Taylor Galen Kadee

James B(l)onde 8

(For story with images see PDF below)

James Bond, 007, leaned forward, puckered his lips and brushed on his favorite shade of lipstick. Done, he practiced his smile, turning his head side to side, appreciating how pretty he was from every angle. “Were I  man right now I would be quite smitten with myself.”

As much as his routine varied these days from his days as a man, he still felt the same sense of calm heading into an operation. It was something he was known for, a trait that had helped propel him to among the best of men in Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

He got up and checked himself out in the full-length mirror. “I feel sorry for the men,” he said with a giggle, admiring his long, dancer’s legs, his taut tummy, the swell of his breasts in his lacy red bra. Blowing himself a final kiss, he spun on his heels and headed toward the door, enjoying the feeling of his ponytail bobbing as he walked.

His eyes swept across the lounge, the dark, cool lounge. With practiced eyes, he evaluated the crowd and sighed. They looked like a good crowd, a money crowd, and he regretted he’d be missing out on the tips. The room smelled of whiskey and sex, and the other girls roamed among tables of men like goddesses.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Mario, the bartender said as Bond came to clock on.

“Hey, stud,” Bond said with a bright smile. The smile wasn’t fake. He loved compliments. As Bond clocked in, he arched his back, lifting his behind and giving it a shake. He loved teasing Mario.

“Baby, you’re killing me,” Mario said.

“I know,” Bond said with a smirk as he headed into the lounge and started flirting with the men, taking drink orders.  In order to make it easier for him to play his role, he didn’t know when or who would be the one to stage the “molesting action,” as M had come to call it. It was vital his target, Dallas Brezeni, believed Bond was, indeed, a damsel in distress. Dallas was notoriously cautious and was known to be ever on guard, so Bond needed to be convincingly scared. This was not a strength. But, Bond being Bond, he’d prepared.

A few days earlier, he’d been talking to Jewel and had casually brought up the subject. “I want to be able to manipulate my boyfriend,” he said.  “But I never really learned how to cry on demand. Is there–”

“Oh, honey, you came to the right girl. I got this.”

For the next few days, Bond practiced crying until he could summon the tears in mere seconds. It was a vital skill, he decided. For a woman.

It was near midnight when it happened. Bond was leaning forward at a table of five middle aged guys, laughing as he placed their drinks on the table. He felt a hand slide between his thighs and up under his skirt, cupping his sex, while a second hand locked around his neck. Bond didn’t have to act as much as he expected. He felt violated at having this man grab him in such an intimate way, and the feeling of that arm around his neck also immediately provoked him to want to make a judo move and throw the man.

Yet, that wasn’t the plan. Instead, he screamed. Not a word, but just a formless scream, a scream so full of feminine terror every decent man in the room stood and prepared to protect him.

Bond felt fingers pushing past his panties and into him. He screamed again, thinking, “I am going to beat the shit out of whoever this is after this is over.” The man lifted Bond off his feet and turned him. Bond saw all the men rising and thought two conflicting thoughts– I’m so hot and- NO!

“Get your hands off her,” one of the middle-aged dudes said, raising a fist.

Blast, Bond thought. Blast. Blast. He couldn’t see Dallas. It hadn’t worked. Dallas hadn’t risen to protect him. What a pussy, Bond thought, irritated. I thought he was more–

It sounded like an explosion and shards of glass flashed across Bond’s line of sight. He found himself released, falling to the ground. Looking up, he saw Dallas smash his fists into the other man’s face and body–  oh, it’s 003– and as Dallas went at it, Bond let the tears flow, sobbing as his vision blurred.

He felt a hand cup his chin and tilt his head back. He looked up at Dallas through tear blurred eyes. “Take me hand,” Dallas said in a deep, calm voice.

Bond took the man’s hand. Dallas helped him to his feet, then drew him in for a hug, holding him tight. “You’re okay,” Dallas said. “I got you.”

Bond hugged back, then in his prettiest little girl voice said, “I was so scared.”

Dallas looked into Bond’s eyes. Bond stared back, parting his lips, letting Dallas see just a hint of his pink tongue. For a moment, Bond thought it had all been for nothing, that Dallas was going to just send him on his way, but then he smiled, sucking in on his check to deepen his dimples, and before he could even speak Dallas grunted and said, “come with me” putting his hand on the small of Bond’s back and guiding him to the stairs and then down… down… down… to the basement, to the room, the win. Bond resisted the urge to smile.

Dallas led him into the room and told him to sit. Bond sat, feeling himself buzzing. He loved the way Dallas was taking charge. M had emphasized that he didn’t need to sleep with Dallas. In fact, he had a special lip wand tucked into his cleavage. It was a tranquilizer that would put Dallas out so Bond could steal the Codex. The thing was– Dallas was a fucking stud, and Bond really wanted to sleep with him. What a win that would be.

Bond used his eyes to tell Dallas he was down to fuck, then he said, “I need to freshen up” in that same, breathy, sex little voice.

Dallas nodded toward a door Bond assumed was the bathroom. Bond got up and headed toward the door. He felt Dallas’ desire, sensed the man’s eyes enjoying the sight of his body. The bathroom was plain, old tile, corroded fixtures, a dirty mirror. The first chink in his armor, Bond thought as he fished the lipstick wand out of his cleavage. He couldn’t understand how so many men were okay with gross bathrooms.

