Featured Review on this writing by Robert Helliger

The Girl with the Sun-Kissed Mole

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
The Girl with the Sun-Kissed Mole contains adult material and scenes of a sexual nature

Submitted: October 28, 2019

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Submitted: October 28, 2019



The Girl with the Sun-Kissed Mole


He stared up at the giant fan on the ceiling rotating slowly, providing him scant comfort in the stultifying heat. He was tense, a bundle of knotted neurons congealing with ecstatic pleasure at the prospect of her. Fully aroused. He lay on the dishevelled bed and watched her as she waded out of the sea, her hair dripping wet, her body slimmed, tanned and fit from the pleasures of her recuperation.

He arranged himself, permitting his weary head to sink into the soft pillows, spreading his legs wide open until his toes gripped the sides of the bed, then turned his head to face the screen, twiddled with the knob on his console, and zoomed in.

She lay back on her beach towel, reclining until her teak hair was fully splayed across the towel. He examined her, starting with her hairy patch. The specialists in Harley Street had done an excellent job, teasing out the last vestiges of her clinging alopecia, balming her scalp before inserting the needles and sowing the stem cells that flourished and bloomed like black roses in furls of shiny new hair.

He homed in on her forehead. There were no joins in her widow’s peak, no tell-tale cuts in her central parting. Her facial gestures were a delight to behold. She blew lightly through her toffee nose, slightly raised a brow for the camera, then shut her eyelids Under the drying salt lay a simple slick of make-up. Her lips were plump with pout.

He was growing hard, he caressed his scrotal sac, giving his testes a gentle squeeze, a woman’s squeeze, as he ran his right hand up and down his stiffening shaft. Spoke to her in whispers, as if she were his lover,

‘Give me a smile, baby. Open your mouth and lick your lips for me.’

She smiled for him thinly, then opened her mouth to him, rolling the glow-red tip of her pink langue languidly along the curl of her bottom lip, unfurling her tongue to her full length, then lazily tickling the tip of her turned-up nose. She’s dreaming of her blonde girl, he speculated, fantasizing.

He recoiled as she sat up suddenly, staring him in the face, reached behind her back, and untied her skimpy grey bikini top. Having divested herself, she reclined and moved her right hand to the bright scarlet weal under her full left breast. She began to rub the flesh wound lightly with the tips of her fingers. She was teasing him, unknowingly yet unashamedly. Driving him crazy!

He strained his head to get a better view, dropped his balls, and grabbed the console which lay beside his waist. Zooming in on her full left breast, the nipple, the wound administered by a would-be assassin, mud wrestling naked with her in the pouring English rain.

The drone had been a brilliant idea.

She even felt brilliant.

A view to a thrill.

His thrill. His kill.


She wondered how he would like her to wear her hair, and decided to wear it up for him, in the sexy French style. There was still time for her to have more fun with him. Before he succumbed to her charms.

He was young, fit, muscular and tanned. His curly hair was purest blonde, he had shiny blue eyes, freckled nose, pale skin, high cheek bones. Her Nord. He looked as if he could stay her course for a few more seconds before he came. She surveyed the tectonic plates of muscle shifting on his bald chest as he blushed, gasped, and panted at the sight of her heaving breasts.

Heidi would love this! The deadly game she played. Heidi, who saved her life when she was half a needle’s length away from being put to sleep in a dungeon in Nuremberg. Who single-handedly despatched the beast who kissed her mole, the paedophile who injected her groin, the ringleader who had inoculated her neck.

Heidi, H22: promoted to the all-powerful desk job of M at HQ, the rabbit warren which wormed its way under N’s dress-making work - shop at a run-down factory in Seven Sisters. Heidi, her wife, the adopted mother of her adored son, Tom, who she would throw her arms around and hug and kiss, as he protested in front of his laughing school mates, at end of term next week.

‘Mum,’ he’d say, ‘Mum! Stop embarrassing me in front of my mates! Mum!’

‘But school’s out, darling?!’ she’d cry, crushing him to her chest, loving his hair, his scent, her flesh and blood, before she drove him back to the safe house where they could play unseen in the privacy of their back garden, always the garden - never the beach. Tom, her protected child.

