James B(l)onde 7 (NSFW)

Twice a year, the sunrise aligns perfectly with the streets of Manhattan. On those days, known locally as Reverse Manhattanhenge, residents who can manage to get themselves up early enough, can enjoy the sight of the sun rising perfectly between the towering buildings of the city. Bond had never seen this, and, in fact, had no idea it was to come, so it had come as a pleasant surprise for him on his morning jog when he’d turned a corner and found himself running directly into the sun.

Pretty, he’d thought. Wispy clouds of purple and pink danced across and behind the face of the rising sun that morning, which itself appeared as a blazing pink that day, the whole reflecting across his sunglasses as he ran, his ponytail bouncing from side to side.

How fitting, Bond thought, that such a thing would occur on my last day as a woman. He’d woken overwhelmed with a sense of nostalgia for this brief, woman’s life he’d led, and even the act of running, he reflected, would never be the same. He no longer took notice of the way his breasts bounced when he ran– or the jiggling of his ass– he didn’t mark the feeling of his sports bra stretched across his back, the straps over his shoulders, the tightness of his shorts. All these feelings had become a normal part of his life.

He thought back, trying to remember how it had felt to run when his body had consisted of hard angles, but it already seemed more like a dream or something he was imagining rather than having had experienced.

As he jogged around the corner to Mercy Street, his gauzy, nostalgic feelings grew stronger. This would be his last morning jog as her, the last everything as her. As he ran toward his building, he paused and turned, taking one last look at the rising sun. He sighed. It really was pretty. The colors so vivid. He could make out at least four shades of pink and three of purple. Nevena’s eyes, his female eyes, were much more perceptive and sensitive– he’d never seen things so clearly, not even as a young man.

With the prospect of his days as Nevena coming to end soon, he had begun to distance himself from this life. As he stepped into the shower, he used Nevena’s flowery body wash and then her towel. He put on Nevena’s bra, her panties and then he sat down and started to put on Nevena’s makeup. “I won’t miss having to do this every morning,” he whispered, but then he raised one slender, well-manicured eyebrow. It was a lie, much to his surprise. He actually would miss it.

It’s become a habit, Bond thought. I will soon forget all about it. I’ll soon forget about all of this and my life as Nevena will seem but a dream to me, just as my life as a man seems like a dream to me now. A scrap of a poem he’d read As a lad  by the American author Edgar Allen Poe came back to him:

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

James didn’t want to waste his last day as Nevena. In fact, he felt he owed it to her to do something special, to give her one last wonderful day before he was eventually returned to his own body and this person, this life, this Nevena would pass away and be forgotten, just another girl who’d spent a few weeks dancing at the club and moved on. Who would mourn her? Remember her?

He wanted– needed– to give her one last amazing day, and he decided he would do it dressed to the nines. Going to his closet, he slipped the little black dress he’d bought for this exact day– he’d spent almost 4 hours looking and looking until he’d finally found the perfect dress, but the search had been so worth it, he thought as he stepped into his last dress and pulled the shoulder straps up over his shoulders, then wiggling his hips as he tugged on the hem.

Besides. Shopping was fun.

He found himself at the Museum of Modern Art standing before Van Gogh’s famous painting “The Starry Night.” The passionate swirl of the clouds, the seething night roiling above a calm peaceful village. Bond idly played with his necklace as he allowed Nevena to enjoy the legendary painting. He’d never seen it before, and though it was smaller than expected, it hit hard. It’s fun to be a girl in the city, he thought.

He sensed a man was watching him. Sensing the attention of a man was one of the most valuable functions of a woman’s intuition, 007 had decided. Men were the greatest threat a woman faced. He pretended not to notice, though, his skin tingling slightly in anticipation of what might be to come. Soon, the man approached and took up position next to Bond– not too close to raise alarms, but enough to raise the temperature.

“Quite impressive,” the man said, and he had a deep, smooth voice, the kind of voice that belonged to a man who was used to giving orders.  It gave Bond chills. He looked up at the man, who looked back, the two of them assessing each other. Bond saw strong chin, kind eyes, hella good hair, gold Rolex, Cartier glasses. A new plan for Nevena’s special last day popped into his head. Bond smiled his “take a shot” smile.

The man liked what he saw. He smiled back. “A Van Gogh fan?” The man asked.

“Oh,” Bond said. “Really? Is that your idea of flirting?” He turned his attention back to the painting.

The man moved slightly closer. Bond felt his cheeks grow warmer. The gentleman hadn’t backed off at all. “Van Gogh painted Starry Night in the summer of 1889. In the summer of 1890, he died.” Bond felt the man’s hand on the small of his back. “It’s a reminder, don’t you think, that we must always live our lives to the fullest?”

