroke his cock, how she ordered him to pinch its head and edge himself, how when she finally allowed him to come her breath hitched into the microphone. He’ll know she climaxed with him, that she was so desperate to see him that she put her career and her reputation on the line for it.