She propped herself up on one elbow, and drew her gaily-coloured beach bag towards her. The bag was unzipped, her surprise lay inside. She positioned the bag with its contents displayed by the towel where she would rest her head, and took out her sacred cloth pouch: golden yellow embroidered with edelweiss, the tiny gift her lover gave her when she nursed her back to health. The secret holiday was Heidi’s idea, her instruction, following the successful operation to remove the malignant tumour from her bowel, when her fiancé loved, nursed and cared for her,

‘You need a complete rest, darling, after all you’ve been through,’ Heidi had said, tears of love welling in her big blue eyes, ‘I’m sending you to Croatia to get your strength back. I don’t want to hear from you until you walk through my front door. Have I made myself understood?’

‘Perfectly,’ she’d replied, smiling, reaching for her, unbuttoning her crisp white shirt.

‘Agents are not allowed to fraternize with their superiors at work!’ Heidi reminded her, as she felt her woman’s fingertips slide under the fabric of her soft cotton pants, part her fine hair, and stroke her.

They’d made passionate love on the office carpet. How she missed Heidi’s tender touch, the slop of her tongue rasping between her wet lips as they lay on the crumpled bed, their inverted, feverish, bodies intimately entwined.

Her thoughts returned to the threat of the Nord. There was no doubt in her mind that he would track her down and kill her, once he had gratified himself at her body’s expense. She examined the revolver with its unnecessary, and largely ineffectual, silencer lying beside his naked body on the bed. And wondered at her final words to him when he came across her, thigh deep in seawater, dodging the razor-sharp rocks with their nasty, flesh-slashing, black sea urchins,

‘You can put your gun away, Commander. Come in and give me a hug. The water’s lovely and warm!’

‘Thank you, baby, but I have to kill you. Goodbye!’

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

She shielded her eyes from the glary sun with her slim hand and gazed up at the fixed black dot hovering over the sea in the distance. Her sexual magnificence had rendered her adversary clumsy, cack-handed, in the control of the drone which was clearly homing in on her, closing in to get a better look as the aroused man neared his climax. She pinned up her hair in a rough bun, leaving damp wisps of hair kissing her gilded neck, imagining the dramatic effect that she was having, the sheer power that she exerted over the sad young man.

He had closed his eyes, she noticed, dreaming no doubt of her floppy breasts, her round belly, pressed against his firm torso, as she held him to her body, wrapping her arms around his waist, resting her head on his broad shoulder, encouraging him to get closer to her, and kiss her lips.

She shook her head out of the naughty daydream. The curtains were blowing in from the light sea breeze in his bedroom, the balcony doors were open. She lay back, turned her head to face the beach bag and drew out the console. Her drone sauntered through the open doors, glided across the bedroom, traversed the bed and hovered over the man’s face.

Quickly, she untied her bikini, stripping it off, exposing her bitter chocolate mole, her ‘mole-with-the-hole’, she called it - after the clumsy attempt to inject her there with a fatal cocktail.

‘Oh, I love you!’ she whispered, marvelling at the devil’s technical prowess.

Here goes, I hope this works! Cue volume!

‘Open your eyes, darling, get me all naked, showing myself to you on your private little screen.’

He twisted his head to the right, opened his eyes, ogled her hairy groin, saw her sun-kissed mole, her body arch upwards.

‘Uh!’ he grunted, ‘Uh, uh, uh!’

‘I have an even nicer surprise for you, Commander, look at me, look up at me!’

‘Uh, uh! Uh?’

Instinctively, he looked up at the drone, too late.

‘I put my finger, here!’ she laughed, priming her lethal weapon, ‘I put my finger, here, I…!’

He scrambled his left hand towards the gun, too late, ‘What? No! No!’

She said, ‘Bye-bye.’

The drone ejaculated molecular nitric acid, squirting at him, etching his skin with its searing heat, burning out his eyes. The gun fired twice, blowing out his face, wiping the dirty smirk off his smutty Nordic mush forever.

