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With the briskness of cold fury, he planted a foot on the flimsy chair and kicked it backwards. Bond, zip-tied to it, lent it weight and brought it down hard onto the hollow deck. It was a rash and ill-considered act. If Bond’s head were smashed in against the metal plating, it would not be possible to extract the passcode from him.
Le Chiffre moved forward to grasp the frame of the chair, on one knee between the chair’s legs, skinning knife ready in his other hand. Bond lay still, barely reacting to the brutal fall. His open eyes stared up, conscious yet frustratingly passive.
A moment ago, they had been laughing quietly together, acknowledging Bond’s refusal to yield to Le Chiffre’s simple demand, no matter the cost. Le Chiffre had spelled out the cost, and Bond had accepted it. Now it lay on Le Chiffre to accept it also, before the collector came for them both.
He looked down, and the shadows veiled from him what he had already done to Bond’s body. So he reached into the hot darkness between his legs to feel it for himself. He dragged his hand over the sticky, swollen confusion. This tangle hung below the plane of Bond’s torso, as though it had attempted to escape the painful anchor of his groin. Le Chiffre sank his fingers into the mess of Bond’s manhood. Bond shuddered.
But some sudden thing, more than lucidity, widened Bond’s stoic eye. Le Chiffre paused.
“Perhaps, in place of something so keen as the knife—” He opened his hand to take more of Bond’s tortured balls in it. He held him there, squeezing lightly and rhythmically. He studied Bond’s face, and there…his pupils had darkened.
“Not so irreparably damaged yet, then,” Le Chiffre murmured. No erection answered him; it could have been pain only that racked the silent reaction from Bond. But it seemed to Le Chiffre that Bond, too, was attending, watchful for what would happen next. Le Chiffre continued to massage the mangled balls. There was little sound but the increasingly harsh rasp of Bond’s breath. Blood began to pool in Le Chiffre’s palm.
“It’s so easy to rip this loose skin,” he commented. In his exploration, he had found a place where the scrotum had torn, and slowly, he worked his finger into it. He could feel the jagged edges in the thin, slick folds, though they were slippery between the pads of his finger and thumb, elusive to his evaluating touch.
“If I’d known…you were going to make love to me,” Bond said, jaw tight, “I’d have kept my clothes on for longer. Made you work for it. Drawn out…the tease.”
“You would like me to fuck you?” Le Chiffre asked. He withdrew his finger and traded hands for the one that still held the knife. It was a utilitarian instrument, cheap and unremarkable, thin grooved steel in a plain black plastic handle. But it fit in his hand, and it was sharp enough. He renewed his grip on Bond’s balls so as to twist them until the tear became accessible, and even in the dim light and under the dark, red blood and the matted wiry hair, he could see where to insert the narrow tip to make a precise little cut, lengthening and neatening the slim gash. Bond inhaled hard and gasped it out, starting to pant when Le Chiffre re-inserted his finger into the wound.
But he didn’t scream, which would have disrupted the concentration between them.
And moreover, it was a gentle touch, compared to what he had undergone previously. Le Chiffre groped the wound, crooked his finger, tugged on Bond’s sack from the inside, swinging his balls by the hook of his hand. The hole opened and closed, and he slipped his longest finger in next to the first. Rubbed them against each other. Split them, so as to stretch Bond’s skin. Bond twitched and huffed, but, secured as he was to the chair, he could not close his upraised legs or shy from Le Chiffre’s playful examination.
There were no sounds but the sounds of Bond’s body. Beyond this moment, there was no time, no waiting threat, nothing but abated silence. The blood in Le Chiffre’s hand was very warm. He bent low over the edge of the seat and dipped his head to Bond’s lap. He tilted his face to press his mouth into the hot source of this blood, Bond’s rent flesh. He kissed the wound, and then extended his tongue to lick its fringes, to taste iron and sweat and musk. Having tasted, he moved up to Bond’s groin and took the quiescent cock into his wet mouth.
