Bond 4

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“I’m such a slut,” Bond thought as he picked up his heels and crept towards the door. “What was I even thinking?” Glancing back, he took one last look at the guy—what was his name? He had thick, muscular arms and hella good hair, plus a bulge in his pants that had promised a girl all she could handle—and was not lying.

That’s what I was thinking, Bond thought, biting his lip. He’d wanted a good hard roll in the hay, and he’d gotten it and then some.

Mr. Studly lived down the hall in 007’s building. The two had gotten on the elevator and Bond had found himself flirting without even thinking about it—tossing his hair, giggling. The next thing he knew he was in the guy’s apartment crying out, “Omigod,,, omigod…. Omigod… “ and then screaming “eeeeeee” as he orgasmed, his soft thighs wrapped around the guy’s ribs. It had been fun—and necessary. He’d needed a good rutting. It was just sex, why was he freaking out about it?

Once outside the door, he paused to slip his heels on. The girl from 56H had come sauntering along and shared a knowing smile with him. Bond smiled back, but he was a tangled mess of confused emotions—guilt, shame and yet wowzers, that boy had cleaned his pipes but good—pride in his ability to attract a man and yet the man he’d been felt humiliated that he wanted all the things a cis woman could ever want and then some.

He'd never felt anything but pride after having sex as a man. Now, well, he’d always believed females were more complicated. Back in his room, he got into the shower, and his mind drifted back to the first time Dallas had kissed him and all the confusion that had come with that moment.

******

Lingering in Dallas’ arms, Bond’s body burned with desire. It was so much more intense than when he’d gotten horny as a guy. Every inch of his body ached with desire. “Let’s take this somewhere private,” he whispered, putting a hand on the man’s rock-hard chest.

Dallas’ eyes went dead. He stepped away. The space between them was only a couple feet, but to Bond it felt as wide and far as the grand canyon. As the man he longed for, the one he needed, closed himself off, clearly having lost interest, Bond panicked. “I’ll do anything,” he said, taking a step toward the man. “I just want to please you.”

“Time to get back to work, honey,” Dallas said, the look in his eyes scaring Bond– and making him even more horny.

“Please, I–”

Dallas out his hands on Bond’s shoulders, and the little agent felt a sudden thrill of hope, but then Dallas turned him to face the room full of lesser men. “Go make some money,” Dallas said, giving Bond a slap on the ass and sending him scurrying back out on the floor.

Bond glanced back once as he headed back to work, aching with need for the man. The real man. The most masculine man he’d ever met. With a sigh, he turned his attention to his next table, a group of chunky tourists with double chins and greasy foreheads.   “Hey, boys,” he said in his extra breathy, flirty voice. He plastered his biggest, prettiest smile on his face. “How about some Jello-o shots to get started?”

Part Two

Quiet after hours, the club felt somehow grimier without the music. The DJ had packed it in for the night, the drunks had all been shoved out the door, and most of the staff had headed home. Bond sat in the dressing room, his smooth, soft thighs crossed, and he counted out his tips for night while in his mind he cycled through all the new experiences he’d had so far: he’d given his first lap dance, done a couple private, topless dances, slung a whole bunch of drinks, been sexually harassed and kissed by the hottest guy in the universe.

The life of a spy was many things. Boring was not one of them.

“320 dollars,” he said as he straightened the stack of bills out, tapping them on the counter.

“Not bad,” Sparkle, the Little Red Riding Hood dancer, said, though her voice was tired, bored.  “Once you start dancing, you’ll make even more– if you’re good.”

Bond shoved the bills into his purse– he hated that he had to carry a purse, but he’d discovered that most of his clothes either had no pockets or pockets so small they were useless. Once he’d accepted he needed a purse, he’d at least found a bag that wasn’t too girly, and if he squinted, he could convince himself it was a satchel. In fact, he’d wanted a satchel, but Halsey had assured him that “a girl like you would carry a purse.”

A girl like me, Bond thought as he tugged on the bottom strap of his bra, which seemed to constantly ride up under his breasts. His mind returned to Dallas, to the kiss, to the man’s sudden distance. “Do you know anything about that, um, guy? The hot one with the great hair with the private booth?”