Deliriously happy, back in the fray, she slipped on her floppy tee shirt and knee-length shorts, grabbed the towel and beach bag, and found a place in the shade of a pine tree. Now she could relax and catch up on her much-needed beauty sleep for a few hours. There was the sound of a distant plop as a drone fell into the sea.

She thought of her freshly-grilled fish lunch, the welcome glass of chilled prosekka with her local men, Miho and Pero, some dancing, kisses on her cheeks, strong fishermen’s arms around her waist, then bedtime with the boys, mm, her siesta! She lay back on the towel and undressed.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured, pressing a red button on her console, ‘Night, night! Make sure the bugs don’t bite!’

Her drone exploded, setting the bedroom on fire, cremating the man on his squalid funeral pyre.

She closed her eyes and fell into a deep and dreamy sleep…


Fully refreshed from her sleep, she sat up on her beach mat, and took in the beautiful vista which stretched as far as the pale blue horizon. Other than a few wispy strands of cirrus, cotton wool fluff she called it, the sky was clear, the sun riding high, its hot rays searing her all-over tan - she had no white bits - a deep hue of golden brown.

She estimated, very accurately, that the time was 12:34, and felt hungry. Pero would be filleting a gilt-edged bream for grilling on the open fire while Miho gently tossed her salad. One of them would come for her when the fish had blackened and its eye turned white. Then they’d walk the lonely forest trail, past the deserted fisherman’s dwellings, holding hands as they staggered up the steep, rocky, incline. Before winding their way down the red-sand path to the thatched beach hut with three loungers and a parasol.

Pero would adjust her lounger for her, so that she could bask in the shade while he fed her fish, forking mouthfuls of white flesh into her, while Miho plied her with copious dregs of prosekka. Afterwards, she would stretch out on the divan, relishing the sensation of their rough hands balming her body with oil, massaging her to the point of arousal. Before they retired to their mattress in the dingy hut, and she took her siesta, sandwiched between them. Ah, she’d miss Pero and Miho.

Oh, well! Back to work next week!

She couldn’t wait to lie in the arms of Heidi, her true love, again and smother her with kisses.

Until her next death-defying mission.

The sea was an inviting warm bath of turquoise, slewing into ultramarine where the deep water would swell around her, and cool her hot skin. She selected a shelf of barnacle-crusted mustard rocks, licked by lapping spume, two hundred metres from the shoreline. There was just enough time for her to take a dip before her escort arrived.

She was nude. The thought of swimming in the nude thrilled her. She felt safe on the tiny Croatian beach. Miho and Pero were quite used to seeing her padding around the beach hut in the nude, and they seldom wore a stitch, except for when they took the mountain path to her private cove, or took their launch into Hvar to buy provisions.

She tiptoed over the hot sand, waded into the warm shallows, and plunged headfirst into the water, crawling out to sea, forcing her head underwater, reaching out with her strong arms, turning her face to the sky to gulp in air, then powering off again, until she reached the rocks. The water there was deep and cold; at a stretch her feet could just touch the bottom. Her left foot caught on something. She felt the spine tear in to her sole, impaling her momentarily, until she felt it snap.

‘Ouch!’ she said.

The pain set in as the salt water entered her fleshy, pulpy, wound, a throbbing pain which only eased when she started to bleed, the needle still embedded in her foot. The water was crystal clear. She watched her blood bloom, a rapidly-diluting scarlet ink, around her doggy-paddling legs, and immediately struck out for the shore.

Miho was waiting for her in the shallows, dressed only in his baggy black swimming shorts.

‘Are you ready for your fish now, Mrs Bond?’ he enquired.

She fell into his arms.

‘Not quite yet,’ she informed him calmly, ‘I think I might have just trodden on a sea urchin.’

Then she passed out…


He cradled her in his strong arms and carried her inert body out of the sea to the safety of the beach. There, he gently lay her down on the beach mat, knelt beside her head, and brushed the streaks of wet teak hair off her shining face so that he could admire her face. She was stunning: the most beautiful, dangerous woman in the world.

