Thursday, January 12, 2017

"Do you expect me to talk?"


Bond awoke and opened his eyes. He was groggy and no idea how he had ended up tied to a table in the basement of Trump Tower. The last thing he remember he had been flirting with a big busted Eastern European model in bar at Trump Tower. From Slovenia. A little old for his taste but still toothsome.

He had ordered extra dry martini’s shaken not stirred. It seems that something had been stirred into his drink. That must have been how he ended up in this predicament.

He heard a purr in the corner. Bond turned his head and saw an orange figure dressed in white. He had an obvious hair piece. He was stroking a pussy. It was him. The mastermind. Mr. Trump.

“I see you are awake Mr. Bond. Finally.”


“What is the meaning of this Trump? Why have you drugged me and tied me up in this most undignified fashion.”

“I need some information Mr. Bond. It seems that you were the source of a scurrilous report that my political enemies and the mainstream media are trying to use to discredit me. So I need to know your sources and methods so I can discredit them in turn. Who gave you this information? Putin? Hillary? Jake Tapper?”

“Seriously my dear Trump. I cannot possibly reveal who my sources might be. Not cricket you see old chap.”

“That is most unfortunate my Bond” replied the orange hued billionaire. “To use a clichĂ© I do have ways to make you talk.” He reached out and pushed a button. The pneumatic door opened and two pneumatic woman dressed in short fitting tunics sauntered into the room.  One white. One black. They had on transparent Roman style tunics. Thigh high spiked white boots. And no panties.
“I am afraid that Mr. Bond is being most uncooperative ladies. You know what to do.”

“Yes Mr. Trump” they chorused. They walked over to where the supine secret agent was restrained and proceeded to help each other to climb up and stand over him. They were not too careful in their ascent and managed to puncture his skin in several places with their razor sharp seven inch heels. He didn’t mummer. He was so entranced by the view.

One the woman was ensconced directly above his head. The other over his waist.

“Do you expect me to talk Mr. Trump?”


“I expect you to be peed on Mr. Bond.”

2 comments:

ricpic said...

Have mercy on a fellow germaphobe, Trump!

chickelit said...

They were not too careful in their ascent and managed to puncture his skin in several places with their razor sharp seven inch heels.

Urine is sterile so no infection risk. Hey, that kinda shoots down Trump's "germaphope" excuse, huh?