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No. 90495
So I just saw the movie today and I got the impression that Silva would be the kinda guy to bottom from the top? I didn't see any, so I wrote it.
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The sound of a closing door echoed through the hollow room after the guards left, but the silence that followed was louder. Bond had a perfect view of the warehouse ceiling as he lay on his back, conserving his energy by not attempting the impossible—the metal cuffs and about his wrists and ankles could not be broken by strength alone, nor picked open without a pin, nor blasted off without a weapon. Silva’s men had taken great care to assure that not even a hairpin was left tucked in the agent’s sleeve and, without all his devices, Bond’s smartest option was to remain calm. The chair was getting uncomfortable, anyway.
The unyielding metal chains linked to inconvenient metal grates within the concrete floor, which was cold enough that bond could feel it through his suit. Silva stood at his feet, looking down at him, expressionlessly. Dark eyes flicked up and down the length of his body, thinking. Bond stared at the ceiling, breathing evenly, waiting. This was chess, and he could not make a move until his opponent made his.
The first noise to cut through the stale air is the sound of shoes scraping over the floor. Shortly after, Bond’s upward gaze was blocked by Silva who smiled down at him. The smile was readable, but feigned, a grin that could easily be mistaken for loving were one unable to recognize the look of calculation.
“I would love to know what you are thinking, Mr. Bond,” Silva admitted, tilting his head, “Most likely you’re trying to figure a way out of this. Or perhaps you are still thinking on my story?”
Bond made direct eye contact as his captor spoke, establishing his inability to be frightened. Though uncomfortable, he was not to be played upon. He remained professional in every circumstance.
Silva continued, “What’s that old saying? Trapped like a…”
When Bond refused to bite, Silva chuckled quietly behind fake teeth. The ex-agent turned and retraced a few of his steps, walking along Bond’s side and stopping, this time, at his waist. Silva’s knees gently met the cement as he lowed himself to the floor, breaking eye contact and focusing his attention on somewhere that would keep it. Impolite fingers plucked at the buckle of Bond’s pants,
“A conversation only works when both people contribute,” Silva informed his prisoner, as the belt came loose.
“Is this how you usually prefer to converse with your captives?” Bond answered, flatly.
“Oh, no, no, no,” the belt was slipped slowly… “No, Mr. Bond,”… slowly…“Consider yourself special,” …slowly out of Bond’s belt loops.
Silva turned his gaze to lock with Bond’s once again, wanting to gauge his reaction now that it was clear in which direction this was heading. To his dissatisfaction, ice colored eyes revealed nothing and his captive remained stoic as ever,
“I usually have dinner first.”
Silva chuckled at this. Though, it was difficult to tell whether the laugh came from frustration with Bond’s lackadaisical attitude or genuine amusement.
“Of course,” fingertips curled under the rim of Bond’s lower garments, “I can see that you are a gentleman.” The fabric was tugged down, just enough to reveal him, “Naturally you would treat you guest to dinner…” A small tube of lubricant was revealed from Silva’s own pocket and he squeezed a fair amount onto his hand. Though he did not react, for he had been expecting the contact, Bond was still surprised to find how warm Silva’s hands were when the criminal started to tug, “But, as today I will be treating you,” A few, gentle strokes by the calloused hands was enough for Bond’s body to betray his mind, “We will do this my way, and save dinner for afterwards.”
When Silva’s hands left him, Bond returned to staring a hole through the ceiling. In his peripheral vision he could see Silva stand and free himself from his own trousers, then heard the metal of his belt buckle click when it was dropped to the hard floor. Silva picked up on this right away, as he had not stopped staring at Bond,
“Look how shy. You told me this was not your first time.”
Bond couldn’t even think of a comeback. Wit was hard to muster when all his concentration went to calming his nerves, which had just started to kick in. Unfortunately, despite Bond’s best efforts to hide his apprehensiveness, Silva noted that too. He watched Bond’s Adams apple bob as he swallowed hard,
“Are you nervous?” The criminal sounded incredibly pleased with himself for, if true, this was rightly a feat. Stepping one leg over Bond’s body, Silva lowered himself to his knees once again, hovering low over Bond, “Don’t be. We’ll do this the nice way,” Silva fished for his lube once again, found it, and transferred it from his fingers to his own backside, “I’ll do the uncomfortable part. I hope, Mr. Bond, you appreciate my generous sacrifices for you.”
“I’ll be sure to send a fruit basket.”
Bond flicked his eyes back to meet Silva’s, daring him to get on with it. Silva unamused, smirked at the remark before complying.
With one hand splayed holding himself open and the other guiding Bond to the entrance, Silva slowly, carefully, began to sit. Bond went back to starting at the ceiling, Silva, however, closed his eyes and tilted his head back, stepping outside of the game for a moment to actually experience the sensation of it. On knees trembling from the hard cement, Silva managed to take an inch or two before he slumped forward, both hands on Bond’s chest, holding himself up, head dropped below his shoulders.
A moment followed where nothing filled the warehouse but the quivering man’s heavy breathing. Then determined, Silva resumed and sat a few more inches. Bond, for the first time, shut his eyes as well. Being unresponsive to threats was one thing, but physical pleasure was another thing entirely. There was one, specific combination of tight and hot that would always undo a man.
“Mr. Bond,” Silva gasped more than said as he sat down completely. Bond tried to ignore him, but when Silva started to move, that task soon became just as impossible as trying to break the metal cuffs.
Silva’s movements were deliberately slow; the palms of his hands were spread flat on Bond’s suit, rubbing his abdomen through the fabric. The ends of Silva’s own, gaudy patterned shirt fell below his tan suit, now that they had nothing to tuck into, and the fabric fluttered lightly on Bond’s navel as he moved.
Not another word was spoken. Silva worked up a rhythm, Bond tried not to enjoy it. Eventually, two bruised knees and a few involuntary, guilty hip bucks finished the two off. A rude, throaty moan chorused with a hiss through clenched teeth. Silva caught his breath atop Bond and tried to hold onto the moment as long as it would last. Bond was already trying to forget.
“Think about my offer,” Silva breathed, disconnecting himself carefully and slipping back into the rest of his clothes.
“What, to ‘eat all the other rats’?” Bond tried to make his voice sound as steady as possible whilst still recovering from the fact that he let a bit more of his professionalism slip than he would have liked to.
“I said ‘dinner afterwards’.”
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End.
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