Master Yes

A parody by The Flying Pen, with apologies to Ian Fleming, who probably wanted to write his 007 stories this way...

Part 2

"Wake up, Mr. Bond," the male voice said. Those words hurt his head. Everything hurt his head. He struggled to push the pain to the background. "Drink this," a second, female, voice softly commanded. 007 didn’t yet have the strength to resist as the woman poured a sweet, mango-flavored liquid down his throat. His head cleared rapidly. He feigned grogginess, slowly, carefully moving to grab his trusty Walthers-- "You can stop acting, Mr. Bond. I know exactly how long it takes the antidote to work on a male of your height, weight, and approximate age," the man said. "Besides, your gun is no longer on your person. You were stripped, thoroughly searched, and anything that could cause injury to anybody was removed." James Bond sighed to himself. He’d been in this situation too many times to keep track. He always wound up winning. He was James Bond, 007 of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, licensed to kill.

He was surprised when he realized that he wasn’t restrained. Bond opened his eyes, which were slow to focus. "An unpleasant side effect of the agent and antidote combination, Mr. Bond. It clears in a few minutes," the man chuckled. Everything in the room was a big, soft, fuzzy blur. "We will wait until you’re one hundred percent." As the man had indicated, James was able to see perfectly within minutes. He was able to evaluate his surroundings. He wasn’t surprised to see Donna there, but he was surprised that she was standing next to a rather plain-looking man. A gorgeous, petite oriental woman stood nearby, along with another stunningly beautiful redhead. Whoever he was, he definitely had excellent taste in women. "Let’s talk, Mr. Bond," the man suggested.

"‘Master Yes’, I presume," Bond opened.

"Actually, I prefer my given name, Roger, Mr. Bond. It’s you secret agent types that canned that particular idiom. But, yes, that does refer to me." He stood. "How do you like my little corner of the world?"

"It’s wonderful. When do you plan to take the rest of it over?" Bond shot back. He could see that Roger was confused by the statement. "Whom do you work for, hmmm? SPECTRE or SMERSH? Or are you just a renegade, or a member of some other organization bent on world domination?" When he got no response save for the look of confusion, James was perplexed as well.

Roger looked blankly at Bond. Slowly, recognition dawned on him. He laughed out loud for a long time. "Well, I suppose you’re right. With a little creativity, I suppose I could set myself up to be supreme ruler of the world." He approached Bond. "But that’s not why I’m doing this, 007."

That’s right, just a little closer... "Then why are you doing all of this, the elaborate scheme, the brainwashing..." Bond stopped, interrupting his own train of thought. "And why did you try to kill me on the road this afternoon?"

"That was yesterday, James," Donna said. That gave him some hope. Perhaps Felix would be hot on his trail if he couldn’t locate him. The man came nearer. Just a little bit more...

"That wasn’t me, that was Blofeld. He’s staying on the island at the private resort. He came in on a corporate perk. Probably from one of his organization’s phony cover businesses," came Roger’s reply.

James Bond sprang into action, not bothering to process what had been said. Roger had wandered within easy striking distance and-- From out of nowhere, a well-placed kick crumpled his left knee. On his way down, a fist slammed into his neck, and another kick snapped his head back. He shook his head to unscramble it. The oriental woman was standing in a defensive stance. "Always a man of action, Mr. Bond. But, as you can see, I am well-protected. Thank you, Mai Sun," Roger said. James felt himself get picked up and placed back in his chair. "In fact, Mai Sun and her ninja team were the reasons that Blofeld’s three assassination attempts failed." Bond couldn’t keep his poker face at that. Three attempts?

Roger grinned. "You weren’t even aware someone was outside the door to your room, preparing to shoot you while you were in the shower, were you? At the hotel, after you separated ways with number six, here." Roger indicated Donna, who smiled sweetly at Bond, remorseless. He hadn’t seduced her to his side. What had gone wrong? "Then there was the moment you stood on your balcony after getting dressed. Our sharpshooter beat his to the punch," Roger bragged.

"All right, so you’re one of the good guys," Bond grumbled. Man, that little girl could hit and he barely saw her move! He felt the bruises forming. "That still doesn’t answer my question of why. And why would you make such an effort on my behalf? You know I’m only going to stop you." It was time for plan two. Perhaps he could get to the unguarded door to his left...