Sparkle laughed, but it was a cold, brittle laugh. “You do swing for the fences.”

Bond wasn’t sure what to say. What would a girl like him say? He remembered something Halsey had told him. They were on the plane, and she’d been drilling Bond on how to play the ditzy blonde girl. “When in doubt,” Halsey had said, “giggle and play with your hair.” She’d had a permanent smirk on her face the whole time she’d been teaching him, clearly enjoying the sight of the great James Bond learning to act like a girl. Bond had just sucked it up and dedicated himself to mastering the skills, the same as if it had been learning to use a new piece of tech.

He giggled. Started playing with his hair. On impulse, he bit his lower lip. Sparkle just smirked and went back to cleaning off her makeup.

“Hey, girls,” Klein said. “10 minutes. Gotta lock up.” He didn’t wait for an answer.

“That Dallas guy,” Bond said, eager to get some feminine insight. “He kissed me. I thought we were going to have sex.”

“What happened?”

“After he kissed me, I asked him if he wanted to go someplace private, and he just shut down.”

“That was your mistake,” Sparkle said, slipping out of her bra, letting her breasts sway free. She had the kind of big, gravity defying breasts that only came as the result of implants. Instead of getting turned on, Bond found himself wondering what it was like to have such huge tits. “Dallas likes a challenge. He likes to be the aggressor.”

“How can I get him to come after me?”

“Aside from being a hot little piece of ass?” Sparkle said. “Dance.”

“Dance?”

“He gets turned on by girls who can strip like a pro.”

That night 007 curled up in bed with his smart pad and watching videos of exotic dancers. As he watched, he noted things about the women—who had great skin, a super-toned ass. Mostly, though, he watched their moves as he started choreographing his dance routine, imagining his first time on stage. He saw himself wearing a pair of six-inch heels, a pair of naughty little panties. He was dancing—his smooth skin dusted with glitter—and Dallas was there, watching, hungry, needing.

Dallas loved girls who could dance. 007 would be whatever Dallas wanted. “It’s for the mission,” he whispered in a soft voice, slipping his pinky finger between his lips, running his tongue along the hard edge of his long, pink nail.

Part III

Coconut oil and vanilla, Bond thought, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. When he opened them again, he smiled at the manicurist who sat across from him. She had a pretty face. The nail salon was all pastels and flowers, plants and waterfalls. It felt comfortable, welcoming… feminine? Was there something about female biology that responded to these things? He didn’t know. The man he’d been, however, knew that he should find this place cringy beyond all belief. Cringe. It was one of the new words in his girl like me vocabulary.

007’s fingertips currently soaked in a mixture of coconut oil and vanilla, the source of those odors. A girl came with the cucumber water he’d ordered. “Thank you,” he said.

“So?” Sparkle said. “What do you think?”

It’s too butch, Bond thought, his old sarcastic self-coming up with a line, but he stopped himself from saying it. He had to think all the time these days, ask himself how a girl like him was expected to respond. “It’s so cute,” he said. “I love it.”

Sparkle’s smile told him he’d managed to be sufficiently feminine.

After their mani-pedis, the girls had their eyebrows threaded and then, thankfully, made their way to a bar– if you could call a place that was all soft purples and pinks a bar. It looks like the Easter Bunny puked, Bond thought, but once more swallowed his truth and instead giggled and said, “It’s so cute.”

“I know, right?” Sparkle said. “It’s like Barbie puked.”

Damn, Bond thought. Sparkle pulled out her phone and checked her face, so Bond did the same. He largely mirrored her, a technique to connect with people as well as to make sure he was acting like a woman. When his pretty face popped up, his painted lips shiny, long lashes wet with mascara, it still disturbed him. How can that be my face he wondered, even as he complimented himself on how good a job he’d done on his makeup.

When the waitress came to take their drink orders, he finally had a chance to unself-consciously be himself. “Vodka martini,” he said. “Shaken, not stirred.”

Halsey had tried to talk him out of it, but he’d jumped online and found proof that women drank martinis– more than men according to some sources. When the martini came, he smelled it, then took a sip and closed his eyes with a sigh. He could almost have imagined he was a man again– if it weren’t for the tightness of his bra.

