James Blonde 3

Bond easily passed Protocol 9, a series of questions that each member memorized to prove their identity in case of an imposter. When he finished answering the last question, he sat back feeling smug and superior. His robe fell open. M glanced down at his breasts, nestled in his flowery bra. Bond felt a new sense of vulnerability to have her stare so brazenly at his chest. In fact, his chest even tingled and blushed as if his puppies were shy. Doing his best to keep his calm and hide what felt like a specifically feminine discomfort, he casually pulled his robe closed, his long, glossy pink nails flashing. In a further attempt to his newly feminine sense of insecurity, he decided to make a joke. “I’m up here.”

He’d meant it to sound sardonic, but it didn’t sound right, not with this new voice.  There was something defensive and petulant.

“Indeed.” M, for her part, struggled to process the reality her best agent, the legendary James Bond, now inhabited the body of a ballerina. More, she continued to feel some sense of glee in his predicament, some feeling of joy that he was now a she. She raised her eyes to his pretty face—he had such good skin. “It’s you.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Now, can I get some real clothes? I need to find my body.”

“I need you for something else,” M said, curious how he would react. She waited, watching those big, innocent eyes process. He started to speak, then stopped himself. Waited.

“I need you to go undercover as a stripper.”

Bond laughed, thinking it a joke, though it came out now as a silvery giggle. M stared, and as the realization sank in that she wasn’t joking Bond’s his lips parted, his eyes went wide. “You’re serious.”

“We have a chance to capture Dallas Brezini and recover the Codex Infinitum. The owner of the club where he’s holed up has a weakness for young blondes.”

“Young blondes,” Bond whispered, still getting used to the idea he was a young blonde. “There must be another agent?” He said, though as he rummaged through the agents working for M, he knew there weren’t any as young as he now appeared. Nor could he think of an American they might send in his place.

“I don’t need to tell you how critical it is we capture the Codex.”

This just keeps getting better, Bond thought to himself. “I have a counteroffer,” Bond said. ‘I get my body back, then I get the Codex.”

“I have some of our top people looking for Blofeld, your body, his machine. Right now, I need you for this and, besides that, the only way I can get clearance to send you in your current state is because you’re the only one option.”

“Consider if…”

“It’s either this mission or you go on mandatory leave while M15 performs further psychological evaluations. We don’t know if you’ve been brainwashed or otherwise compromised.”

Psychological evaluations? Blofeld had messed with his mind, Bond knew that much. Sitting around on leave while the shrinks discovered he had the hots for men now didn’t seem such a good option.

He stood, slipping the robe off his shoulders and tossing it to the side. As he did so, his bra strap slipped down. He slipped a thumb under the strap and pulled it back up, the weight of his breast pulling it tight against his shoulder once more. “Hail Brittania,” he said. “God save the queen.”

“You always were a man of action,” M said, admiring how quickly this skinny new girl Bond had rallied himself. “Halsey,” she called. Then, she turned her attention back to Bond.  “You’ll be in New York tomorrow and approach the owner of Club Kink about a job.”

Halsey entered.

“What if I don’t get the job?”

Halsey and M both gave Bond a once over and then, in unison, they said, “You’ll get the job.”

Bond glanced at himself in the mirror and shrugged. He was pretty and most certainly a young blonde. “I’ll get the job,” he agreed.

“Let’s go, princess,” Halsey said, giving Bond a punch on the shoulder. “We have a lot to cover.” She headed toward the door.

Bond started to follow, then looked down to see the enticing crescents of his cleaavge rising from his lacy bra. “Can I get something to wear?”

“That’s it,” Halsey said.

“You want me to walk around headquarters in a bra and—” he found that he couldn’t say panties. As a man, there was something he found extra shameful about wearing panties. “—and these?”

Halsey looked at him like he was talking nonsense. “Bond,” she said. “You’re going undercover as a stripper. You’re going to have to get used to showing some skin.”

“But I—” he raised a slender finger, then put it back down. “I’m going to have to get used to it, aren’t I?”

“I’m afraid so,” M said, patting him on the back. “It comes with being a stripper.”

Bond straightened his shoulders against the new weight, tugged at the back of his panties, which had ridden up his crotch a little. “The preferred term,” he said, “is exotic dancer.”

Part 2

James Bond brushed his mascara wand through his lashes one last time, turned his head to the side and examined the long, damp lashes. He felt he’d done a pretty good job, so he carefully put his mascara away and then picked up his lipstick and began to do his lips. His brow furrowed, he concentrated his efforts, making precision strokes that made his already inviting lips even more pillowy and kissable. He’d gotten a crash course in cosmetics during the flight across the pond, but he’d spent his whole life admiring pretty faces, so he felt like he would know if he looked bad. He didn’t. In fact, his  glossy lipstick made his lips shine like he’d just licked them, and he felt a knot in his stomach as he imagined what men would be thinking when they looked at him.