Roger smiled. "Stop me? Maybe, maybe not, James. I think that it is time to adjourn to the dining room. I will explain more of this to you over lunch--" Bond jumped up and kicked over the chair. He shot through the door, not daring to look behind him. Perhaps he could find a secret control room that would have a self-destruct switch, or a way out. The special equipment would be here in less than 48 hours. Felix could help him hide until then.


"Why did you stop me?" Celeste whined. "I could have caught him!" She looked at Roger with frustration. She had obeyed his command, as her programming insured. But that didn’t mean she had to be happy about it. The world’s greatest secret agent was loose in their house.

"Calm down, number two," Roger replied, amused. "He can only get to the guest rooms, where he’s trapped. This is the only open door to and from there at the moment." Roger stood up. "Summon forty-four, eighty-three, thirty-nine, and twenty-two, please. Have them meet us for a late lunch in the dining room, Miss Grundy." Celeste nodded, still worried, but Roger held up his hand. "I know, I know, you’re thinking that he’ll figure something out. But I think that Mr. Bond will be a little too--distracted to worry about escaping." He smiled, satisfied and confident.

Number two gaped at her master as it dawned on her what was going on. He had anticipated all of 007’s moves, from the attack, which had probably been deliberately provoked, to the escape to the guest wing. Countermeasures were already in place. She got wet for him instantly at the realization. He was so smart, and smart guys made her very horny.


Bond was thinking as he descended the steps. He guessed that he was underground now, so there were probably several exits to the outside world from here. His hands ached for a gun; but so far, none of the guards he’d seen had them, so they were probably kept in a centralized storage room with any other devious weapons. He stepped into a door-lined corridor. He ducked through the nearest one, trying to avoid detection. There were probably cameras all over, and Roger’s gang couldn’t be far behind. He stopped short when he looked at the room he’d stepped into. It looked like a hotel room--and a very swank one at that. There was a king-sized bed, a wet bar, and a large bathroom attached. An open door next to the bar led to a similar room. "Tea time," he said, and mixed himself a stiff one at the fully-stocked bar. The bruises that the small oriental woman had caused were aching. Now was as good a time as any to plot. This was not the time for random, desperate actions.

He sat on the bed, plush, and comfortable. This couldn’t be some sort of jail or prisoner holding facility. James wondered what was in the other rooms. He hadn’t heard any noises from the corridor. Soundproofed. Clearly there was no way out through here. Downing the rest of his drink, he cracked open the door and peeked into the hall. Nothing. Bond took a bottle of champagne as a weapon, and stealthily crept down the hall, pausing to listen at each door for signs of life. He found some at the third door. In fact, the sounds were a little more than those of just plain life. He heard the unmistakable sounds of mad sex.

He pulled the door open just a touch; maybe an off-duty guard was having some fun. Perhaps he’d be lucky and find a weapon other than a magnum of champagne. All he could see from the angle was a milk-chocolate skinned beauty, on her hands (and therefore probably knees as well). The expression on her face was one of ecstasy as she was rocking back and forth in time. He couldn’t see what was making her rock so rhythmically, but that was easy enough to extrapolate. Bond kept watching, somewhat turned on. He was waiting for the guard to finish, so he could take his weapon--yeah, that was it. The black woman cried out, bucked sharply for about a minute, then melted onto the bed. She rolled over on her back, her face the picture of extreme contentment. Suddenly, a somewhat rounded blonde crossed the field of his sight and went to the black woman’s face. The two women shared a long, wet kiss, hugging each other closely. Now Bond was really turned on. The blonde pulled away and turned, facing the doorway, allowing 007 to have a good look at her. He was so shocked that he didn’t hear people behind him until it was too late. He moved, but was outnumbered. The red-headed woman gained a perfect hold on him, and took the bottle away. "Did you enjoy the show, 007?" she sneered. He struggled, but this woman knew too much about martial arts and leverage. "Let’s go in and meet the participants, shall we?" Bond looked at Roger with mad hatred in his eyes.

