For King & Country: Colourful but Ordinary
A short, complete adventure for Jane Masters, 004. A coda to her first story and a prelude to her next, which I started but never finished. It's unlikely ever to surface.
The start and end of this story were actually written by other writers: the opening was sent to me by someone who appreciated the original story and wanted to suggest the start of a continuation. I eventually fleshed it out and wrote the short piece to its conclusion, and my friend Tanya Grant added the wonderfully explicit sex scene at the end, just because she felt there wasn't enough fucking and sucking! Originally the piece ended with Bond coming into Masters' surveillance suite and the couple simply exchanging a kiss followed by their concluding words...
"How utterly perverse", mused Jane Masters, formerly Lieutenant Commander Anthony Pierce, still agent 004 On His Majesty's Secret Service. She was nestled into the crook of her superior officer's shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of James Bond's chest exhaling, in perfectly diminishing circles, the smoke from his fifteenth Cartier of the day.
A feeling of rare contentment permeated every layer of Masters' body and mind as she looked up at the orange sun setting over the high Alps across the valley from their vantage point. She wriggled her legs so as to cause the torn black and almost non-existently sheer nylon stockings on her thighs to rub together; a covert act of auto-frottage which only served to flutter the warmth rushing through her still new, very pretty, female body. "Young, blonde and ripe", Bond had called her earlier that day. That compliment had given her a jolt of pleasure.
It seemed that Bond shared her strong feelings on the matter of good musical taste. Still, it was only to be expected, thought Masters. Second only to Bond's devotion to maintaining the independence and sovereignty of Britain in all of its ramshackle post-millennial glory was his ruthless pursuit of the very finest things to be found and experienced in life. Masters was happy to have been included as a trophy in this pantheon of the famous spy's fetishistic pleasures, along with the inevitable Mont Blanc pen, the 30-year old single malt and of course, the Aston Martin. Now the beautiful blonde lover with something extra.
So it was that the crystalline clarity of Miles Davis' 'Kind Of Blue' echoed like a ghost around the small plateau on which the discreetly grey 2012 marque DBX was parked.
The dank overhanging cloud of the past few days had largely evaporated as evening closed in. The warmth of the broad torsos of the surrounding mountains had gathered a wreath of mist along their edges, looking for all the world like a ballerina's tutu raised in mid-leap. Tombstone-like basalt fingers pointed up through the cloud as if to warn of the ever-present danger of complacency in the face of a bewildering number of dangers to the New World Order of which the UK was a proud and prominent member.
Suddenly Bond rose, pulling his white Gieves and Hawkes shirt around his broad shoulders. He ran a hand through his grey crew cut and narrowed his eyes. "Over there, look. Can you see it?" he whispered excitedly as he reached for his Carl Zeiss binoculars. Typical man, thought Jane, sleepily; ironic, remembering her past male existence which, though recent, right now seemed a lifetime away, dressed as she was in the torn remnants of a black lace La Perla bra and panties which did little to conceal her burgeoning female curves. Within minutes of a shuddering climax, Bond was right back in full ops mode. Oh well, at least he hadn't rolled over and fallen asleep.
What Bond had noticed was the glint of a reflecton off glass in the low sun that sprayed across the valley.
Tristram Horner had good reason to feel equally, if differently, contented as he unscrewed the long telephoto lens of his trusty Nikon F3. He connected the camera's digital back to his iPhone and fired up the satellite uplink, as he began to upload the sensational pictures to his unidentified and wildly generous clients.
It had been worth the dreary wait in the previously foul weather for the chance to photograph this gem of a commission. Tristram made sure that he'd saved a personal copy of the images on his phone for in truth he had been very turned on by what he had seen. He thought briefly of posting them on his private and exclusive server for fellow connoisseurs of a particular form of flesh, but realised he just didn't know his mystery clients quite well enough to warrant taking such a risk.
