by BBMSN
After his meeting with Q, Bond headed for his flat, which wasn't a
long walk from headquarters. It gave him time to get used to his titanium-lined
shoes. By the time he entered the lobby of his building, he had worked up a
light sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his legs felt good and tight. When he
got into the elevator, he was rolling around thoughts of how to lure O'Hara into
a trap. He didn't notice the woman walking her little dog into the lobby and
toward the elevator until the doors started to shut. Being the gentleman that he
was, he hurriedly tried to find the "door open" button on the panel. But before
he could find it, a hand reached around from outside and grabbed the door. A
huge, thick-knuckled hand, that was surprisingly high on the door, coaxing it to
stay open for the woman and her dog. As the woman entered the lift, she nodded a
somewhat nervous nod of thanks toward the direction that the hand was in. Then
the man stepped around the corner and into the elevator. He was a large,
powerfully built blond, wearing a French cuff shirt and expensive suit pants. He
was handsome in a brutish thug kind of way, his eyes deep blue, and his thick
blond hair brushed back from his broad forehead like a model's...if models were
6'8" tall and massively broad. He had to duck slightly to get inside the
elevator car, but once inside, the ceiling was high enough for him to stand full
height. He nearly filled the elevator, and as he turned to face the closing
doors, his massive back blocked their view entirely. Bond noticed that the
woman was breathing heavily, either in lust or fear, or perhaps both. She eyed
the big man's thickly mounded butt, which was nearly eye level for her. Bond
lightly fingered his revolver inside his jacket. How could this man have found
him so quickly, so easily, he wondered. And what could he hope to do to Bond in
his own apartment building?
The elevator stopped at the third floor, and the woman squeaked out an
"excuse me" as she squeezed her way past the big blond man. He turned to allow
her past, and his massive shoulder lightly knocked into Bond's head as he did
so. Bond sensed the power of it, even in that slight bump. The woman stepped out
hurriedly, and her little dog looked back nervously at the giant blond. As the
doors shut, and Bond reached for his gun, the big blond's arm swung back and his
thick elbow connected squarely with Bond's nose. Bond flew back and hit his head
on the elevator wall so hard that he slid down to the floor, disoriented. He
looked up and saw O'Hara towering over him.
"You got blood on my shirt," said O'Hara, as he twisted his arm to see where
it had connected with Bond's nose. Before Bond could react, O'Hara leaned down
and put one huge hand on the side of Bond's face and slammed it against the
wall. He held Bond's face there, and slowly slid him up the wall, higher and
higher, until Bond's feet were off the floor. Bond flailed about, trying to
punch the bigger man, but the palm of O'Hara's hand covered the whole side of
Bond's face, and the pressure he was applying was nearly making 007 black out.
When the big brute pressed even harder, Bond, despite his years of training to
rechannel pain, let out a yelp. O'Hara let out a snort.
"If you think this is bad, you are in for a world of hurt," said the big
Irishman. He flexed his free arm, and allowed Bond to watch as his massive
biceps filled the sleeve to an impossible dimension. He pressed his powerful
hand into Bond's head until he did pass out. The elevator stopped at floor
number 7. "Figures," said O'Hara, as he reached into Bond's pocket and pulled
out his keys, then slung Bond over his shoulder and headed down the hallway.
Once in front of Bond's door, he unlocked it, ducked inside, and flopped Bond
down onto the couch.
He rolled his huge shoulders, his strong tendons crackling as he expanded out
even broader. He looked around Bond's apartment. "Not bad," he said. He leaned
over Bond and reached under his jacket, pulling out Bond's gun. He stood up and
stuck the gun in the back of his waistband, then stepped over to the double
doors that led to a terrace. He opened the doors wide, and stepped out, taking
in the view of the Thames. "Not bad at all."
When he stepped back into the flat, Bond was standing on the side table
next to the couch, facing him. Bond swung his leg up fast and hard, and hit
O'Hara square in the jaw. O'Hara's head turned sideways, but not far, as his
thickly muscled neck, which stuck out two inches further than his ears on each
side, resisted the force of the blow with ease. He rubbed his jaw briefly with
his thick burly fingers. He looked at Bond, as anger filled his blues eyes and
his nostrils flared. The shoe that had dented an iron beam not too long ago had
barely had an effect on the big Irish boxer. Bond knew he only had a split
second. He jumped from the table, high as he could, and landed both his feet
into the bigger man's chest. They landed square into O'Hara's sternum. O'Hara's
massive chest took the blow like a light punch. He staggered back only slightly,
and braced himself by grabbing the terrace doorway. Bond's body was flung
backwards from the recoil, and he landed on the floor, one of his ankles
sprained badly from the impact with the massive chest. As Bond grabbed his ankle
in pain, O'Hara looked down at his own chest.