The women spun around to see who was coming in. "Number thirty-six, number eighty-four, your master commands. Sleep." At those words, they both lazily sat down and closed their eyes. "Did you enjoy that?" Roger called towards the bathroom.

A man emerged. His face was alternating brown and white patches, arranged in a sort of a checkerboard pattern. The white patches were getting darker as Bond watched. "Felix!!! You traitor!" he spat.

"Hello, old friend," the still-darkening man smugly replied. He turned to Roger. "That was great, man. I like these two. And you say I can do that ‘master commands’ thing to them if I want?"

Roger nodded, seeming to ignore the outraged, but quite helpless Bond. "It will take a little time, but they can be reprogrammed to respond to you, as well." He turned to 007. "It’s explanation time, 007. Please don’t make Celeste hurt you; she’s been dying to ever since you got on this island, and I don’t think I could make her stop in time. She’s quite gifted at breaking necks. By your anger, I assume you recognize number eighty-four, Margaret Wainwright. Q’s daughter."

Bond glared, first at Roger, then double daggers at Felix, who was lighting up a cigar with a very satisfied expression on his face. "She’s hot, James. No wonder you Brits want to make everybody think that your women are ice queens. Keep them all to yourselves," he smirked. His face only had a few white splotches remaining on it, and they were fading. In spite of his anger and the situation, Bond couldn’t help but stare at his former friend’s transformation. Felix noticed. "Happens every time I come, James. That’s my little secret."

"Felix, is that any reason to betray what you’ve worked for all of your life--all your ideals--thrown away for a piece of ass???"

"Shut up, James. You’re the one that has women crawling all over you all the time!!! The best I can do is go somewhere and jerk off!!! I never get any of the women, even when we work side-by-side!!! It’s always, ‘Ohh, James!!’ this, and ‘Ohh, James!!’ that, and I’m sick and fucking tired of it!!!" The American agent was now completely brown-skinned. "Even when I’m not working with you, I don’t get any because of THIS!" he shouted. Felix pulled his robe aside, revealing his penis. It seemed normal enough in terms of size, but was hilariously colored. It looked like a vanilla-and-chocolate-swirl ice cream stick. "This does not change. EVER. Do you know what it’s like being a secret agent who can’t get ANY women???"

Roger interrupted. "I simply made Mr. Lider an offer. I asked for no state secrets, I had no one killed. I only asked that he not inform you of Maggie’s whereabouts." Felix still looked rather pissed off at 007. My, my. Such jealousy between professionals... "Number six, your master commands." Donna’s face went blank, and her eyelids drooped. "Take Mr. Lider here around the world, and enjoy yourself fully. It is a reward for a job well done."

"Yes, Master. I obey," she replied, and attacked Felix with a deep, wet kiss. She wrapped her hand around his circus cock, which began to respond immediately. After a few seconds, it was apparent that he was indeed, black. Bond looked on. Now it was his turn to be jealous.

"I think we’ll leave the lovebirds alone now. Come along, Mr. Bond. It’s time for that luncheon I had mentioned earlier," Roger said. Celeste twisted Bond’s arm sharply, causing him to give a little grunt of pain. The source of his pain might not have been Celeste--it could have been from standing up without being able to rearrange his bulge. Roger awakened the two sleeping beauties, had them give each other a passionate kiss, then commanded them to separate tasks. Number eighty-four would be joining them for lunch.

As they headed for the dining room, 007 tried to get as much information as he could. "There are eighty-four women under your control?" The negative answer surprised him. That meant that some men were mind-controlled as well.

Celeste explained, "If you’re going to get gorgeous women, you need gorgeous men."

"So when are you going to give me the treatment?" Bond asked before she shoved him forward. They had arrived in the dining room.

"Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Bond," Roger chuckled. "I definitely don’t need you for my little enterprise here."

"Then why am I here, why haven’t you killed me, and what are your intentions?" Bond sat down, rubbing his neck. Celeste was much stronger than she looked. A familiar voice offered him a cigar. Jennifer. He hesitated until Celeste took two, clipping both before handing one to Roger. Bond figured that if they were going to drug him again, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Jennifer smiled as she lit his cigar, showing no sign of being entranced or controlled.

