A Room With A View

It was a two hour flight from Heathrow to Nice Côte d'Azur airport. By the time Bond had cleared customs and rented a car to drive to his hotel in the town further down the coast, it was nearly one A.M. when he arrived at his hotel. The rectangular building was five stories high, and from the sidewalk, he could see that most rooms either faced south, to the ocean; or north, to the center of the town. However, there were suites on the ends of the hotel facing east or west.

"Ah, yes, Mister Norris," the night clerk said in grammatically perfect, but heavily accented, English. "We have a room for you over-looking the ocean."

"Do you have a room facing east?" he asked, signing the ledger placed before him.

The clerk checked, said that they did, and Bond asked for the uppermost floor availabble. "A sun worshipper?" the clerk smiled a friendly smile as he struck the bell to summon a bellhop.

"Hardly," Bond answered, handing his car keys to the bell hop so that the young man could unpack the trunk (or 'boot', as 007 would say). "But it is only by having the sun shining into my room in the morning that I can **** myself to crawl out of bed."

***** ***** *****

The true reason behind Bond's request was a stately home built roughly a century earlier by a wealthy British textile manufacturer. Originally, it was quite isolated, but as the region in the south of France became more and more popular, a town, complete with the almost obligatory casino, grew up around it. The house and grounds had a thick, twelve foot tall stonewall surrounding it, and the only access to it was via a dirt road running through the rough water-front terrain (the sandy beaches were interrupted for a few miles by a cliff). A natural breakwater of rocks jutting out into the sea served as a de facto boundary between the public beaches to the west, and the private shoreline of the house.

The balcony of Bond's fifth floor suite ran the entire length of the east side of the hotel. From there, he had an un-hindered view of the courtyard of the house. He arose shortly after sunrise, and spent nearly an hour rearranging the potted plants on the solid parapet of the balcony to form a 'blind' that he could sit behind.

As soon as room service opened, he called down for two pots of coffee, croissants, and a fresh fruit platter. Once it arrived, he settled in with his small but powerful fold-up binoculars. The thought often occurred to him that in the movies, Intelligence Officers, or Secret Agents, or Spies always lived fast, exciting lives. The reality was that intelligence work in the field was ninety-nine percent sheer boredom, interspersed with one percent pure terror.

However, around noon, the boredom suddenly became a little less torturous. A woman, brunette, mid-to-late twenties, wearing a bikini and carrying a tray, came out onto the enclosed patio. She was tall, with an athletic build and a full bust. Placing the tray with the icy pitcher and hard-cover book down on a low oval table next to a wide chaise lounge, she poured herself a drink and settled into the cushions to evidently work on her tan.

Bond set up straighter, leaning forward on his own chaise lounge, and slowly scanned the female form on display. Her eyes were brown, her teeth perfect, and her long, straight hair hung down past her shoulders. Within fifteen minutes, the view became even more enticing. The woman set up straight, reached behind her, and un-snapped the top of her bikini, slipping it her arms out of it and placing it on the divan beside her.

With the book in her hands, she leaned back, drew her feet up towards her body, and lay there with bent knees and spread legs. The book blocked Bond's view of the woman's boobs, but her settee was aligned in such a way to give 007 a clear shot of the 'camel toe' between her firm, blemish-free thighs. After several minutes of studying the hidden gateway to heaven, covered only by that small piece of triangular fabric, his head jerked back. As if hit with a bolt of electricity. Pressing the eyepiece of his binoculars to his face again, he watched in awe as her manicured nails stroked her crotch. Casually, almost absent-mindedly at first, she gradually beginning to rub more purposefully.

Setting the book aside, she hooked her thumbs into the elastic waistband of her bikini bottoms, arched her back, and slid them down past her thighs, over her knees, and lifted her legs one at a time to remove them completely. She had a boutique of flowers tattooed just above her shaved pussy. The dampness between her nether lips reflected the light of the sun high overhead.

Lying back, a leg dangling over each side of the chase lounge, she resumed stroking her coochie. Her other arm lifted over her head. As she pleasured herself, she slowly lolled her head from side-to-side with her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. Bond could see that her breasts were rising and falling more noticeably, indicating that she was taking deeper breaths as her excitement increased. Soon she was not satisfied with merely rubbing the outside of her poontang, but inserted first her middle, and then her ring, fingers inside her vagina, sliding them back and forth. Lifting her torso, she propped herself up on her elbow as she worked her sopping wet pussy. He could she her lips moving as she looked down at her creamy snatch, stirring herself up ever closer to an orgasm.

Suddenly she threw her head back and her body stiffened. Her thighs shook uncontrollably as her hips bucked against her jostling hand.

When she collapsed into the cushion of the lounge chair, her hand fell limply away from her snatch. Through the lens of his folding binoculars, Bond scrutinized her fleshy folds. The swollen, puffy lips. The wet, glistening pinkness of her insides. Mentally he re-calculated intelligence work; ninety-eight per cent sheer boredom, one per cent pure terror, and one per cent unheralded eroticism.