Brushing some stray hairs away from his cheeks, he opened the lipstick and puckered, looking in the mirror. The lipstick was infallible and fast. He was, of course, immune thanks to a shot, but one kiss and Dallas would be sleeping like a baby. Too bad I can’t sleep with him first, Bond thought. He could tell when a guy was great at making love, and his skin tingled when he anticipated just how amazing Dallas would make him feel.

He raised the wand toward his lips.

Stopped. Put the wand back in the tube and winked. Could you really blame a girl?

He slipped out of everything but his bra and panties, took his hair down and mussed it. Then, he opened the door and stepped out, his every movement sleek and feminine. Once Dallas noticed him– and did he ever notice him– Bond struck a feminine pose with one knee slight raised, a hand on his hip while he used the other to touch his cheek. He met Dallas’ eyes and then dropped his own gaze, looking down and away– showing his submissiveness, letting Dallas look him over.

Dallas didn’t speak. He approached, grabbed Bond and pulled him in for a kiss like none Bond had ever had. Bond lifted one peg, pressing it against Dallas’ side while grinding against him. Dallas grabbed his ass and picked him up, then carried him to the bed, tossing him down as if he weighed no more than a feather.

Bond intended to pose and flirt, but Dallas was on him like lightning, He grabbed Bond’s panties and tore them off, tossing them across the room, then snapping his bra instead of unhooking it, then he began to kiss Bond on the breasts, squeezing, touching… the two rolling, entwined, Bond completely and totally lost in passion. “Get on your hands and knees,” Dallas groaned.

Bond bit his lip and rolled over, getting on his hands and knees. He looked back over his shoulder and smiled, eye gleaming with anticipation. Dallas slapped him on the ass. 007 moaned softly, thinking, this is going to be fun.

After, Bond lay panting in the sweat soaked sheets, one slender arm over his eyes. He could hear Dallas snoring, and as much as he found himself consumed with a need to cuddle, he had a mission to do. He got up as quietly as he could and went to the safe where MI6 believed the Codex was kept. Getting it out without anyone knowing- anyone other than Dallas, that is– was vitally important. MI6 did not want anyone to be certain who had the Codex. Tiptoeing to the safe, Bond knelt and put his ear to the door, beginning to turn the dial, listening to the metallic reaction of the tumbler.

He glanced nervously over at Dallas, the man’s hard, muscular chest rising and falling. Dallas was a big, powerful man. Having just been ravished by the man, Bond knew he had no chance in a physical confrontation. All the training in the world wasn’t going to make a skinny little girl like him a match for a man like that.

Click. He had the first number. He kept working.

Dallas snorted and rolled onto his side, his face still facing Bond. James Bond froze. Waited. Dallas muttered something but seemed to remain asleep. Bond went back to cracking the safe, keeping his ear on the steel and his eyes on Dallas.

Click. He had the second number.

Creak. Creak. Bond froze and, with a strange noise now entering the mix, he had to take his head away from the safe, now sitting up like a doe looking for danger. The sounds were coming from the stairs. Someone was coming down.

Bond considered. He could climb back in bed… go into the bathroom… or keep working, hoping he could get the combination before whoever was coming down the stairs knocked. Woke up Dallas.

The first two choices were safe. The third choice was Bond.

He hooked his hair and put his ear back to the steel. Completely tuning out the footsteps and every distraction, he focused only on cracking the safe. The whole word was just him and the safe…   

Creak. Creak.

Click.

Got it! Bond carefully turned the thick, steel handle. He turned it, and there was a thunk, which he didn’t have time to worry about. Using his body weight, he pulled the safe door open, the sight of the codex, An ancient tome with a leather cover and thick, rough edged yellow pages,  giving him a small sense of triumph. The footsteps were almost to the bottom of the stairs now. He had only seconds. Lifting the codex– wow. It was heavier than he expected. He got up, sliding the codex under the bed and– oh, hell. He’d forgotten to close the safe. Glancing over at the door, he could see shadows. Whoever it was stood there now– waiting. For what?

Bond pushed the safe closed, hurried back to the bed and climbed in. Following his instincts, instead of trying to sneak in without waking Dallas, instead he shook the man. “Hunh?” Dallas said. “What?”

“There’s someone outside the door,” Bond whispered, trying to sound as scared as possible.

Just then, whoever it was pounded on the door. Three distinct knocks.

“Yeah?” Dallas called.

“There’s someone asking about you,” he heard Misty say.

“Tell them to fuck off.”

“But–”

“Tell him to fuck off.”

Silence. Shuffling. “He told me you would say that, and I should say Zardoz.”

“Oh, hell,” Dallas said, mostly to himself. He rubbed Bond’s shoulder. “Listen, babe, I need to take care of this.  You can stay and sleep here, but you need to skedaddle in the morning. I don’t do brunch.”

Bond pouted. “But I love brunch.”

Dallas didn’t answer. He just rolled out of bed and threw on some clothes, headed out the door. Misty peeked in as soon as the door opened and caught Bond’s eye. She smiled and made a small nod of respect. You go girl.