"Yes, she is under my spell, Mr. Bond. Number eighty-three, your master commands." Jennifer froze, and said, "Yes, Master, I obey." "Please masturbate for Mr. Bond," Roger casually directed. She stripped, turned to face 007, and began to finger herself. Jennifer squirmed and sighed as the electric thrills from her hands began to increase... "Jennifer, stop and get dressed. Resume your duties." The young woman did; the only signs of her masturbation were the aroma of her excitement, and the sheen on her fingers. James had to blink to clear his head. That had been exciting. "You see? They are mine, but no one except me has any way of knowing." He sat down on a chair. "Will you at least listen while I answer your questions? My patience is not infinite, and there are at least three people in this room who can kill you before you could get five feet from that seat."

007 squirmed. He wished that the man would get it over with. He hated feeling like a mouse being toyed with by a cat. "My name is Roger Thorin Gruenthwold. Horrible name, isn’t it, James? I am graced with an eidetic memory--that’s why my loyal subjects are referred to by number instead of name. Only I know who everybody is without a scorecard, so to speak. I am also incredibly intelligent in addition to my photographic recall. I created this island, and this empire because--" He drew a deep breath. "I was a nerd with no social skills. I could never get pretty women. So I swore that I would make myself irresistible, and I spent three years on the research that would get me there, and another seven in planning and execution. This is year eight. My original goal was a harem of one hundred women from all over the world. I’m up to sixty-seven, but I’m not sure I’m going to get to a hundred any more." Celeste noted that he had promised two to Felix. "That’s right. Make that sixty-five. But I may just stop here."

Bond’s jaw dropped. "All of this? Just to get laid?" He couldn’t believe it.

"Yes, 007," Roger replied. "All I ever wanted was a chance, but I could never get that far--I’d get shot down before I even asked. I didn’t know how to dress, I didn’t know how to act, and no woman would come close enough to give me any clues. So, I developed a formula that would, with the proper conditioning, enslave a person. It’s basically a variant of a mixture of voodoo zombie potions," he said, grinning. "I know a lot about pharmacology and neurochemistry. Got like eight different Ph.D’s," Roger sheepishly added.

James suddenly realized that he wasn’t in the presence of a nearly-all-powerful megalomaniac. This man was just an under-sexed nerd. Granted, Roger’s measures may be quite extreme, but not everybody could be as irresistibly sexy as James Bond, 007 of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. "Why the elaborate deception and ruse to bring me here? MI-5 hardly cares about sex. In fact, M disapproves of it. Why don’t you just let me go? I’ve--carefully avoided entanglements where the balance of terror is not imperiled." That much was true. If the world, or a goodly part of it were not at stake, it was too trivial for James Bond to bother with.

"Actually, 007, your involvement was a mistake. I wanted a Russian woman. I didn’t know she was working for the KGB--I never thought to ask. Ever since, it’s been secret agent after secret agent," Roger sighed, clearly tired of it all. "And now, SPECTRE knows about it. They would try to use the formula to take over the world, assuming they could get it without killing me, since it’s only up here." He pointed to his head, then his face brightened. "However, Mr. Bond, to answer your other questions, you are still here, and still alive because you have something I want." Perhaps he had underestimated the nerd. Bond braced himself for the unreasonable demand, whatever it was going to be. "Your cologne, James. I want that bottle of cologne in your hotel room," Roger finished.

James Bond was shocked yet again. "My--cologne?" Did the nerd think that it was his cologne that got James Bond, 007 of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, licensed to kill, all his women?

"You heard him, dipshit," Celeste snapped. She walked over to him and blew a big cloud of cigar smoke into his face. "You don’t think that all those women who say they’re in love with you have gotten that way just because of you?" Bond stared at her, open-mouthed, then turned to look at Roger, who just waved at the redhead to continue. "There’s something in that cologne that makes women think they’re in love with whoever’s wearing it. It’s standard MI-5 issue. You may be quite sexy, and possibly even worth a roll with no strings attached, but your reputation alone should be enough to keep any woman from falling off the deep end for you."

"How do you know about MI-5 standard issue???" Bond asked, incredulous. For the first time ever, he was truly afraid that he had somehow compromised security.