"Now you've gone and got my shirt dirty," he said, brushing at the foot
shaped marks in the middle of his crisp white Savoy Taylor's Guild shirt. He
slowly removed his cuffs, and laid them on the side table. Then he began to
unbutton his shirt. He took it off and tossed it onto a chair on the terrace. He
had on a guinea tee that was stretched thin as a skin on him. His arms looked
like they were made out of white iron covered with thick golden hair. His chest
heaved upward as he watched Bond hobble onto his feet.
"Nice shirt, Mr Bond," he said, "let's see if we can dirty it up a bit,"
as he reached behind his back and grabbed the gun out of his waistband and
pointed it at James. Then he fired. One, two, three shots, right into Bond's
chest. Each shot knocked Bond back three or four feet, until he banged up
against the far wall. The shirt he had on prevented the bullets from
penetrating, but each shot hit him like a sledgehammer. O'Hara removed the clip
from the gun, then crushed it in his hand and tossed them both aside. Then he
came at Bond, who had had the wind knocked out of him by the shots, and was
trying to crawl away. O'Hara grabbed Bond by his sprained ankle and lifted him
upward. He held Bond out with one huge hand wrapped around Bond's leg. With his
free hand, he took off one of 007's shoes. He looked at it, felt its weight in
his hand. The shoe looked almost small in his big palm, and as he slowly closed
his thick fingers around it, the titanium frame began to bend inward. O'Hara's
lips curled into a snarl as he crushed the strong metal and expensive leather,
crushing it into an ill-shaped ball. Then he began to squeeze Bond's ankle. Bond
let out a stifled yelp of pain. O'Hara chuckled.
"God, you are a little fuck. Should I crush your ankle bones into a
thousand little shards?" He squeezed hard, and Bond groaned loudly. He reached
out and grabbed onto the leg of a chair, and tried to pull himself away. O'Hara
let go of his leg, and he fell to the floor, his injured ankle landing hard.
O'Hara leaned over and grabbed Bond by his shirt. He lifted him effortlessly off
the floor and pulled the secret agent into his powerful chest. "Oh yeah," said
the big man, "I could hurt you in so many ways. This could take weeks." He began
to rip Bond's shirt. The reinforced fabric gave to his powerful fingers as if it
was paper toweling. He ripped it clean off Bond, leaving him shirtless. Then he
grabbed Bond into a one-armed bear hug. "God, you are so weak. So pathetically
weak." O'Hara grew hard as he felt whatever fight that was left in Bond being
sapped out of him. Bond could barely breath, try as he might, the powerful arm
of the Irish boxer crushing his ribcage, preventing him from taking in air.
Bond's body was drenched in sweat as he struggled uselessly against the vastly
superior strength of his huge opponent, who's one powerful arm was far stronger
than Bond's entire body. He felt himself losing consciousness. He heard O'Hara
chuckle deeply, like a rumble of thunder coming up from that deep barrel chest.
As he bore down with even more strength, he walked around the living room,
tossing Bond's furniture with his free hand. Once he had cleared off the
oriental carpet of furnishings, he dropped Bond down.
"How about a little leg scissor?" asked the brutish hulk, straddling
over Bond. He dropped down next to Bond and wrapped his legs around Bond's
torso. "Ohh yehh," he growled, as he crossed his ankles and intertwined his size
18EEE shoes. "So goddam strong." He began to flex his thighs. Bond felt like two
tree trunks were pressing into him from both sides. He began to struggle with
renewed energy drawn from panic. He punched O'Hara's huge powerful thighs as
hard as he could. O'Hara just sneered. Bond could feel an iron-hard rod pressing
into his side. He knew he couldn't hold out much longer. So did O'Hara.
He felt Bond go limp, and practically spewed at the sensation. How he
loved to take a man and drain him of every drop of strength he had. And then
some. He continued to bear down on Bond's torso until he knew there would be no
early waking up. Then he kicked Bond out of his leg scissor, and laid him on the
edge of the rug. He rolled the rug like he was making a Cuban cigar, with Bond
as the tobacco. He hoisted the rug up onto one shoulder. The rug itself must
have weighed 200lbs, and with Bond in it, another 180. O'Hara carried it like a
sack of potatoes, and headed out the door of the apartment. He took the service
elevator to the first floor, exited out the back entrance of the building, and
headed into the night
(
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