Bond smiled back to say, yeah. Girl got lucky.

Dallas left. Bond threw on his clothes, grabbed the codex. Before he’d even started working at the club, he’d seen the blueprints for the building. He’d also done his own reconnaissance. There was a back exit that led to the alley behind the club. Hugging the massive codex to his chest, he got out of the room, headed down the hall, which was lit only by a single, flickering bulb. Too many shadows. Too much darkness. Bond’s female instincts kicked he as he found himself anxious, hyper-aware. It was a physical reaction– he was a skinny little female now, and there could be anyone lingering in the shadows.

Once he’d climbed the stairs and made his way into the thankfully deserted alley, he leaned against the wall and took off one of his Mary Janes. Turning the heel, he activated the tracking sensor. MI6 would be here any minute. Bond took in his surroundings. Dark. Deserted. The stench of rotting garbage from a dumpster overflowing with trash. A rat sitting on its back legs, holding a piece of a bagel in its little paws, munching happily.

Voices. Drunk voices. Male voices. Two guys– 20s- came around the corner and headed into the alley. As soon as they saw Bond their eyes raked over his  body, and even in the dark he could see the lust in their eyes, felt his body tense. Just keep walking, Bond thought, avoiding eye contact.

Of course, the guys walked right up to him. “Hey. You’re the girl from the club,” one of the guys said.

Bond just half waved. “Yeah.”

“You’re fucking hot as hell,” one of the guys said, stepping closer.

The other guy touched Bond’s hair. “You blonde all over?” He asked.

“Fuck you,” Bond said, grossed out and annoyed, slapping the man’s hand away.

“Hey. Don’t be a bitch,” the guy said, now invading Bond’s space, his face almost touching Bond’s.

I can probably take this guy,  Bond thought. But I don’t know if I can take them both. Where are the guys? He wondered. Where was MI6? The man reached toward Bond’s face. He got ready to make what was his most reliable move: kneeing the guy in the balls.

“Babe? Doll? Everything okay?”

The two guys looked to see the hulking presence of 009 coming down the alley. He stood over six feet, with broad shoulders and a square jaw, his hat pulled down low, a cigar clenched in his jaw and flaring as he walked, a cloud of smoke trailing behind him.

The guys assessed, then turned and walked away.

“You okay?” 009 said.

Bond couldn’t help himself. He fitted his body into 009’s, putting a hand on the  man’s chest, sighing with relief.  “I’m fine. Thanks.” The danger gone, the excitement remained, and Bond found himself wondering how good 009 was in bed.

Part II

Bond found himself once more on one of the MI6 planes, being jetted back to base. He had a martini in hand, his legs crossed demurely in his little skirt, and he was laughing and tossing his hair as 009 told stories about his recent mission in Liechtenstein. The intercom buzzed. “M wants a briefing.”

Bond tossed back the rest of his drink and rolled his eyes. “Be right back,” he said as he stood and made his way back to the secure briefing room.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” 009 said, watching those long legs flash as Bond sashayed down the aisle. He could barely believe this flirty little sex bomb was James Bond. It had to be some sort of mistake.

M, back in her office, listened as Bond recounted the end of the mission. She actually didn’t need a briefing right that moment, but she’d been curious as to how Bond was mentally. He seemed fine to her– though not fine at the same time. He was talking like a girl now– not because of his soft voice, but with the sing song cadences of a young woman. The thing was, he was no longer under cover. M decided not to mention it, nor the fact that Bond was now stuck in his new body. She preferred to tell him face to face. Meanwhile– “I sent along a chance of clothes,” she said. “Something more modest.”

Bond frowned. “Oh, these are fine, he said, gesturing at his schoolgirl uniform.

“007,” M said, “you’re dressed as a slutty schoolgirl.”

“I am well aware,” Bond said. “Over and out.” He ended the call. He liked the idea of strutting into headquarters dressed like this, driving all the guys and more than a few of the girls crazy. Once he was back in his own body, he felt it would be a good story and would show everyone that he was utterly unfazeable. “I’m Bond,” he said to himself, adjusting a bra strap. James Bond. 00sexy.” 

Once more, the agents and contractors crowded the hallway, all eager to get a glimpse of James Blonde, as they’d started to call him. No one could believe what they saw. He came strutting down the hall in a pleated skirt, knee socks and Mary Janes a young woman who exuded complete and total and feminine confidence.  Bond put an extra swivel in his hips, had perfected a smooth, heel-to-to-toe walk that made it seem as if he were floating along the ground, and he had a bright, pretty smile on his face, sparkling, vicarious eyes.

He heard mumbled comments and smiled. “I can’t believe his walk…”  “I know, right? He’s so pretty… I wish I had legs like that… is this some kind of prank? She can’t be James Bond, right? No way.”

It was fun to play all this up, especially knowing he would soon be a man once more.

Bond floated into M’s office, tossing his hair and offering a fingertip wave, sitting and smoothing his skirt under him in one smooth motion.  “M.” He folded his hands in his lap, looking the very image of the prim and proper schoolgirl. “I confess. I was smoking in the girls’ room.”

