The last in a trilogy of parodies. For the moment!+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The Princess dialled the well worn number. He answered. His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel… or something like that anyway.
'You rang m'lady!'
She shivered in anticipation then felt the colour in her cheeks rising again. 'One must be the colour of that beastly communist manifesto,' she muttered to herself.
'Yes I did,' she replied. 'I need you to drive the carriage into the palace. come around the back would you.'
His refined but slow witted brain struggled to compute if this was a bizarre request or a cunningly disguised double entendre.
Not for her the rugged good looks and rough hewn bravado of the gardener. He was like a statue, not roughly hewn from rock, but carved tenderly from the finest Italian marble; Michelangelo’s David had nothing on him!
'I will be there presently ma'am'
Within moments, the door echoed to the knock from his silken gloved hands.
'Good evening Mr Bond!'
'Good evening' replied, acting part of another of their adventures.
He stared into her eyes, and she held his anxious, burning gaze for a moment; or maybe forever, but eventually her attention was drawn to his beautiful mouth.
She kissed him passionately, forcing his lips apart with her tongue, taking no prisoners.
She was all rabbit/headlights, moth/flame, bird/snake… and he knew exactly what he was doing.
When it was over, she turned to him and said 'You are without a doubt the most beautiful man on the planet, too beautiful for the common people below, too beautiful for me.’
‘No man is an island' he mused, ' although I'm going to rule this one one day!'