The sight of Bond making love to that beautiful blonde pre-op transsexual (as he had realised with happy astonishment half way through photographing the act) had stimulated Tristram no end, and he had toyed with the idea of caressing his own satin panty-filled trousers himself, but Bond's reputation travelled before him.
He knew that His Majesty's man was unlikely to welcome the attentions of a paparazzo photographer whilst screwing a shemale in a variety of increasingly gymnastic positions on the bonnet of his Aston Martin in the gorgeous dying of a Tyrolean summer afternoon.
In one fluid motion, Bond cast aside the Zeiss's, fired up the V10 engine, found first, dropped the clutch and shot the Aston forward like a cannonball out of the secluded roadside verge, leaving Masters a dishevelled mess half in, half out of the cream leather bucket seat.
"Buckle up, Lieutenant. The Service wouldn't want you to have an accident with that gearstick. Could make for rather embarrassing paperwork," Bond joked, glancing aside with a smile on his cruel, handsome mouth.
"What's going on, James? You could at least have warned me," pouted a flustered Masters, struggling upright and reaching between her legs for the very brief Chloe mini dress that Bond had ripped off her back some time ago.
The car sped along the switchbacks, threatening to hurl itself off into the valley below at every turn; but Bond was calm as he turned to Masters and said "I hope you're not feeling shy - someone's been photographing us for the last thirty minutes and I think it's time we had a word with them about the usage rights".
Masters felt a tide of burning crimson wash over her face. Supposing her family was to see those photographs of her wild sexual abandon. But she knew that her mother, father, sister and brother would never recognise "him" now. Would they?
She felt Bond's cold semen trickle down the inside of her thighs and smiled, knowing that she wouldn't have missed this afternoon for anything in the whole world, even if it was the last thing that a few months ago she would have expected to enjoy. The surgical feminisation and hormonal treatment that the fomer Lieutenant Pierce had undergone in order to prepare for his mission into the stronghold of the Red Fist had been one thing; his treatment at the hands of the Fist had been quite another - the torture and conditioning he had suffered had had a profound impact on his entire psyche. Not since his teenage years had he felt any real attraction for the same sex. He had celebrated his rite of passage with the usual braggadaccio of sexual conquests without making any longer term commitments, in the heartless manner of brash young men all over the world. Anthony Pierce had been was what is known as 'one of the lads'. The irony of the fact that he had become just exactly like one of those posh, blonde, sweetly pretty Chelsea girls that he had used to chase after was not lost on him now.
Not that 'she' felt entirely female, even now. Sometimes she felt other voices in her head resisting the lure of her new life; felt that all she had become was a mannequin upon which different masks could quite easily be hung.
No. But Jane Masters understood that that old life was behind her. Feeling herself fall hopelessly in lust with Bond had changed the parameters of the game forever. On the slow boat back from the mission in the Far East, Bond had been everything and more that Masters had fantasised about since she had first given him sweet head months earlier in this same car. Masters already knew what a beautifully proportioned uncut cock Bond had. What had really taken her aback was how sensitive and gentle Bond could be in bed; and overwhelmingly violent, cruel, strong and passionate at the same time.
In that cabin in the swaying luxury yacht, Jane Masters had willingly and noisily surrendered her anal cherry (and any remaining vestigial thoughts of reclaiming her masculinity) to her commanding officer. How good it had been, she smiled dreamily as the Aston screeched around another bend.
Today had been the first time she'd seen Bond since that boat trip, three and a half months ago. She'd fully expected to have become another in the long line of Bond's conquests. Bond's reputation as a wilful Lothario remained with him even in advanced middle age. Masters had scarcely believed her eyes when the legendary agent had turned up at the Zurich field office with a bottle of Cristal on ice, a glint of mischief in his cold, grey eyes and the promise of a mountain fling in the dying embers of the summer. Bond was off on assignment to North Russia that night. One had to grasp life's pleasures when they arose in this job - fleeting as they were, and all the sweeter for it.
Tristram had noticed the Aston's sudden departure and beads of sweat formed expectantly as he tried to coax the big Land Rover Discovery into a performance for which it had never been designed.