M couldn’t even bring herself to chuckle. Despite Bond’s flippant attitude she had bad news to deliver, news she felt would not be easy for the man to hear, no matter how comfortable he’d gotten wearing a skirt.

Bond saw the dire look in M’s eyes. “Problem?”

“James, I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m going to just come right out and say it. We found your body. It’s deceased.”

The smile melted from Bond’s face. “My body?” The meaning sunk in, the reality. He tugged on the hem of his skirt. The Bond calm prevailed. “So, I’m to be a woman, then?”

“Yes.” M watched, wondering if Bond could take it, if he would snap. For a moment, just a hint of a moment, she thought Bond might cry– there was that look in his eye, but it passed quickly, replaced by a devil may care pirate smile. “What’s a girl have to do to get a drink around here?”

M grinned. “Same old Bond.”

“Same old Bond,” James said, fishing his cell phone out of his purse and checking his makeup. “Shaken, not stirred.”

Alpha Male Rising Illustrated

Everlass 18

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Rough Cut from Everlass 18

This is a render for Everlass 18, which I'm working on now for release tomorrow (6/20). The Chicas are getting in on the action! Tune in tomorrow to see how this looks after I do some work on it (like add a background).

Lex in Love?

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9 Dollar Bonus: Sneak Peek!

Here are some work in progress pics for a soon to be released project. This is a special sneak peek for my $9 folks. Thanks for your support and enjoy!

Title. Five Words. Go.

Hep me come up with a title. It can be no more than five words. Have fun!

Feminism Now!

Enchantress and her squad of mean girls have decided men need to go, and they are starting with Batman!

Girl Problems

"Tony, Reed" Hank said. "I have a proposition I think you may find interesting."

"Hit me," Tony said, slipping a thumb into his shirt collar and adjusting his bra strap.

"I'm listening." Reed tugged at the base of his bra, which had ridden up under his breasts.

"We all have... developed... into busty young women... People have even started calling me The Breast instead of the Beast."

Tony chuckled, then shrugged, gesturing at his own D cups. "I'm laughing in sympathy. The other day someone called me Iron Tits."

"Rude!" Hank said. "Anyway, what if the three of us work together to create a true 21st century wonder bra? A bra that provides comfort and support? I think the world would--"

"I'm in." Tony said.

'Me, too." Reed agreed.

Hank sat back. "I didn't think it would be that easy to get you on board."

"It's appalling that science hasn't built a better bra," Reed said.

"So sexist." Tony nodded, hooking his hair behind his ear. "If men had to wear bras, they'd have set up a Manhattan Project for brassieres."

"We're proof of that," Hank said. "So, should we get together and brainstorm?"

"I'll bring the wine," Reed said.

"I'll make snacks," Tony said, getting excited. "I found this great new recipe. You girls are gonna love it."

Butterfly and Wolf: illustrated!

NSFW!

Here is the latest of my "classic" stories to receive illustrations! This is from a list of stories that readers have requested. If you would have one, let me know. I hope to get to all of the requests over time! Comments and Likes appreciated!

Also, if you prefer the original text-only version, you can find it here or in the Mege folder under BOOKS.

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.

Mermaid Problems!

When Aquaman makes a joke about a group of local mermaids, they decide he should find out what it's like to swim a mile in a seashell bra. Now, he'll have to get the prince to kiss him unless he wants to spend the rest of his life as a girl!

June Mega Link!

Thanks, everyone, for your support! Here is the link for June:

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

https://mega.nz/folder/kmgACTZJ

Decrypt: sNWCQQ5xhZ42gbeotOsuaw

Strange Records Homage

Hey, folks. This short video is a homage to the Strange Records series by Meowwithme. I am a fan anyway of the forced salon makeover subgenre and Strange Records were among the best.

Security Man Collins

Big, burly Security Man Collins finds himself transformed into a diminutive blond and discovers a whole new life he could never have imagined. Coming Soon! (When Bond is done.)

Inspired the The Procrustean Petard, a classic TG story from an anthology that came out long ago!

Trancers 5

Likes and Comments appreciated!

James Blonde Promo

This is a promotional poster I made for the Bond stories. I think a few of you might enjoy this, no?

These buds are for you!

Exposed to a rare and exotic plant while capturing Poison Ivy, the boys bust out!

James B(l)ond 6

“Stay away from me,” Bond cried out as he backed away from the menacing pirate. “My father has money. Gold.” Bond’s heart pounded; his breasts heaved. The pirate grinned, a sideways slash of a smile, as his eyes surveyed Bond’s face, his body. “He’ll pay you.”

 “I have gold, missy,” the pirate growled, creeping closer. “But I’ve never had a princess.”

Bond gasped as the pirate made his dark intent clear. ‘No,” he whispered, backing further away until he bumped against the table. “Please.” Keeping his eyes on the hulking pirate, he reached back with a small, trembling hand and grasped a candlestick. “I– I have jewels! You could buy a whole island and–”

“You’re the only jewel I have my eyes on,” the pirate said, now stepping so close Bond could smell the sweet, dark rum on his breath. He ran his finger along the edge of Bond’s bodice, his finger tracing the soft flesh of Bond’s breast. “You’re very fair,” the pirate said. “I want to see all of you.” With a powerful move, he tore the top of Bond’s dress off, leaving him in his corset.