He let his thumb smudge her lips, her plump pout, forcing her to smile, then crab-scuttled in the sand, momentarily, until he reached her full left breast. A light laying of his palm over her chest confirmed: her heart was still beating. He flicked the stiff, corky teat on her flat caramel nipple, bringing a blush to her cheeks, a smirk to her lips, as she came to.

‘What happened to me?’ she whispered.

He ignored her at first, running the stubby tip of his index finger along her ghastly six-inch scarlet weal, her eternal wound from the naked mud wrestling fight to the death with the killer on the banks of the Surrey tench lake. This incredibly brave woman had played it clean, killing the man with her bare hands. Desperate to live, he’d drawn a solid-iron rod rest out of his rod bag, and attempted to stab her through the heart, only to be thwarted by her strong wrists, as she snapped his measly neck.

‘You fainted,’ Miho replied excitedly, ‘It was a sea urchin!’

She thrilled as he ran his coarse Croatian fingers over her damp belly, pausing to gently prod her deep navel, removing any sand, before caressing her hairline down as far as the coir of her damp matted quiff. She felt a twinge in her injured foot. Her blood still trickled from the wound, drying in a ferric crust on the hot sand. Miho had tent-pegged his baggy shorts, she noted,

‘I think you should remove the spine from my foot, don’t you Miho, before we…’

‘Of course, Mrs Bond.’

He knelt between her thighs, couldn’t stop fantasizing over her sexual magnificence. Just him, poor Miho, the beach hut squatter from the deserted mountain village, and Jane Bond, the most dangerous woman in the world, spread-eagled naked before him. He nodded deferentially as he slowly edged the flat of his hand down her slender thigh-line in the direction of her calf.

Moments later, she felt Miho’s mouth on her foot, sucking out the spine.

‘Tickles!’ she giggled, ‘You like sucking my foot, don’t you Miho?’

The Croat rolled his pupils at her, continued sucking, ‘Mmmn.’

‘You can suck my toes, if you like,’ she observed,

Miho quickly extracted the spine with his bare teeth.

‘Ouch!’ Jane yelped.

He washed her foot with schnapps, and wrapped it in strips of bandage. She interrupted him,

‘Suck my toes, Miho!’

He sucked her toes, sucking her big toe first, working his way through the slender ones until he could lick and nibble at the nail on her pinkie. She gasped as he gripped her ankle, then feathered the smooth inside of her thigh. He caressed her until she writhed uncontrollably on the hot beach mat.

He felt her flush of warmth, arousing her until her full breasts heaved and the teats stiffened on her round nipples. She threw her head back and snarled at him, baring her teeth, her languid red langue imploring him to release. She arched her body upwards, writhing in blissful orgasm. She reached out for him, craving him.

‘Want you inside me, Miho!’ she cried, enthusiastically.

He complied with her request.


‘How did that feel, Mrs Bond?’ he gasped as she lay spent and dreamful, ‘Comfortable?’

‘Oh, oh, heaven,’ she murmured, ‘Oh, oh, heaven.’  

The phone rang inside her beach bag. She stretched a slender arm, reached for it, swiped, and held it to her ear...

‘Hello? Who’s speaking, please?’ she said.

‘Jane, this is N,’ the voice at the other end of the line said.

N! Not M! But N! The Man at the top of the Wet Squad! N who’d succeeded O the traitor, then promoted H22 to M, side-tracked P, and dealt exclusively with Q! She felt Miho’s lips on her breast, and giggled,


‘I beg your pardon?’ N probed.

‘I said, tickles! Miho was just sucking a sea urchin spine out of my foot, weren’t you Miho?’

The Croat continued sucking, ‘Mmmn!’

‘Sucking your toes, more like,’ N observed, ‘Who was that princess, caught by the paparazzi, having her toes sucked, South of France, name escapes me?’

‘Fergal?’ Jane offered hopefully.

‘No, not Fergal. I digress. Bond,’ N resumed, ‘I need you to return to England immediately and kill a woman for me. There is hell to play in the supermarkets of Essex, Suffolk, Norfolk, London, Herts. The woman is killing happy shoppers by the hundred. Strangely, only men as it happens.’