He sucked deftly and carefully, heedful of the slightest hint of a reaction. As he had suspected—as he had hoped—Bond’s organ stirred. Even in so much pain, he was aroused, and he could no longer hide it. Le Chiffre held him patiently in his mouth, working his tongue over Bond’s glans, until it had filled enough to wrap in his palm and the flavor of pre-ejaculate had joined the slick blood-taste on his palate. Then he lifted his head and clambered around the chair, moving up Bond’s naked body.
Bond’s chest was clammy and cold, hard in comparison to the warm, giving thing Le Chiffre had been holding in his hand. His lips, too, were chilly and shivering when Le Chiffre brought their mouths together. A moment of denial, only a curl of revulsion, and then they responded to the kiss, not so much softening, for they were already softened by his suffering, but shaping themselves to Le Chiffre’s. Le Chiffre gave him the taste of his own blood: another layer to his apprehension of his ruin, even as Le Chiffre’s own attentions belied his claim that Bond would be beyond repair.
He had straddled Bond’s abdomen to kiss him, pressing on the ribcage where he could feel the flexing vulnerability even through the firm musculature. Now Le Chiffre shifted his weight to grind down on his cock. Bond grunted.
Le Chiffre bent to kiss him once more. To cover Bond’s mouth with his own. He snaked his hand between their necks and closed it around Bond’s throat, where the pulse pounded, palpable beneath his fingers and so easy to cut off fatally. He choked Bond with his hand, still kissing him, relishing the feeling of Bond’s mouth struggling under his lips, his tongue in his teeth, Bond’s panting, insufficient breath desperate under his weight.
Le Chiffre shifted and reached back behind himself to grasp Bond’s cock again. He stroked it hard as he smothered Bond, stealing his breath, suffocating it with the constriction of his fingers and the seal of his mouth. He pumped Bond, merciless so that he felt Bond tense with that additional stiffening of pain, but also felt the heat build in him, tightening him, drawing him in to a centre Le Chiffre commanded, far from the dark-edged floating consciousness. The denied breath stuttered. Bond came, spurting and spasming painfully in Le Chiffre’s hand.
As he came up for breath, to take his own and to allow Bond’s, Le Chiffre felt the droplet fall from his cheek onto Bond’s face, to race down and run into his desperate, reddened mouth. Even before drawing back, he knew that Bond would reach out to lick the taste of his torturer’s tear-salted blood from the corner of his own quivering lip.
“You’re not afraid anymore,” Le Chiffre observed.
“Neither are you,” said Bond in a rasp.
“What is there to be afraid of? A bullet, a rope, a betrayal? What is it worth, to elude those punishments? I’ll wager a small delay for this, and I won’t let distractions spoil it.” Le Chiffre considered the enemy naked, bound, and flayed beneath him. “You tried very hard to best me at my own game.”
“Little did I know we were playing bridge, not poker.”
“How ‘drawing room’.”
The square of dressing that decorated his midriff caught Le Chiffre’s attention. He worked his nail under the adhesive, picking at the edge until it came up enough to peel it from Bond’s skin. Underneath, it was pale and wet, puckered, soaked with sweat and moisture and the old blood that had seeped through the gauze.
“Someone’s been here before me,” he remarked. He touched the open cut. “A machete wound…? So that is what happened to Obanno. You have been busy.”
He let his fingers wander and found the rough patches over Bond’s heart. “What’s this?”
Bond’s lip lifted in the hint of a smile. “My miraculous come-back. Mid-game.”
“A defibrillator?”
“In my glove compartment.”
“If only we’d known. I’d have had it brought along.”
“Next time, perhaps. When you’re my guest.”
Le Chiffre toyed with Bond’s nipple, rubbed his thumb in thoughtful rings around it, flicked it carefully with his nail until it drew taut, an erect pinprick in the pool of his dark areola. He circled the flat of his palm over it, then grabbed Bond’s puffed-up, developed chest, though he had little chance of bruising it. Hard as Bond was, Le Chiffre could feel his heart beating wildly and uncertainly. What little light there was glinted off the bulges of his naked body and in his eyes.
Back to the older cut, but it was too shallow to really penetrate, not as Le Chiffre suddenly urgently wanted. He wanted to push into Bond’s body, in some place where he would be forced to resist, in some way that he couldn’t, in the end.