“Eeee!” Bond squeaked. He had the candlestick in his hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to swing it. He was too terrified of this big, powerful man. The man moved even closer, their faces almost touching, his hot breath on Bond’s neck. Bond turned his face away, and the pirate started to kiss him on the neck, to suck softly on his skin. The sucking brought a white hot, feminine flame of rage. Bond barred his teeth, finding the strength to overcome his fear. “Stop that,” he said, tightening his grip on the candlestick, “before you give me a hickey!” He swung the candlestick, intending the strike his molester on the head, then run… run… run…

Instead, the pirate caught his wrist and easily bent Bond’s arm back, forcing him to drop the candlestick. He laughed as he pushed forward, now moving in for a kiss. “You know you want it,” Black beard growled.

“No….” Bond whimpered even as he did want it. His little body burned with desire, but not for this man. He grinned. He’d had this fantasy before. “Take your hands off me!” He said, trying to put some force behind his little voice.

“I must decline to acquiesce,” Blackbeard said. “For I long to taste those lips…” He was about to kiss Bond when a deep, booming voice shouted, “unhand the lady, scoundrel.”

“Dallas!” Bond cried out as his hero came swinging down from somewhere.

“Yar!” Blackhead shouted, drawing his cutlass. “You’ll be regretting your decision to interrupt my romancin this lassie!”

“Yield, villain!” Dallas shouted.

Bond bit his lip. He needed to speed things up. Blackbeard lay on the ground, unconscious. Bond ran to Dallas and threw himself into the most perfect man’s arms. “You saved me!”

Hugs and kisses… and then Bond jumped ahead to the two of them in bed “getting to know each other” and then Bond on his side, grinning, Dallas spooning him, one arm draped over Bond’s waist. Bond was a hit it and quit it girl, but things were different with Dallas– at least in his fantasies. They spent a lot of time cuddling and also– “We should get brunch,” Dallas said.

“Oh. I love brunch,” Bond said as his fantasy once again fast forwarded, and he imagined the two of them sitting together at a sidewalk cafe sipping mimosas and– of course– they were the hottest, best dressed couple on the street.

Back in the real world, Bond lay in bed, feeling a warm, satisfied glow. He giggled. His fantasies seemed so ridiculous– he was a super spy! But, well, it just seemed these helpless maiden fantasies were part of his psychology now that he was a woman. Even more so since Halsey had come up with the plan for Dallas to rescue him and had suggested he would be a “damsel in distress.” He loved pretending he was princess now and imagining all kinds of scenarios where Dallas rescued him. Imagining himself as completely and totally helpless gave him the sexiest chills. 

“Oh, my God,” he whispered, raising his voice to an even higher pitch. “Save me.” He plucked at his long, blonde hair and giggled some more. “I’m just a girl!” Women, he thought, we make no sense. It didn’t make sense to him, to the man he’d been– enjoying the feeling of being helpless– but it didn’t need to make sense. It just felt soooo good. That’ he’d decided, was also part of being a woman. He no longer obsessed so much on making sense of things. Now, he relied more on his emotions and if it felt good it was good.

Who cared if it made sense?

I think I’ll miss that, he decided Being so much more in touch with my emotions. There were more than a few things he would miss about his woman’s life, he had to admit, as much as it surprised him. He looked at his oval nails– the glossy red nail polish. Yes, as much as it, too, made no sense, he would miss getting his nails done. He’d never understood why women were so obsessed with their nails, and he still didn’t, but he was all about pretty nails now. It would all go away once he was a man again, he thought, with a dramatic sigh. 

I certainly won’t miss my princess fantasies. They are so weird.

Glancing at the clock, he squeaked. He needed to get to yoga. Going to the bathroom, he reached down and found the string, pulling out his tampon and tossing it in the trash can, letting the lid close. He shivered, grossed out. One man thing that still hadn’t passed was that he found everything related to Aunt Flo disgusting. He hated even the sight of a box of tampons, and even the plastic wrappers gave him the creeps. He’d never understood it, but it was just a guy thing. Maybe it was because women on the rag were so annoying and unstable and–

Well, he was a woman on the rag now, but it didn’t seem to have made much difference in his attitude toward “feminine protection.” It still grossed him out. The rest was annoying as the concepts of cramps and bloating were no longer theoretical. As he put his hair up, he thought– thank god for Midol.

Turning on the shower, he flicked the water with his fingertips, waiting for it to get warm. He’d been surprised to discover he seemed even more horny when he was on the rag. He’d always thought girls got less horny when they were menstruating, but he sure wasn’t. Halsey had packed for him when he’d first come to the city, and she’d bought everything a girl would buy, including Crumbl, which smelled like strawberry crumb cake and promised “soft, radiant skin.” Bond took a deep breath, enjoying the pretty fragrance. He no longer snorted at the promises of soft, radiant skin. His days of making fun of women for obsessing on their skin were over– he totally got it now.

Shower done, he toweled off, gritted his teeth and tore open the plastic cover on a fresh tampon, slipping it in with an easy motion that had become just as natural and practiced as putting on a bra had become for the former man. Then, leggings, sports bra, mules. He checked himself out in the mirror, switched to a different bra, tightened his ponytail. Even before he pulled open the upper left-hand drawer on his dresser, his heart fluttered. One of his greatest treasures lie within that drawer, something he wasn’t sure he could live without.