He realised that it would be only a matter of time before the Aston intercepted him. He looked across the narrow valley to see the sleek grey car hurtling down the last switchback. His vehicle meanwhile roared stolidly up the other side of the valley. Horner fumbled across to the passenger seat and picked up his iPhone. Time to destroy the evidence. Now resigned to being caught, he pulled over into a layby and thumbed a sequence into the device which uploaded the image files to his own secure server. Then he used the digital shredder to completely destroy any trace of the images. He sighed. He could always download them again in the privacy of his hotel room.
He started to get excited again at the thought. He pulled out and drove steadily up the side of the mountain.
"Look at this," muttered Bond. "He's driving along as though nothing's happened." They were closing on the Land Rover now as it meandered at a deliberately leisurely pace up towards the pass.
Masters glanced up at the mirror, straightening her hair and make-up. She'd discarded her torn stockings and had put on a pale tan leather trenchcoat, Missoni, over the short dress. Bond thought she looked utterly ravishing. Hard to believe this had been that young male agent just over a year ago.
Masters looked over at him, giving him a quick smile. "Let me handle this, James. You stay in the car and look hard." Bond glanced down at his crotch, raising a practiced brow. "Look hard?" he quipped. Masters looked over and grinned again.
Bond pulled alongside the cruising Land Rover, pointing down at the wheels as if to say "flat tyre". The driver was a shabby looking dark-haired man dressed in tweeds. Possibly in his mid thirties, or a bit younger, slightly chubby. He affected to not understand, smiling and waving. Bond smiled back, then quickly sped ahead, twisting the wheel savagely to force the nose of the Aston in front of the Land Rover's bonnet.
With a squeal of brakes and a cloud of dust, the Land Rover pulled into the roadside. Bond stopped the Aston twenty yards up the verge. He looked into the rear view at the stalled Land Rover. The driver had put his hazards on and was sitting behind the wheel, looking shaken.
Tristram Horner sat, rehearsing what to say. Outrage, he thought, would be best: What on Earth do you think you're up to? You could have killed us all! I've half a mind to report you to-
He looked up as the passenger side door of the Aston flew open and a shapely pair of legs swung smoothly out, encased in knee high tan leather boots with steel spike heels. His heart started to pound as the angel from the plateau rose from the sports car and walked down the road towards him.
My God, she was stunning. Tall, with the athletic looks of a model. Honey blonde hair right down to the small of her back; golden skin, a cinnamon tan. Dressed in buff-coloured leather. A fitted coat that left nothing to the imagination - it looked like she had nothing on underneath - and matching tight leather gloves. She walked - no, strode - like she was coming down the catwalk. He almost reached for the camera, he was so excited. This was a man? Unbelievable. No wonder Bond had been fucking the living daylights out of her. No angel. A Goddess.
Oh my God, here she was. She smiled at him and he smiled stupidly back. Then he realised she was pointing at the door, making a circular motion with her finger. "Open up," she was mouthing. Horner wound down the window. He tried to remember what he had wanted to say, but the words had dried up. She looked at the camera gear on the passenger seat.
"Birdwatching?" she said. A gorgeous, husky voice, half-broken. A shemale voice, aristocratic, English. Horner almost swooned. It sounded like coffee and burnt brown sugar.
"P-pardon?" he replied.
"Been doing a spot of ornithology, have we? Can I see what pictures you've got in your camera?" She leaned over, giving him a startling flash of lace wired cleavage. Horner gulped.
"Er, no. I... there weren't really any good shots today..." he trailed off.
She smiled, dazzling him. "Oh, but I don't think that's true. You see, my friend and I," she indicated Bond's car, "were convinced that we saw you taking some 'good shots' earlier. I love photography. The 'decisive moment', wasn't it?" Horner was astonished that this vision, surely some sort of high-class transsexual hooker, was suddenly quoting Cartier-Bresson to him.