“I think we should pay further attention to your manhood,” he said, “while we still can.”
It wasn’t his cock and balls, though, that Le Chiffre was interested in now. He knelt on the floor and stooped down to the level of Bond’s sagging buttocks, where they protruded, even on his back, from the gaping seat of the chair, ripped-up cane ends digging into the meat of him.
He dragged his fingers once again through Bond’s blood, coating them afresh in the thick, sluggish fluid. Bond clenched his arse. For a moment, the tight cleft was impassable. Then Le Chiffre turned to run the deep belly of his knife across the inside of Bond’s right thigh, a long, efficient cut. More hot blood dribbled and then flowed down into the junction where Le Chiffre held his free hand, waiting. At the apex of its scythelike curve, the blade exposed muscle, the muscle that outwardly signaled Bond’s strength, armour which he conditioned to run and kick and fight, that could propel him and hold him up through bruises and falls and endless chases. Muscle that now could only jump and cringe as Le Chiffre cut into him, a liability of susceptible flesh, hanging like a ham between the knee that struggled to turn out, pull away, and the parts of his body hobbled to the simple chair.
Both were fascinated by this new pain, and by the fast flow of blood.
Le Chiffre recovered from his entrancement first and thrust his fingers into Bond’s now unguarded arse. Bond merely groaned. Only when he had assured himself that he had loosened Bond’s initial resistance did he withdraw to the single exploratory digit he had intended, sliding slowly in and out of Bond’s hole as deeply as it could reach. He shoved Bond’s blood into him, smearing it like lurid paint over his exposed entrance, so that in the dark it seemed greedy; messy and wet. Even in that light, Bond was pale. His blood was still streaming from the freshly cut gash. He didn’t fight Le Chiffre, though Le Chiffre increased the number of his fingers one by one until he had to force the sphincter in order to fit them, stretching the unwilling rim to breaking.
He gasped as Le Chiffre pushed all his knuckles and his thumb together past the resistance. Once inside, Le Chiffre knew that he, too, was in a position of vulnerability, hand trapped, his arm low to the floor, his entire body bent to accommodate the awkward position. He closed his fingers and rocked his fist forward and backward in the uncomfortably, excessively tight space.
Nevertheless, to have breached Bond was gratifying. Le Chiffre peered up into Bond’s face. “Well?” he asked.
Bond rolled his head from left to right and back again. “So this is why,” he said, voice slow and slurred, “you’re so obsessed with the state of my cock and balls. You have to use a fist because you can’t use your own.”
Le Chiffre went still. “I tell you what I’ll use. I can see that this isn’t enough for you. We’ll return to where we began.”
He extracted his arm from Bond’s body. Although Bond’s hole closed after him, it was unable to do so completely. Le Chiffre reached out for the discarded rope.
He had chosen it from the objects at hand for its convenience. Now he felt along the plait at the end, testing the way use had worn it to grimy rigidity, ridged and not quite smooth but no longer the individual strands and plies of fresh cordage. The stopper knot was a solid, four-bulbed mass with very little give in it; some abrasion had disrupted its surface so that the original colour showed through, like exposed bone.
It was necessary to lubricate the rope end. There were few options in the sparse hold. Le Chiffre left Bond drifting while he investigated among the tins and canisters in the corner. He selected something industrial and unctuous, dark in the dark room. It glinted as he lifted the rope from its dip, the shiny fibers coated. It smelled of machinery.
He brought the rope to Bond and dangled it between his legs, resting its dripping weight against his groin. He trailed it along his cock, nuzzled his tortured balls with it, nestled it against them. Waiting, perhaps. Listening. Watching. Bond breathed, steady enough but not so deeply. It was easy to see it because he was so naked.
Easy to see, too, when he worked up the word from some remaining resource, some will to speak far within himself.
“Well?” he asked in echo of Le Chiffre’s prompt.
Le Chiffre crouched once more to where he could attend him and, coaxing—at last with great satisfaction, fury and fear turned to pleasure—pressed the knot into Bond’s arse.