He pulled open the drawer, feeling all warm and tingly as his eyes played across his brand-new Prada Belt Bag. He rubbed his fingertips over the cool leather, then picked up his prized possession and breathed in the sweet smell of brand new bag. “Omigod,” he whispered. “You complete me.”

He’d paid over $800 dollars for the bag and part of him felt guilty and ridiculous, but as soon as he’d seen Kylie Jenner wearing one on the red carpet at Cannes, he’d known he wanted and needed it to feel complete. It seemed like a lot of money for a purse, but he made great money as a dancer, so why shouldn’t he splurge on himself now and then?  He glanced around the dresser top, to the closet at his growing collection of dresses and skirts, shoes and jewelry.  “Now and then,” he reminded himself. “And now and then.” His eyes fell on the purses he had on the shelves of his walk-in closet. Did a guy really need five different bags? Yes, he answered himself without hesitation. He needed bags to match his outfits, the occasions, the time of day. A guy could easily use 10 different purses. It’s so obvious, Bond thought, trying to convince himself his burgeoning purse obsession was totally normal. I don’t make the rules, he thought. It’s not my fault nothing ever has any POCKETS!!!!!

Part II

“Hey, Nevena,” Josie, the yoga instructor said as she made the rounds before class. She put a hand on Bond’s smooth shoulder and said, “work on them boobs, girl.”

Bond’s eyes sparkled. “Hey, Josie,” he said in the extra feminine “girls only” voice he’d learned to use when talking only with women. “Does this even work?”  He had his palms pressed together, was squeezing his pecs, relaxing then squeezing again. “Maybe I should just get implants?” It was all part of the act, he told himself. Of course, he didn’t really want bigger boobs. What guy would ever want bigger boobs? In fact, he’d developed something of a complicated relationship with his breasts— most of the time they just seemed in the way—bouncy balls of flesh he has to carry around all day. Yet, they were sooooo useful for ensnaring men that they really did make up for it.

“Of course it works,” Josie said. “But don’t forget to pray to your fairy godmother.”

“Or should that be Boob Fairy?” Bond asked. He could barely acknowledge it to himself, but he did sometimes find himself feeling jealous of women with bigger breasts. All the more reason he needed to get this mission done and get out of this body and this life. What’s next he thought, continuing his bust building exercises, am I going to want to have a baby? He snickered at the thought.

Later, Bond found himself digging deep, focusing all his will power. You can do this, Bond told himself. Don’t give up. The class had been holding chair pose for what seemed like forever. His glutes were burning, his thighs, but there was no way he was ever going to give up. I beat Goldfinger and all the rest, he reminded himself. I took down Quantum Solace. He played back some of his greatest challenges, drawing strength from the times he’d won fights against all odds, like when he’d beaten the hulking freak with metal teeth—jaws. I am James Bond, he reminded himself, fighting the burn.  I am going to have a hot ass!

“Down dog,” Josie said in  her soft, sign song yoga voice.

Bond and the rest of the girls sighing with relief. When class ended, he and some of the other girls went for coffee. As they walked down the street in their yoga gear, heads turned, guys gawked, and the same happened when they walked into the coffee shop. They all pretended not to notice. Bond was happy to have such pretty friends. He was one of the hot girls. It was good to be pretty and have hot girl friends. They sat down and chatted as they sipped their drinks.

It had been a totally new experience to just talk to woman without all the sex stuff getting in the way. Like most men, he hadn’t been big on talking to women. Flirting with women? Yes, but not talking to them. Now he’d become something of a chatty Cathy. After a good gab session with the girls, he had this warm glow that was almost as good as sex. Taking a moment to sip his latte, listening to the sound of the girls’ soft voices, so vibrant and full of life, devoid of the macho posturing that came with guy talk, he knew he would miss all this once he was a man again.

It was actually fun sometimes to be a girl, he admitted, then plastered a smile on his face as a cramp hit. Sometimes it was fun, he thought, once more cringing at the feeling of having a wad of cotton shoved up his wazoo. Sometimes it was just weird.

The conversation turned to men—what about guys drove his girlfriends nuts for good and bad. Bond smiled and nodded, sitting back from this one. He wondered how these girls would feel about him if they knew he was a man. He’d wondered the same thing about some of the guys he’d slept with. His gut feeling was that it would not be well-received.

When he got home, he still had a few hours before his shift. He slipped out of his bra and changed out out of his leggings, pulling on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. He decided to go braless for the rest of the day. Even though his breasts were tender from his period, it was nice to be able to breathe a little more freely. He stretched and gave his breasts a shake, then plopped down in his wicker chair thinking he might do some online shopping, but then his phone rang– the phone. This was a special line used only by MI6. Bond went into the bathroom, which had been sound-proofed so his neighbors wouldn’t accidentally hear something. He hooked his hair behind his ear and lifted the phone. “Bond,” he said.

On the other end of the line, M raised an eyebrow. It was still odd to hear this young girl call herself “Bond” in that pretty little voice. Weirded still to know she was James Bond. “Everything is a go for Operation Damsel tonight,” M said.