He was even more astonished when she pulled a Glock G36 on him. Where had she been keeping that? "You see, I insist," she smiled, cruelly. "Get out of your car and put your hands on the roof." Shaking, Horner complied. He felt her hands frisking him expertly and felt a small, entirely inappropriate frisson of excitement. He felt his cock stirring to attention in its satin and lace prison.
Then she reached around and undid his belt. What was she-? "Hands behind your back," she said. Horner did so, and she expertly and painfully tied his wrists together with the belt. He felt her hand reaching round again. She unbuttoned his chinos and they fell round his ankles. A hand shoved him in the small of the back and he fell onto the dusty ground, arms tied, legs all tangled, unable to move, his pink satin clad bottom stuck up into the cooling air.
"Well, well," he heard her laugh, "we are full of surprises aren't we?" A hand spanked him hard on the bottom. "Don't go anywhere, will you," she said. Then he heard her rummaging in the car. The camera back pinged. She was checking for images. Then he heard the phone power back up from sleep mode with its familiar Apple chime.
After a while, Tristram heard her walk round to his front and then she flipped him roughly over so he was looking up at her. Suddenly he was frightened. The gun was pointed straight at his head. Something in her green eyes told him that she had used weapons of lethal force often, and well. Embarrassingly he still had a hard on in his panties, and he could see from the way she looked down that this fact had not escaped her attention. She was shaking her head, as if in disappointment.
"Almost, Mr Horner, almost. You deleted the files on the camera, you deleted and even shredded the images on your phone's flash disk. But you see, your remote access log shows two identical uploads of a series of image files, one twelve minutes ago and one four minutes ago. And you forgot to wipe your upload cache." She tutted, turning the tablet screen to face him. There were the thumbnails of all the images he thought he had deleted. The colour drained from his face.
Her boots crunched up the gravel till they were inches from his face. He could smell the leather, the fresh polish. She knelt on her haunches and tilted his chin up with the barrel of her gun. He looked into her beguiling green eyes. Again, that hint of hardness, the cruel glint. "Mr Horner, I traced the transactions back to their sources. The second upload's to some piss-poor commercial webspace. I suppose it's where you hoard all that transsexual smut you're obviously so into."
"The other upload though, the first one, I ran into some serious security countermeasures. Really serious shit." The word sounded strange coming from her sweet mouth.
"To whom did you sell our pictures, Mr. Horner?"
Horner decided to remain silent. His life wouldn't be worth spit if he told British Intelligence about his deal. He somehow guessed that his anonymous client was not the sort to take such disclosure with equanimity
"Mr. Horner, I'm only going to ask you nicely once again, then I'm afraid I'm going to have to call my boyfriend over." She paused, smiling again. "He's really angry..."
"It's Paternoster, James," Masters was saying into her cellphone as she threw the big Land Rover expertly around the steep switchbacks following the tail-lights of Bond's speeding Aston in the lowering gloom.
Paternoster. Tristram Horner shivered, trussed up in the passenger seat. The vicious criminal organisation run out of St. Petersburg by the Rodchenko family. They controlled the drug lines into the whole of Northern Europe. What had he got mixed up in? He was just a low level fixer for the European organisations. Photography, surveillance, forgery, to supplement his legitimate Private Investigation business.
Earlier, on the roadside, Bond had only had to break one of his fingers before Horner had broken down himself, soiling his panties into the bargain; they'd believed him when he told them he knew nothing about the mystery clients. Squealing with pain, he'd quickly given the Masters woman all the access passwords to the Korean-based server he'd uploaded the material to. After confirming that the files hadn't been downloaded yet by his clients, she'd wiped them, leaving what she'd called "a little calling card" in their place. Horner had moaned a little then. It wasn't the fact that his finger was in agony, or even the fact that from his prone position he had a clear view up her obscenely short skirt, at that little telltale bulge tucked into the underside of those expensive looking panties. No, it was the realisation sinking in that he was going to die soon, either by these agents' hands ("Licensed to Kill", as they were) or by those of the client he had betrayed.