There were two other girls there getting ready for their shifts. Putting on their makeup, fussing with their hair. It was a continuous shock for him as he kept being forced to face the fact he was one of the girls now. He put on the faux glasses that were part of his outfit, got up and went to the full-length mirror, appalled at the coquettish image of feminine innocence he presented.  A plaid, pleated skirt. Knee socks. He had to resist the urge to pull his white, button-down shirt closed. A plaid necktie that matched his skirt dangled between his breasts.

It was a classic stripper costume: the innocent schoolgirl. He was the innocent school girl. It seemed so impossible to him to see himself in that little skirt, his long, bare legs stretching down to a pair of black heels with shiny buckles.  He had a girlish figure with a tiny waist and round and a face accentuated by his wide, bright eyes.

“Gimme the mirror,” one of the other girls said, gently nudging him to the side as she stepped in front of the mirror, hooking a hoop earing into her ear as she looked herself over then primped her hair. She was dressed like Red Riding Hood, but it wasn’t her clothes that most grabbed his attention. It was the fact that she had no interest in him. Since he’d been a boy girls and women had always been drawn to him. Now? Nothing.

“Hey. Girls,” Klein, the owner called. “Let’s go. Chop. Chop.”

Klein had been the one who interviewed him. Bond had come into the man’s office, all smiles and giggles. “You ever danced before?”

“No,” he’d answered. “I mean, I’ve danced, but not on stage, just at clubs and stuff with my friends?” He was speaking fast and had made his voice even a little more squeaky, pretending to be a nervous, insecure young woman. “Did you mean like that dance or dance dance or…”

“No experience. You ever waitressed?”

Bond had been given a crash course in “ditz” deportment. The boss liked liked giggly people pleasers. Bond not only had to play the role of a woman, but what Americans call an airhead.

In answer to Klein’s question, he bit his lip and shook his head. “I’m a fast learner, though. I can—”

“Stand up.”

Bond stood. Jocko began to mentally undress him. Bond felt his skin crawl as he could feel the man’s eyes roaming over his body. “Turn to the side.”

Bond turned to the side.

“Let me see your ass.”

Bond giggled and turned so the man could get a good look at his ass. He was wearing a pair of jeans that looked like they’d been painted on. “Turn back to face me.” Bond did as he was told. “Put your hands on your head, arch your back and tell me you want to be fucked silly with your eyes only.”

Bond knew just what the perv was asking for and draped his arms over his head, arched his back then overcame his revulsion at the request to let his eyes go soft as he looked at Klein but imagined he was looking at—who should he use now that he was like that?-- George Clooney, he decided—naked. His body binged.

“You got a great ass and good little tits,” Klien said.  He opened up his arms and brought Bond in for a hug, pulling him in tight, letting one hand drop to his ass, cupping it and giving it a squeeze. “You’re hired.”

Bond felt revolted. He may have been programmed to find men attractive now, but evidently he wasn’t programmed to find disgusting men attractive. Great ass. Good little tits. The way the man had looked at him and was now just grabbing his ass like it belonged to him—disgusting, and as a man Bond very much wanted to kick the man in the balls for treating a woman like this.

But—God Save The Queen, he thought to himself.

He ignored every urge he had to punish this a-hole and instead hugged back, crushing his breasts against Kleins body, and then squealed, “Omigod,” clapping and hopping up and down, hating himself for it but determined to do what needed to be done to complete his mission.  “Thank you thank you thank you…”

“Yeah… yeah…” Klein said. “Go. Be back at 8. Shift starts at 9.”

Bond dove in to give the man a kiss on the cheek. “You won’t regret this.” He turned and strutted toward the door, his heels clicking. When he glanced over his shoulder one last time before making his exit, he saw Klein had a boner. The sight of it made Bond shiver but not with pleasure. With disgust. He has no right to get turned on by me, Bond thought. He has no right to even think of my body that way. Then, a new very female thought popped into his little blonde head:

I’m way out of his league.

The feeling of the man’s hand on his ass lingered. It was like he’d left a heat mark that kept throbbing, and the feeling was one of shame and violation. All the more reason to get out of this body, Bond thought, as he headed back to the modest apartment the agency had acquired for him. All the more reason.