"From my natural mother. You know her, James. Sniffing that damn cologne for so many years has driven her into a state where she’s constantly fantasizing and masturbating about all you double-oh guys when she’s not in the office," Celeste shot back. "Poor Moneypenny, isn’t that right, 007?"

Bond immediately realized a way out. He stood up and walked closer to Celeste, then hugged her, pushing her nose into his neck. If the cologne is as effective as they say, then maybe I can make her an ally...

She laughed and pulled away from him. "That tickles. It won’t work on me, James, sorry. I’ve been given the antidote." Celeste became serious. "The same antidote that my natural father won’t give my natural mother so he can boff her in between world crises. I am the ‘Pre-Thunderball baby’, Mr. Bond. Do you remember that one?" Bond ruefully nodded. It all made sense now. No wonder Celeste had been so hostile towards him. He would have been, too, if someone had sexually frustrated his mother unmercifully for over twenty years. That old, imperious, horny, hypocritical bastard M.

Roger added, "Nor will it work on any of my other women here, 007. You see, I have been distributing the antidote since yesterday morning. That’s why I had to get Maggie, because she has a lot of it in her bloodstream. Q made sure his daughter wouldn’t fall prey to any of the double-oh agents--but he was particularly concerned about you. Once we had her, we had enough of the compound to break it down, and synthesize it." He smiled. "That’s why number six was able to finish her operation, and not fall prey to your charms."

"Why do you want me to give you the cologne?" James asked. "Why didn’t you just steal it, say, with your ninjas?"

"Because I didn’t have enough antidote to go around forty-eight hours ago, and I didn’t want to arouse your suspicions that your cover had been blown," Roger truthfully answered. "Besides, I’m a fair man. I have something you want. I’m willing to give it to you in exchange." The phone rang. He answered it, nodded, and said, "Come to the dining room." He turned to Celeste with a triumphant smile. "Shadow has returned." The oriental woman walked in carrying a sack. She whispered in his ear while handing it to him. Roger extended the sack to Bond. "Recognize this, 007?"

James looked in the sack, and his stomach turned. "It’s--Blofeld--" he gasped. More accurately, it was the villain’s head. He took a few deep breaths to clear his head and quiet his digestive system. "How in the devil did you manage to do what intelligence agencies the world over have been trying to do for the last thirty years???" He thought back to his many face-to-face encounters with the recently deceased man. They had always ended with Blofeld’s escape.

"Home court advantage, Mr. Bond. That, and the fact that none of my--employees--are on file anywhere. There are advantages to being outside the system. Anyway, in exchange for your cologne, I offer you the chance to show off the end of Blofeld--by the way, Shadow reports that she also has the cat in a separate bag, also in the same state, if you need it--to MI-5." He paused. "Shadow is always very thorough. In addition, I’m willing to give you a little something extra for your indulgence," he snickered. "Number seventy-eight, your master commands. Come in now," he called out.

A door opened, and in walked--009??? "Yes, Jane Thackeray is number seventy-eight," Roger said. "She’s the woman who gave you that bridge, correct?" Bond nodded, reflexively touching his jaw. She looked marvelous as always, with an added attraction--a perfect tan. "By the way, she’s the one who saved your life on that balcony. She’s been your--guardian angel, so to speak." Bond continued to look appreciatively and lustfully at the one woman he constantly fantasized about because he couldn’t have her. Her trim body and long legs weren’t any different than the last time he’d seen them. He was speechless. Roger continued, "Your cologne never worked on her because of the antidote. It would have been very bad for morale if she were to have continuous, overpowering hots for all of her co-workers and her boss. Q kept giving her regular doses so that she was immune to the cologne, although Maggie got considerably more. 009 also has a parallel perfume that works the same way as the cologne. I’m working on an antidote for it, but probably only Q and M have that. Women don’t need any more advantages than they already have."

Bond was still gaping wistfully at 009. "Ah, I see that you still have those feelings for her," Roger noted, gloating slightly. "What if I could guarantee her willing participation in any fantasy of yours? She would answer to you as her lord and master." James blinked. Roger had his complete attention now. "Perhaps you would like to retire to a secluded villa on one of my other islands? Just think, Mr. Bond--no more life-threatening situations, no more budget justifications, no more arguments with M! You’d have great weather and the perfect woman," Roger continued. "You’d still be the great hero--after all, you killed Blofeld. Unfortunately, you vanished in the Bermuda Triangle on your return. The perfect hero’s retirement. All for just one bottle of cologne."