Bond grimaced as his cheeks flushed. If M could have seen him, she would have said he looked cute, but, of course, these days Bond was chronically cute. He couldn’t help himself with those big, innocent eyes.

“I think we should postpone a few days,” Bond said, deeply ashamed. “I– well–...”

“What is it?” M said, puzzled, not sure how to read that sparkly little voice.

“It’s embarrassing.”

“You’re James Bond.”

Bond swallowed, knowing this would probably get all over MI6. Well, he was a woman, so it wasn’t going to be a total surprise he was having his lady days. “I’m having my– my period,” he whispered.

“Oh,” M said, surprised. Of course, as a woman Bond would have periods, and yet it still seemed  impossible James Bond, 007, was riding the cotton pony. Still, this was time for an important life lesson, especially now that she knew Bond would be spending the rest of his life as a member of the fairer sex. “Miss Bond,” M said, putting on her serious, boss voice. “One thing you need to learn about being a woman– we endure. Operation Damsel is on for tonight, sweetie. If you’re worried about leaking, use a pad.”

“Damn,” Bond whispered, twisting a strand of his hair around his fingers. He was hoping to get a good role in the hay with Dallas before his hunky dream man got hauled off to prison. “I’ll just have to wear a lot of perfume,” he decided. “And hope for good timing.” Ugh. 007 couldn’t help but reflect on the cruelty of the universe. Here he finally had a chance to sleep with the hunkiest guy ever and he was on the rag.

Great.

Well, it was what it was and--

Oh, yeah. There was one more thing. He went to the medicine cabinet and found his birth control pills. He wouldn’t be in this body much longer but getting pregnant and then leaving Nevena to deal with it, well—it wasn’t something a gentleman should do. He popped the pill and swallowed it down with a glass of water.

“I will endure,” he whispered, imagining Dallas’ hard, naked body. “Women endure.”

Mr. Mom

A short comic! Thanks everyone for your support. Coming in the next week-- a new Bond chapter and a new Trancers chapter!

Likes and Comments appreciated!

Ginger Twins

After Superman and Batman find themselves transformed into twin girls, Lex Luthor convinces them to give up their superhero lives to pursue modelling careers. "You can do more good using your pretty smiles to promote your favorite causes," Lex explained. "And you won't have to worry about breaking a nail."

Supermom

After exposure to a rare form of kryptonite, Superman not only pops out his own pair of D cups but finds himself producing mother's milk. When it turns out his super milk can save the lives of 100s of sick babies, the Man of Steel must decide if he's man enough to become Wetnurse to the World!

Inspire the Troops!

Now a dame, Captain America is sent back in time to WWII to inspire the troops. "Should I make a speech?" He asks. Nah. Just smile, giggle and toss your hair.

James B(l)onde 5

Halsey pulled her fedora down low, letting it ride just above her eyebrows. She’d tucked her hair under the hat. Looking in the mirror, she frowned and narrowed her eyes. “You talkin’ to me?” She said, lowering and flattening her voice, doing a solid “male” voice. “You talking to me?”

She giggled and checked her watch– it was a thick, man’s watch with a face she could actually read. “I’m running– early?” She said. Of course. It was so much easier getting ready in guy mode–  no makeup, hair was easy, didn’t need to worry about her nails. She did have one more thing to put on as part of her disguise: a mustache. She glued it to her upper lip- a big, bushy mustache—and then she checked herself out. She’d always been kind of jealous of guys that they could accessorize with facial hair. I look kinda handsome, she decided. I could make a great guy. Then, she laughed. She didn’t want to be a man. Being a woman was, she felt, so much better.

She let herself out of her hotel room just in time to see another woman coming down the hall. Her outfit was cute, but Halsey wanted to stay in character, so she gave the girl a once over then said, “Hey, beautiful” in her guy voice. The girl smiled and raised an eyebrow. Halsey felt a rush of pride. Even as a guy I have it.

While Halsey pretended to be a man, James Bond examined his breasts. Is my left book bigger than my right one? He turned slightly to the side, cupped his breasts, trying to judge their size, wondering how much they weighed.  He had really nice tits, but the thought that one might be bigger than the other bothered him for some reason. I might need a boob job, he thought, then shook his head. I’m being ridiculous, he decided, shrugging, watching the way his firm, perky young breasts rose. He shook his shoulders, enjoying the way his breasts swayed and jiggled.  My tits are fine, he decided, and, besides, it’s not like I’m going to a woman for much longer.

He slipped effortlessly into his bra, hooking it in the back and then adjusting the cups and the straps. Once he was done, he turned slightly to the side and arches his back, then whispered “How can people call me a double 0 when I’m obviously a double B?”

He paused, gazing at himself in the full-length mirror. “I’m pretty,” he whispered, smiling. It was important that he be pretty—for the mission, he told himself—and he’d been going to yoga class, watching his diet. It had paid off as he’d reduced his already slender waist by an inch. “Hahaha,” he laughed, finally pulling his eyes away from the flirty little thing he’d become. He had a lot more to do to get ready.