Now, he headed toward the curtain that separated the dressing room from the club. The walls shook slightly from the thumping of the music. He hesitated, surprised to find his heart racing, his breath shallow. He was afraid, but of what? Riding Hood shoved past him and through the curtain. Bond tightened  his jaw and followed, determined to face whatever this nameless fear was he’d just experienced.

When he’d come to interview the club had been lit up with pale, industrial light. It was now dark, lit with a kind of dim blue light. The formerly empty tables were now crowded with men, and their eyes all fell on Bond, lewd smiles on the faces as they brazenly ogled his slender body. Their eyes were hard and cold, like a shark’s, and that same sense of fear he’d felt at the curtain grew stronger. It was a distinctly female fear, he now realized, and a response to the pent up threat in certain men.

The room smelled heavily of men. It was a smell he hadn’t noticed so much when he was a man, himself, but now in this woman’s body he was constantly aware of the deep, earthy musk men gave off and which seemed to intensify when they were aroused. His nose tingled, but instead of feeling excited himself as he had with the security guard, Bond could feel his skin tighten in disgust. These were by and large unattractive men—not only were they ugly, but vulgar, simple, savage. Men, he thought, are gross.

On stage one of the other girls was twirling around the pole, topless, while some of the clients howled and threw money at her. Bond started to work his table. Despite his general dislike for these gross men, he smiled a bright, pretty smile, tossed his hair. The guys loved to flip his skirt up, and he fought back to urge to punch them, instead giggling and making a surprised face, “You’re so bad!”

The persistent feeling that none of this was real grew stronger. Bond found himself detached, as if he were floating above the scene, watching himself flirt and giggle and smile and toss his long blonde hair. He couldn’t be a girl, wearing a skirt, working as a waitress at some low-grade burlesque.  He was James Bond. He was 007. Licensed to kill.

“Hey boys,” he said, leaning down to a table of what looked like college aged guys, who were at least cute. Leaning forward like that gave them a nice look at Bond’s breasts. His cheeks ached from smiling all night. “What can I get you?”

“How about a lap dance?” One of the guys said, and his friend all guffawed.

“I can have one of the girls come over for that,” Bond said, keeping his voice high pitched, breathy.

“I want one from you,” the guy said.

“The waitresses don’t…”

He felt the man’s hand latch onto his wrist like a vise, and then he was yanked off his feet, onto the man’s lap. “Hey!” Bond shrieked as the man planted a hot, wet kiss on his neck. “Let me go!” His body lit up with every reaction to danger a girl could feel as the guy slipped a hand under his skirt and the other men hooped and hollered. He struggled but was helpless, and then he heard a deep voice say, “Let her go.”

“Fuck off, buddy before…”

Shards of glass flew everywhere as a bottle smashed over the kid’s head. Bond felt himself once more grabbed, lifted, pulled from the lap of the frat boy and into the arms of the man, who wrapped one strong arm protectively around Bond’s waist and half carried him away from the table as the bouncers threw the kids out.

“You okay?” The man said, now moving Bond slightly away so Bond could look up at him, but keeping one hand resting on the curve of Bond’s soft hip. Having this man move him, direct him—it gave Bond chills. Bond’s eyes rose up to the man’s face and he gasped. He saw—handsome like he’d never seen before. Bond’s mouth went dry. He felt his entire body blush. This was a man. Tall, with broad shoulders and a jaw that could shatter granite. The fact the man had just rescued him played into Bond’s newly feminine psyche in ways he couldn’t understand, and this man smelled so good. It was his cologne. Bond wanted to take a bath in it.

“I—think so,” Bond said gazing up adoringly at his savior.

“Come,” the man said, taking Bond’s small, soft hand in his own. “You need a momebt to collect yourself. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“I’m on the clock, my boss—” Bond said, terrified at the raw, female need that overwhelmed him in the presence of this man.

‘I’m personal friends with him. You’ll be fine. Come. I insist.”

“Very well,” Bond said, floating along with this gorgeous hunk of man. He would follow that deep voice anywhere—a voice, he thought, like chocolate.

The man led Bond to a private table in the corner of the club. “Dallas,” the man said. “And what is the name of the lovely creature standing before me?”

The words Bond, James Bond almost came out by force of habit, but he remembered. “Nevena,” he said.

The man cupped Bond’s cheek. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

Bond giggled and tossed his hair. He wasn’t acting now. Then, the man kissed him, a long, lingering kiss full of mystery and promise, palm trees and moonlit oceans. Bond had never been kissed like that. It curled his toes. Took his breath away. He’s so confident, Bond thought as he lingered hungrily in that kiss. So bold.

When the kiss ended Dallas rubbed his thumb on Bond’s soft cheek, stared into his eyes. Bond’s eye went soft. He didn’t need to think of George Clooney.