Once they’d both had a moment, talk turned to work. “We’re goddesses,” Sparkle said. “Most of these guys couldn’t even get the time of day from girls like us.” She tossed her hair. “Don’t ever forget that. You need to remind them with the way you walk, talk, act, that you’re better than them and there is only one reason you are even willing to talk to them: money.”

“Really? I thought I should, you know, be friendly and flirty, make them feel special.”

“Baby girl, you have a lot to learn about men. Trust me. These guys? The ones who come to a strip club instead of hitting the gym? The more you sneer the more they pay.” She took a sip of her drink, fished a slice of orange out and bit into the pulp. “How much did you make the other night?”

“320?”

“Try it my way. You’ll make at least 500 dollars a night.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Bond had more questions about how to use his sexuality to control men, but the conversation was interrupted.

“Ladies,” the waitress said approaching and placing fresh drinks on their table. “Compliments of the gentlemen at the bar.”

At first annoyed, 007 looked over and checked the men out, immediately changing his mind. Handsome. Silk suits. Tailored. Rolex watches. He glanced over at Sparkle. She nodded. He nodded. They looked back at the men and smiled. The guys picked up their drinks and walked over. Bond sipped his martini. Looking over these two hunky studs made him thirsty.

Later, Bond got up as quietly as he could. The guy—what was his name again?—lay on his belly snoring, one hairy arm hanging off the side of the hotel room bed. Searching around in the half-light, 007 found his panties and pulled them up his legs, over his hips, letting the elastic band snap against his slender waist. His bra hung from the table lamp. He grabbed it and slipped the shoulder straps up his arms, reached back and hooked the backstrap then adjusted the cups, the straps. Anyone watching would have thought he’d been putting a bra on since he was 12.

Both bra and panties were lacy and sexy and mysterious. Bond wore sexy lingerie all the time. He never knew when he might run into a hot guy who was ready to show a girl a good time.

Dressed, he brought his purse to the bathroom, brushed out his hair, touched up his lipstick. He felt good and relaxed. The guy- what was his name?—knew how to please a woman. One thing that hadn’t changed for 007—he felt the same sense of big game hunter accomplishment he’d felt after seducing a man as he’d once felt seducing a woman. Heading toward the door, he paused and smiled. Fishing his lipstick out of his purse, he gently signed the man’s ass—Done.

The sun had finished setting by the time he left the hotel room. A cool breeze busked down the tower lined streets of Manhattan, tossing his long hair. There were a lot of people around, so he felt safe, even as he could feel the eyes of the men he passed caressing his body, lingering on his face. Being looked at like that made Bond self-conscious, mentally cringing, and yet he didn’t show it. He acted like he didn’t notice. It was what girls did, besides if he said something the stupid guys would probably think he was flirting.

Part IV

“And now making her debut on the Kitten Club, that hot little honey with the face of an angel and a mind that would make the devil blush—Nine Ballerina!” Hearing the stage name he’d chosen—all the girls used stage names to try and shield themselves from stalkers—Bond strutted through the curtain and out onto the stage, letting his hips sway side to side, his breasts swaying in counter point. He tilted his head side to side, as he spun around the pole, grabbing it, thrusting his hips back toward the men, his skirt flipping up and giving them a glimpse of his panties. The men roared, their voices deep and hungry, and dollar bills rained on the stage. Bond danced to the edge of the stage and pulled his shirt open, letting them see his red, lace bra, the swell of his breasts threatening to spill over the top a promise of what was to come. Guys frantically shoved dollar bills into his garter belt, thrilled to touch his soft skin with their fingertips— it was the only touching allowed.

007 climbed the stripper pole, wrapped his thighs around it and let himself hang down, his fair falling toward the floor. He spun, shimmied, then turned to face the men—blurry faces obscured by the stage lights, but he could hear them, smell them. The song was about to climax. He reached back and grasped the backstrap of his bra, but his lip and then unhooked his bra, tossing it aside as he shook his shoulders, feeling his breasts sway side to side. Then, he pulled the ties out of his hair and let it cascade down to his shoulders, tossing it as he strutted toward the back of the stage, the house lights rising. He glanced over his round little shoulder and saw Dallas in his private box, eyes gleaming. 007 felt his heart flutter at the sight of the man but resisted the urge to blow the man a kiss. Instead, he let Dallas see him suddenly acting all shy as he left the stage, pretending to be the naive schoolgirl he portrayed.