Bond and the goddess had had a little conversation there and then. "We'd better keep hold of our friend," she'd said, nodding in Tristram's direction. "It's getting dark and we don't want him getting lost." Bond concurred and added, "you take him in the Land Rover. We'll go back to Zurich. I've got a plane to catch, but I'm sure you and he have a lot of..." he'd smiled, and Horner had shuddered, "things to discuss. Can you trace the intended recipients?" She'd nodded, "maybe. Depends how careless they've been." She'd hunched over his iPhone, punching a series of instructions into it. "I've started a cloaked reverse trace from the Korean machine. Might work. Take a while though. Let's go, James. I'll let you know." He'd leaned over and kissed her hard on the lips before striding back to the Aston.
And now Horner was listening to their cellphone conversation and wondering how to get himself out of this mess. Just his luck to wind up pissing off the only shemale in the world who knew how to hack into black systems as easily as she might pick out an outfit to wear.
"Paternoster. James, Ymir Rodchenko - that's who the trace fingered. Isn't that what you're going to the Baltic to investigate? Perhaps-" Bond interrupted her and she nodded. "Yes, All right. Yes,' she smiled, "I'm sure I'll come up with something." She glanced down at Tristram, still smiling. "All right James, bye."
Somehow, he didn't find her smile at all reassuring.
She'd refused the valet service at the Park Hyatt in Zurich, preferring that Tristram parked the car himself. She'd untied him in the outskirts of the city and switched seats with him, instructing him to drive to his hotel. He was very aware of the automatic pistol trained discreetly on him from the passenger seat.
Now they were in the underground car park of the hotel. Waiting. She'd got him to park right underneath one of the surveillance cameras and was keeping an eye fixed on it. Tristram was considerably more frightened than he'd ever been before in his life. She'd explained softly to him that they would have been seen arriving back at the hotel. They were now waiting for something to happen. He watched the security camera with her.
Suddenly, the red power indicator under it flickered out.
"They're on their way," she whispered. He felt her lithe body tense up next to his.
He heard squealing tyres on the in ramp and a black Mercedes swung into the garage, coming to a halt at the far end. The engine purred to a halt.
"Stay here," she said. "If you do anything stupid, we're both dead. Do exactly as I say and you stand a chance of living." He nodded.
She opened the door and swung her long legs out of the Land Rover. He heard her heels clicking away on the polished asphalt floor of the underground garage.
"Turn out your lights," he heard her shout, "I'm going to eject the magazine from my gun." He heard a mechanical noise as she did just that. Jesus. What was she up to??
The Mercedes' lights were suddenly extinguished and Horner was pitched into semi-blackness. For a moment all he could hear was the pounding of his heart. Any moment now, he expected to hear the sound of gunfire as the life of that beautiful, brave shemale was extinguished too. He waited, eyes closed.
There was a series of dull clicks. He realised that it was the Mercedes' doors opening. Several shadowy figures emerged. A muttered conversation ensued between Masters and his clients' representatives that lasted for what seemed like an eternity.
Slowly, the conversation died. Then he heard footsteps again. Not hers. Then the click-thump of the Mercedes' doors closing. The engine roared back into life. Without turning their lights back on, they glided past the back of the Land Rover, and up the exit ramp. He heard the tyres squealing away until they were lost in the background noise.
He realised he'd been holding his breath. He let it all out in one shuddering motion. He was alive. But what about-
He heard the sound of the magazine being replaced in the gun. Then her footsteps coming back, clicking on the hard floor. He looked around as she opened the door and slid into the passenger seat next to him. She looked tired, but gave him a small smile.
"Good news, Tristram," she said. "They're going to let you live. In fact," she glanced up as the surveillance camera light came back on, "they're even going to let you keep all the money they paid you in advance. Aren't you going to say 'thank you'?"
Somehow, though, he didn't really think that thanks were in order.
