Silhouettes: A James Bond Story

Silhouettes Part 13

The Montien Riverside Hotel was a new luxury high-rise, which hugged the bank of Chao Praya River at its southernmost dogleg, affording its guests breathtaking views regardless of the orientation of their rooms. The king suite that Bond selected looked north at the snaking river and the older luxury hotels that dotted its banks. Bond felt a stab of melancholy as he regarded the sleek, sail-shaped Hilton Hotel with its great cylindrical lounge, like an air-traffic control tower. The architecture reached back to a time when the nature of the job was easier.

Indira had packed an evening gown, but its lines had been all but murdered by having been stuffed in the small pack she carried. The bellman assured them that they could have it pressed and presentable within a few hours and accepted Bond's offered 100 baht note with a wai that was somewhat disproportionate to the tip.

Bond then called Rajawongse tailors--his preferred tailor shop-and confirmed that they were still holding two dinner jackets and six shirts he'd had bespoke during his last visit and would send them over immediately.

"So, you'll be able to make yourself presentable for a diplomatic party?" Indira asked playfully.

"I'll even wear a belt."

"Well, while we're waiting, I think I could use a freshening up," Indira said as she walked across the suite, shedding her cotton top and T-shirt with a practiced ease. Bond enjoyed her silhouette against the purpling skyline.

"Care for some company?"

She turned, one arm draped over her bare breasts. "I suppose I wouldn't mind." She turned away from him, then slid her capris down to her ankles and stepped out of them into the bedroom. Bond followed and found her sitting at the edge of the bed, naked, leaning back on her outstretched arms. He took in the majesty of her body-curvaceous but not soft; her breasts heavy but firm, her legs generous with solid muscle with just a shadow of hair in the delta between them.

Bond stood before her and unbuttoned his own shirt. "I guess we can work our way to shower."

Indira Manyam was as a bold lover, brazenly and unabashedly taking her pleasure from him in the manner she determined, allowing Bond the luxury of merely obliging until her sharp cries and spasming body told him she had arrived at her destination. After, she set about attending to Bond in a fashion that put to rest any lingering question in Bond's mind about Indira Manyam's ability to sexually subjugate herself to a man. But selfishness was never in Bond's character, and he steered them to a mutual climax, with Indira burying her nails deeply into his back. "Good lord," she whispered when they'd collapsed, spent, into the meringue of crisp cotton sheets. "What you did..." before they slipped into a light doze while the sky rolled from orange to black.