"How about number... eighty-three in addition," Bond countered. He still thought that Jennifer would be a great fuck.

"No, 007. Not number eighty-three. I already promised her to Celeste," came the smooth, even reply.

James looked at the redhead, who stuck her tongue out at him. "I’d want more women than just 009, Roger. After all, in my bottle of cologne is the power of instant seduction. It’s much more cost and time efficient than your current method."

Roger laughed. "Mr. Bond, I appreciate the art of the bargain as much as anyone. I will give you 009 and one other. But I get to pick who the second is. You can return her for another if you like--but I doubt that you’ll be disappointed..."


James Bond, the late 007 of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, sat in the sun on the deck of his neighbor’s house. Maggie Wainwright enthusiastically bounced up and down on his dick facing away from him, shoving her clit in the face of a tanned, tall, well-endowed blonde who was energetically humping a thick black dildo. "Lick it, slave Desirée!!!" Bond cried, urging his spellbound fucktoy on. James had always liked blondes, and Desirée was the perfect sex slave. No inhibitions, highly skilled in the erotic arts, and almost perpetually horny, even when she wasn’t under his control.

Behind her, his neighbor, a tanned Felix Lider and his sizable, bi-colored penis were making Jane Thackeray, the late 009 of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, very happy. He grunted as he pushed into her ass. She gasped, loudly panting, "Fuck--me--master!" with each thrust. Jane was now James’ "wife." She got to attend functions with him, since she had the proper British breeding and behavior. In private, however, she became the perfect submissive sex slut, willing to do, and to enjoy, anything her lord and master commanded. Sometime during his final assignment, agent 007 had picked up a fondness for spanking women during anal sex.

A lovely young milk chocolate woman lay nearby, being attended to by another guest at this little party: the general manager of the San Cabo singles resort. Donna Wanna had been in charge of setting up the two former agents’ retirements. She had managed to mend the fence between the two men, and was now a good friend to both. She slurped loudly between the brainwashed girl’s legs. Felix enjoyed watching lesbian play, and had had Roger permanently program the girl to be bisexual. "You like that, don’t you, slave Wendy?" Donna hissed, pushing two fingers into her toy, and rapidly working them in and out. She mercilessly resumed buffeting Wendy’s clit with her tongue.

"Yes, Mistress, I--oh--ohh-love--ohh, shit!! Yes, Mistress!!! Yes Mistress!!! YES MISTRE-E-ESS!!!" Wendy screeched and her back arched. Donna smiled. The girl really did damn near taste like chocolate milk, just like Felix had said. After all three had had their fill of sex in various combinations, the slaves were put to sleep for a while, and Felix fired up his grill for some "Good Old American Barbecue," which James had actually come to enjoy over the last few months.

After dinner, Felix, James, and Donna sipped champagne while watching sunset over the ocean from Felix’ deck. The slaves were having their own dinner inside. After all, those women needed their energy "Well, Felix, thank you for your hospitality and the chance to unwind from the two tours that arrived this week, but tomorrow’s a work day," Donna said. "I have got to get back to San Cabo. See you Tuesday for golf, as usual?"

The former American secret agent puffed on his cigar. "You bet, Donna. Same wager as usual? You get Maggie and Wendy for 24 hours if you beat me scratch, you cook dinner at your place for me if I beat you with handicap?"

Donna nodded, smiling. Of course it wouldn’t stop with just dinner if she lost, which wasn’t such a bad thing. Felix’ stamina was amazing, and his long, thick, ice-cream cock... Donna shivered pleasantly; only Master and number two excited her more. She turned to Bond. "Do you want to join us this week, James?"

James Bond blinked his eyes open. "No, that’s quite all right. You two go ahead and play that bloody game. I plan to sleep, eat, and fuck my retirement away," he smiled, and pulled a sun hat over his eyes.

This story copyright © 1997, The Flying Pen

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