Months later, Tristram thought back to that night, and the exchange in the car park where his future had been decided. Masters had left him soon afterwards and he'd never seen her again. Where was she now, he wondered, as he stood on the corner of Komsomol Street, looking around himself. Probably in some glamorous location far away from a shabby street corner in the meat-packing district of St. Petersburg.
He took another puff of his black-market Marlboro Light. Still couldn't get used to those cheap Russian cigarettes so he frittered his earnings on American smokes. He looked at the cigarette and his hand, holding it. The long nails, almost half an inch now, painted a lurid purple today. Be hard to even hold a camera with these talons. He pulled his pink fake fur coat closer about him and shivered, wishing a punter would pull up so he could get his poor, scantily-clad body out of the cold.
Along the street, he saw Mascha. They'd got quite close recently. Many of the other travesti whores along the strip didn't like him at all. They didn't trust foreign girls, especially if they were blonde and tall like him and attracted the punters. Most of them were Azeri or Armenian, a couple of stray Turks. Sucked into the Paternoster operation like he'd been. Most wouldn't ever get out again.
They'd come for him later on the night of Masters' meeting in the car park. They'd grabbed him in the men's toilet of Klosten Airport as he waited for his hastily booked flight back to Birmingham. He'd been bundled in a daze into a waiting cargo van that took him around the airfield to a different flight altogether. All his belongings left behind.
In the cold cargo plane hold, they'd stripped him down to his still stained panties - he hadn't even thought of removing them as he'd hurriedly packed for his flight. They'd laughed at that and let him keep them on, making coarse sounding comments in Russian.
They'd let him shiver for a while, then thrown him the pink coat. He'd gratefully accepted it. He got the first hormone injection in the butt on that flight too. It was the beginning of a strange journey. One that had brought him to this street corner. Just another transsexual hooker looking for a john.
Masters had cut a deal. What a deal. The kind of honourable and twisted agreement that criminal organisations can't seem to help but agree to.
Obviously, he'd screwed up. The British Government didn't want to be seen to be involved in such a sordid affair, so she'd been prepared to hand him over on the condition that he was spared and put to work for the Paternoster organisation to pay off his considerable debt.
He was to be accorded a singular honour. To be pimped by one of the Rodchenko family himself. Andriy would feed and house him, protect and procure for him and Tristram would in turn pay him from his earnings until his debt was paid off. He became a very good whore for Andriy, who would show Tristram he cared with regular beatings and rapes. He made lots of money on Komsomol and the surrounding travesti district streets though. After Andriy's 90% cut and the rent and board and the money for the hormones taken out, he reckoned he'd be able to pay off the debt to the organisation in one hundred and sixty-eight years. That's if he kept his looks.
What a deal. Masters had one sick head on those pretty shoulders. As she'd left the Land Rover, she'd whispered in his ear, "take it from someone who knows, Tristram, not many people get a second chance at life. Enjoy it while you can." And it was true. She'd been true to her word. He was alive, and it was some kind of life at least. In the White Nights of summer, when the sun never sets on the canals of St. Petersburg, Tristram, now called Koshka (or "Kitten"), had stood on the street corners in a basque and glittery hotpants, smiling at the passing cars and sucking seductively on a lollipop. Compared to the misery of the long nights of winter, those days had been good. He'd almost started enjoying himself in the brief warmth of the summer.
Now it was bitter February and he was still here, in the dark, waiting for the man.
Oh look, there was a punter. He could tell by the way the car slowed down. Kitten unfolded his arms, threw his mane of blonde curls back, stuck out his voluptuous chest and started to put it about.
High up in a rented office building, across from an alley just off Komsomol, Jane Masters smiled, adjusting the focus on the telephoto lens to look more closely at the face of Tristram Horner, head thrown back as he was impaled onto the bonnet of a silver BMW by a huge man dressed in black leather.