“Carpe Diem,” Bond said, turning his attention back to the man. “Seize the day.”

“My name’s Devon. And you are?”

“Thirsty,” Bond answered.

Devon cupped Bond’s chin and titled his head back. It was a bold move so early in the flirtation. Bond adored bold men. “Well, Thirsty,” Devon said, leaning down and placing his mouth very close to Bond’s ear. Here’s my proposal: wine, lobster, sex and some naughty, naughty agoraphilia.”

Agoraphilia? Bond found himself playing with the man’s tie.  “Lead on. My name’s Nevena, by the way.”

Devon took Bond’s hand, and 007 noticed right away Devon had big, strong, calloused hands. His own dainty, soft pink hand felt so small clutched between those powerful fingers and though Bond’s own observations as a member of the fairer sex were that the hands were indicative of the size of a man’s package, he felt a tremble of anticipation pass through his soft little body as he let himself fantasize about that package.

“Tell me about yourself,” Devon said as he led Bond from the gallery and down the corridor.  “Something that might surprise me.”

“Hmmn. Something that might surprise you?” Bond briefly considered going with the truth. He could only imagine the look on Devon’s face if he told him he was actually a man. Ha. Yet, no one would believe a girl as pretty as him had ever been a man, and it might just come across as odd, so he went with a “truth” Devon could confirm if he got suspicious. “I’m a ballerina,” he said. “A professional ballerina.” Bond had found that a lot of men got turned on by the idea of doing a ballerina. It was some kind of secret kink.

“Disappointing,” Devon said.

“Really? Disappointing?”

“I am not surprised at all,” Devon said. “You walk with such fluid grace I knew you were dancer right away. You do not walk. You float like an angel.” He gave Bond’s hand a squeeze and looked down, letting Bond see his big, white teeth. “Try again.”

People were noticing them, glancing. Bond liked it. They made a gorgeous couple, and he enjoyed the envious glances he was getting from some of the other women. He loved being in the company of a handsome man. He decided to change tactics. “You’re so perceptive, I don’t think there’s anything I can say that would surprise you.”

“Well done,” Devon said. “A deflection and a compliment rolled into one. I appreciate a woman who knows how to play a man, even if I am a man who can’t be played.”

MOMA features several restaurants. Devon had led the pair to The Moden, the fine dining option. As they approached the hostess, she looked up from her phone and immediately smiled. “Mr. Ariok,” she said. “Welcome back to The Modern. Your usual table?”

“Of course. So good to see you, Winnifred.”

Winnifred grabbed a waiter. “Mr. Ariok requires his usual table.”

“Of course.”

Devon now placed his hand on the small of Bond’s back and guided him into the restaurant which featured a row of floor to ceiling windows  Bond fitted himself into Devon’s body, clutching the man’s arm with both hands and smiling prettily, knowing that people were looking at them. Yet, at the same time, he felt confused to find himself being led toward what looked like a row of palm trees. Was this some sort of joke? Then, the waiters came and pulled the palm trees aside to reveal a table in the corner and right next to the window.

“Oh! Your own table?” Bond said. “I’m impressed.”

Devon just half shrugged. “It’s nothing,” he said.

The crowd murmured.  Who are they? He has his own table? How much does that cost?

 Devon pulled out Bond’s chair and then pushed it in when Bond sat, pausing to give Bond’s shoulder a squeeze. Bond glanced out the window at the sculpture garden, letting his eyes go wide. “The view is amazing.”

“Indeed.”

The waiter came and started to hand a menu to Devon. “My name is Sven, and I’ll be your server today,” he said.

“We won’t be needing menus,” Devon said. “Just tell the chef Mr. Ariok would like the usual.”

“Of course, sir.”

Bond almost fainted. It was such a turn on to have this handsome, confident man just absolutely taking over. He shivered. It wasn’t a real shiver, but a flirt shiver. “I’m cold,” he said in his helpless little girl voice.

Devon stood, slipped out of his jacket and draped it over James Bond’s shoulders. 007 rewarded him with a bright, pretty smile. “You’re such a gentleman.” The coat smelled of Devon– his manly musk. Bond shuddered.

Devon sat back down and let his eyes drift over Bond’s face. “You still haven’t surprised me,” he said.

Bond was so hot and thirsty, he was almost trembling in anticipation of sex with this perfect man. He wanted to please him, and this man wanted to be surprised. “I’m actually a spy,” Bond said.

Devon sat back, his look becoming more critical, more assessing and calculating. “But you aren’t here to spy on  me?”

“Of course I am,” Bond lied, smirking. “We know all about your laser on the moon, Devon. Or, should I call by your real name?”

“And what would my real name be?” Devon said, amused and deciding to play along.