‘Explain,’ Jane said impatiently.

N explained. The victims died of food poisoning after consuming fresh meat or fish purchased from chilled display counters or market stalls. D had conducted numerous autopsies in the mortuaries of Eastern England and found nothing, not a trace.

It had concluded that cause of death was heart failure brought on by severe body trauma originating in the men’s stomachs. It strongly suspected the use of a biodegradable neurotoxin. Clean, efficient, fast-acting, and environmentally friendly.

The girl had been detected, waving her hand over fresh fish counters as far apart as Norwich and East Ham, on CCTV, videoed taking her hood down, putting on a crash helmet, then scootering off in the direction of Ipswich.

Bond interrupted, ‘How do you know she was travelling to Ipswich?’

‘One of our sleepers clamped a direction-finder under her scooter seat…’


‘Yes, Jane, nice. The girl’s name is Alison Moppit, 18, works as a prostitute…’

‘A prostitute? Eugh! How awful…’

‘Needs must,’ N reflected, continuing, ‘Shares a house, 8, Hatchett’s Road in Ipswich, with two other whores, I’ll WhatsApp you, directions from Stansted…’

Miho stood staring out to sea with a heavy heart. She was leaving on a jet plane, he didn’t know if she’d be back again, he hated to see her go. The drone dropped into view. To his horror, Miho realised that N had watched him having sex with Mrs Bond. Too late, he raised his arms, pleading for their mercy.

‘Bye, bye Miho!’ he heard her chuckle, ‘I love you, darling.’

She drew the second console out of her beach bag and pressed the red button.

‘Tata!’ N added, ‘Thank you for nursing Mrs Bond back to health for us! M says hello!’

‘No, please! No!’

The drone fired a single lead slug at Miho’s forehead with pin-point accuracy. The slug drilled through the Croatian cranium and detonated inside the mishap’s brain. His dead body flopped onto the beach just as Pero swept majestically into view on a high-speed launch, rounding the headland, narrowly missing the rocky outcrop, swirling to a washy standstill in front of Bond!

Pero clambered out of the boat and waded towards her, ‘Mrs Bond, I take you to Split!’

‘I’ll need my passport, clothing, tampons, condoms, cash, cards, N,’ she said, ignoring him.

‘All neatly packed in your case for you by the boys, dear,’ N confirmed.

‘And the weapon?’

‘M will meet you at the airport,’ N said, smiling broadly in Seven Sisters, ‘Your love awaits!’

Jane felt a lump form in her throat, Heidi, she loved Heidi so much.

‘Thank you, Nigel,’ she said sincerely, ‘You know I’ll always love you. You gave me my son. You gave me Tom.’

N wiped a tear from his eye,

‘Our Tom, Jane. See you in Mistleigh. Dinner, I thought, with Tom, Heidi, slap-up breakfast, followed by a brisk country ramble and pub lunch? God bless…’

The phone went silent, she mouthed, ‘God bless you, Nigel.’

Pero stood over her, his broad body casting a welcome shadow over her sunburn, ‘We go now, Mrs Bond?’

‘No, I go, sweetheart, you stay.’

He looked at her, confused, ‘I don't understand.’

Bond rolled to her left, tolerating the scorching hot sand, burning her tender skin, pressing the red button. The bullet struck Pero in the back of the head, punching him hard so that he fell face down on the beach mat beside her.

She sprang up and crash-landed the drone in the sea, sending it to meet Belg’s voyeur in its watery grave.

Hobbling to the water’s edge, she put her best foot forward into the warm spume, reached for the bow of the launch, and threw herself aboard. Her travel bag lay under a thwart, as promised.

Quickly, she found a comfortable tee-shirt, shorts, socks, her old tennis shoes, dressed, and took the helm. Without further hesitation, she sped towards the distant horizon, reflecting on N’s brilliant but dastardly assassination plan.

Preparing herself, mentally.

To kill a woman.

© Copyright 2019 HJFURL. All rights reserved.

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