Horner's long-lashed eyes were slitted and fluttering, his glossy pink lips parted in ecstasy, purple claws grasping his own firm boobs, thigh- booted legs wrapped around his punter's back as he was reamed repeatedly in his backside on the shiny bonnet of the car, his tiny, useless cock flapping limply in the cold Baltic breeze. Jane pressed the shutter, preserving the picture forever. The sight was making her own manhood flutter with life. She'd never really enjoyed watching people get it on when she'd been a man, but seeing another transsexual get well and truly fucked was definitely doing something for her, not least because she'd been responsible for the little slut's present circumstances in the first place. Ah, power. It corrupts us all, she thought as she watched on.
Well, she'd told him to try and enjoy his new life. Looked like Horner was taking her words to heart. Actually, he looked good, in a cheap, porno way. Some of Horner's original plumpness had stayed on this new body, giving him a curvy voluptuousness that was pretty hot. Masters took another shot as Horner opened his mouth in a silent scream.
A firm hand suddenly planted itself on her nude backside. Jane squirmed, trying to keep her mind on the task. The hand travelled up her pliant spine and round the front to caress her erect nipples. Jane Masters found herself quite unable to concentrate. Bond sat down next to her on the satin-sheeted bed.
Jane, buck naked, flipped over on the slippery sheets and wrapped her slim arms around Bond's neck, pulling him down into a deep kiss.
The two of them began a sensual exploration of each other's bodies, the surveillance quite forgotten. Jane's cock was still semi hard, even in its shrunken state. But Bond wasn't interested in Jane's remaining vestige of masculinity. His hand slid up her legs, caressing her soft supple skin, reaching her exquisite buttocks and squeezing them hard. Jane yelped with pain, but pain tinged with pleasure.
Jane pushed herself away from Bond's body, breaking the kiss, and slowly slid downwards. Bond had maintained his perfect physical form and the sight and feel of it kept her on the very edge of sexual anticipation. Planting little kisses, she worked her away down his Commander's torso.
Bond lay as still as he could as she licked and kissed him. He knew what was coming and he smiled with anticipation.
Jane had reached her target and, like a good marksman, was taking her time as she set up her shot. She gently kissed the tip of Bond's cock, taking it firmly in her feminine hands, and pulled the foreskin sharply down. Bond exhaled as Jane then pushed the tip of her tongue into the slit at the top of his cock. Tasting the precum, Jane smiled with delight. This was a taste she'd come to love and now she wanted more.
She slipped her lips over Bond's cock, taking almost half of it in one fluid motion. With her hand she gently wanked the base and bobbed up and down, sliding as much of the meat into her mouth as she could take, then back out again. In and out, up and down. Jane needed Bond to cum. She desired to taste Bond again. Greedily she sucked and slurped, working her hand faster and faster.
Bond wanted Jane to stop. He wanted to fuck this girl, but she was having none of it. He knew she wanted a gob full of cum, so he let her have it. He felt his balls fill up and then it was exploding, shooting from his tip deep into Jane's willing and open mouth. Jane had once more expertly worked him up into a massive explosion. He grunted with delight as wave upon wave of pleasure suffused him and gobs of cum streaked from his cock into her willing, waiting mouth.
Jane swallowed her prize with the utmost pleasure. This was what she now looked forward to; pleasing her man to the degree that he would come like an explosion in a dairy. Sure she loved her job, and yes, she was proud of what she did for King and Country, but since the "change", what she enjoyed more than anything was the sex. As a beautiful transsexual, the sex was just so much more that the traditional sex she'd experienced as a man. And with James it was a sexual nirvana.
Taking a last look at the spent cock, Jane sat up, licked her lips and smiled down at Bond. She knew it would be a few minutes before even this superman would be able to finish the job, but Jane knew that that was what would happen. A flush of pleasure passed over her at the thought. She put her eye again to the viewfinder of the camera.
"Anything worth writing home about?" Bond whispered, rising to nuzzle Jane in the neck.
004 smiled and pouted her bruised lips. "Just the local birdlife, James. Colourful, but ordinary."
*The end of "Colourful but Ordinary"
Jane Masters may return, one day...
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