Bond thought, wanting to come up with something silly and blonde. “The Moon Mogul.”

“The Moon Mogul?” Devon burst out laughing. “I’m not a villain from The Inspector Gadget!”

The wine arrived and Bond found himself lost in a world of sensual pleasures– the exquisite Languedoc, succulent poached lobster dripping with golden butter.  Charcoal smoked morels, so earthy and tart. For desert a banana sabayon with coffee and cocoa nibs. All of that awash in steamy flirtations with the most handsome man. Desert nearly defeated, the smell of the fresh brewed coffee in the air, as Bond savored the taste of the Kona coffee blending with the tart taste of the  cocoa nibs, Devon’s eyes went hard, while Bond’s went soft. Devon leaned forward. “Go down the hall to the right. Go into the men’s room and inside the last stall. Wait for me.”

Bond winked, grabbed his purse and headed toward the bathroom. Looking back to make sure no one was coming, he cracked the door to the men’s room open. “Hello?” He called, then looked under the stall doors to make sure there was no one in them. All clear. He hurried into the stall and closed the door. He could feel his hear hammering in his chest, the thrill building. The bathroom smelled like Febreze, and he pulled his perfume from his purse and sprayed it around in the air. The stall was otherwise spotless. He heard the door to the bathroom creak open. Heard steps coming across the floor.  What if it isn’t Devon, he wondered? He would just make some excuse. A woman in the boys’ room didn’t seem so problematic as the reverse.

Step. Step. The steps stopped. He could see someone through the space between the doors, but he wasn’t sure if it was Devon. He almost asked, but he was frozen, not even breathing, just listening to the pounding in his chest.

Finally, the door swung open, and Devon stood there, a faint smile on his lips. He stepped into the stall, took Bond in his arms and kissed him. Then, he pulled the stall door closed, locked it. “Should we lock the bathroom door,” Bond whispered.

“The danger is part of the fun.” He picked Bond up by the hips and lifted him, putting his back against the wall. “Plant your feet against the opposite wall,” Devon said as he pushed Bond’s skirt up.

Bond did as ordered. Devon positioned himself between Bond’s now spread legs, slipping his hands up Bond’s soft thighs, slowly pulling 007’s panties down. Bond lifted one leg, and Devon slipped the panties down so they dangled from his left ankle, then he planted a hand on Bond’s breast and squeezed. Bond moaned softly, closing his eyes as Devon pushed himself further between 007’s legs, his hard member pressing against the inside of Bond’s thigh. Bond was already wet and eager, so no special foreplay was needed. He dug his long fingernails into Devon’s back. Devon thrust into Bond, and the little blonde moaned as waves of otherworldly pleasure washed over him.

Creak.

Bond froze. Devon made the shush sign with his finger. Devon was deep inside Bond, having stopped at the top of his thrust. His member was trembling, aching, and Devon made a slight shift of his hips. Bond covered his mouth, straining to keep from moaning, his blonde hair having fallen across his eyes.

They heard the man who’d entered unzip his pants.

Devon began to play with Bond’s breast again, squeezing his hard nipple, rolling it between his thumb and index finger while repeating that little wiggle. Bond’s eyes went wide, and he silently began to plead– STOP!

They both knew he meant don’t stop.

The sound of the faucet. The man pausing as he checked out his face.

Devon stayed in place, penetrating Bond so deeply. Bond struggled not to scream. The pleasure was so intense, but even more intense was the need for release. His own body was growing more and more tense, more and eager and desperate for his orgasm. At the same time, what little bit of Bond’s sex-addled brain was even able to concentrate couldn’t help but be amazed at this man’s stamina and self-control.

Creak.

The bathroom door opened and closed. Bond took his hand off his mouth and screamed as Devon began to thrust again, slamming into Bond like a jack hammer– Bond felt himself blow up, female sexual pleasure setting his skin on fire, rolling deep inside him, curling his toes. Devon lifted him down from the wall and Bond fell against him, panting, glowing, satisfied.

They kissed one last time, then Devon left without looking back. It was as expected. They’d had their fling, their little fantasy, and now they would each go their separate ways.

After, Bond went to the ladies’ room to fix his hair and touch-up his makeup. He sprayed more perfume– he could smell sex and man on himself and didn’t want anyone else to notice. On impulse, he used his lipstick to write a message on the mirror:

A heart. The words I was here. He signed it, Nevena.

“Glorious last day accomplished,” he said, blowing a kiss to himself. “I’m going to miss you, babe.”

The only downside was that he needed another shower. But, he had time. He might even stop for one final latte. He liked lattes, it turned out. Nevena loved lattes. James Bond would never order one, though. It wasn’t right for a man, and he most certainly needed to get back to being a man.