Days passed. 007 settled into his life, working, hanging out with the other girls, going to pole dancing classes, yoga. There was a safe in the club’s basement office. Both the office and the safe were used exclusively by Dallas. Bond was sure the Codex had to be in there, but he hadn’t been able to find a way in, so he’d concentrated on becoming the best dancer he could be, determined to lure Dallas in with his feminine wiles.

He worked on his choreography, practiced his moves. He followed Sparkle’s advice and had adopted a more aloof attitude with the regular Joes who came to the club. When he was waitressing, he moved now with the sleek confidence of a panther, and while he smiled and used his breathy, flirty voice, he always has an air about him as if he were a rare and exotic animal these men were lucky to even have a chance to talk to.

They ate it up, and his tips rose higher and higher. Meanwhile, he’d learned to blush on demand, and whenever he crossed paths with Dallas, he made himself blush. He smiled. He dropped his eyes—the shy schoolgirl. As the days passed he found himself more and more obsessed with the man, with his need. His skin ached with desire at even the thought of Dallas, and he thought of the man constantly even to the point he taken a napkin Dallas had used and snuck into his purse, bringing it home, smelling it, rubbing it across his breasts.

Over time, it was no longer a surprise to wake up as a woman. He felt less and less conflicted sleeping with men. It was nothing to have men ogle him, flirt, ask for his number. He was hot, he was young. Of course, guys wanted him, and he wanted them as long as they were studs.

Manicures. Waxings. Dance class. His world was a woman’s world, and he grew used to it. Gradually, he found he no longer had to pause and ask himself “What would a girl like me do?” The responses were becoming natural, as was the walk, the singsong way he talked.

He was a girl like him. He didn’t need to pretend.

“Should I be concerned?” He wondered, curled up on the coach, idly filing his nails as he watched a rom com on the Hallmark channel. Sandy had inherited a 18th century farm from a distant cousin, but she has no idea how to run a farm and was also clueless about the fact the hunky farm hand was perfect for her. 007 couldn’t turn it off. He had to know if the two of them got together. Sigh.

This is what concerned Miss Bond. Once he got his body back, would he be able to turn  off the feminine mincing, or would James Bond be walking heel to toe and giggling nonstop? He felt a little nervous about that, and yet at the same time he thought of Dallas and those pretty eyes and then he didn’t care. And then he did. He needed to be the girl his man wanted, and yet he should be the man he wanted to be, and—omigod.

“I’m neurotic,” he realized. Of course. He’d always thought women were neurotic, and now he was, too. There was only one thing for it. He slit his eyes and focused his will, then turned off the TV and stood. He headed to the bathroom, turned on the spigot, flicking the water pouring into the bathtub with his fingertips. “Bubble bath,” he whispered. “Stat.”

Of course, MI5 had to keep an eye on their prize agent, even while keeping distance to as not to tip off the enemy. It had fallen to Halsey to watch over 007, who was now known by the code name Ballerina. She’s just reported to M, who sat astounded at what she was hearing. “We are talking about James Bond?”

“I know.” Halsey said. “I guess it’s good undercover work. She spends her days just like the other dancers—she has her nails done, goes by the salon for a blow out, takes dancing classes, yoga. There is one more very surprising thing, though.”

“She’s started volunteering at a shelter for orphan kittens? She’s taken up needlepoint?” M said, trying to get her head around the idea of 007 getting waxed, having his nails done.

“She’s gone home with several men.”

“Gone home? You mean as in—”

“007 is a little hussy.”

M wondered if she should pull her—him—no, he was most definitely a her—out, but the mission was too important. “Check in on her,” M said. “Be discreet.”

“No. I was going to walk in and announce I was from MI5.”

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated. Report as soon as you’ve met with her.”

“Out.” Halsey smiled. She knew exactly how she would manage to meet with her little ballerina. It would be so much fun.

Back in London, M looked at the report on her desk. There was a picture of James Bond’s old body, though now he was identified as Nevena. Stamped across the image in bold, red letters was the word DECEASED.