Lipstick, eyeliner, mascara. Bond admired himself– he had a very pretty face with his big eyes and plump lips, but he was proudest of his skin– it was radiant. He’d never had such perfect skin. As he stepped into his pleated mini skirt, pulled on his knee socks and then buckled his Mary Janes, he felt himself growing more and more excited. Dallas was here tonight, and Bond had been steadily working on his routine. As Bond fixed his glossy blonde hair, he smiled imagining himself on stage while Dallas watched, his eyes hard and hungry with desire. Bond loved dancing for Dallas–he loved dancing. Even thinking about it made him blush. “Oh,” Bond sighed as powdered his nose. “When is he going take me?”

Halsey found a table. A waitress dressed like a slutty Snow White came up to her– all smiles. “Hey, handsome,” she said, back arched. “What’s your poison?”

“Bourbon. Neat,” Halsey said in her dude voice. It was kinda fun, she decided, to be a guy.  I wonder how Bond likes being a girl?” She wondered. Watching the waitress in her slutty Snow White costume walk away, her ass swaying, she knew he had to be hating it. James Bond in high heels and a miniskirt? He must be so humiliated. She couldn’t even imagine him dancing pole dancing. Not James Bond. She imagined his dancing must be pretty awful, his every move revealing he was a man and deeply ashamed of his new condition. She felt for him, and she also felt a little amused. A guy like him? A man’s man? There must be some level, she felt, where even he was amused to find himself working as a stripper.

The lights dropped. Music started to bang. A sassy bass guitar. “She’s one of the hottest dancers in the city. Give it up for Nina Ballerina!” The crowd roared, some of the guys leaping to their feet, applauding.

Nina Ballerina burst through the curtain radiating raw, female sexuality. That’s not him, Halsey thought, confused, because this feminine creature was all woman. It wasn’t just her perfect walk, the way she threw her hips side to side or the way her golden ponytail swayed. She had IT, that undeniable essence of a gorgeous young woman who had absolute confidence in her allure. The men could feel it as they howled and shouted, cash fluttering in the spotlights as they hurled money in the air and let it float down at the goddess’ feet.

As the pretty pantheress stalked the stage, Halsey did a double take, her mouth dropping open. It was James Bond. SHE was James Bond. Yes, Halsey thought as Bond danced to the edge of the stage and licked her lollipop, then tossed it to the side and started to play with the buttons on her blouse. She was a she and there was no doubt about it. What had happened?

“Take it off! Take it off!”

Bond smirked and let his frosted lips drop open in surprise. “Who? Me?” He mouthed, playing the innocent school girl. He shook his head back and forth.

TAKE. IT! OFF!” The men screamed. Bond let his knees go together and licked his lips, then let a mischievous look come into his eyes as he tore his blouse open, revealing his lacy red bra, the swell of his cleavage.

He made a “what did I do?” face and then tossed the blouse aside, shaking his shoulders, tossing his skirt, then moving to the pole, wrapping his strong thighs around it, spinning… spinning…

Halsey found herself feeling thirsty. She threw back the rest of her bourbon, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She loosened her tie and her collar as Bond now tore off his skirt and turned to let the audience get a look at his perfect, heart-shaped ass. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled.  Halsey groaned. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this, but the sight of Bond dancing up there, a creature of pure feminine energy, drove her insane with desire.

Bond had undone his ponytail and was now tossing his hair while shaking every single inch of little body. The music was climaxing, the men in the audience driven just as wild as Halsey. The whole room smelled of man, sex hungry man.

The show was completely different for James Bond. The stage lights made it so he couldn’t see much but instead found himself in a world of swirling smoke and spotlights, music thumping. He heard the men shouting and clapping, felt the intensity of their desire. He felt powerful, and he felt every inch a woman, a creature of pure female sexuality he could lure any man into her web.

As the song finished, Bond reached back, paused just a moment, biting his lip, and then unhooked his bra, tossing it into the audience and shaking his breasts, loving the fact he had this whole room full of guys insane with hunger for him– and know most of them could only dream of being with a girl like him.

As the song finished, Bond strutted off stage. Turning to blow as kiss as Shania Twain finished as well:

Hey!

Oh, oh, yeah, yeah

Act totally crazy

Can you feel it?

Come, come, come on baby

And then Bond sang, his own soft, feminine voice in harmony with Shania:

I feel like a woman

“Girl,” Sparkle said drawing him in for a hug as he left the stage. “You’re one hot ass little bitch.”

“Thanks, Bond said, hugging her back. “Go get ‘em, girl.”

He headed back to the dressing room, glowing, and his mind immediately going to Dallas. Did he see me? Did he like my dancing? Is he finally going to claim me? This was, in fact, the only thing that really frustrated Bond about being girl these days– waiting for guys to make the move, especially Dallas. It was fun to be the girl when the guys did make the first move. But if only he could just go right up to Dallas and made all the moves. He would jump that hunky stud like there was no tomorrow.

“Great job,” Klein said, poking his head into the dressing room. “You got a private dance in 10 minutes.”

Bond’s heart leapt. Could it be Dallas? He fixed his hair, touched up his makeup and pulled on a fresh bra, blouse and skirt, then spritzed himself with Chanel No5. He didn’t sweat nearly as much now that he was a girl, but this might be Dallas, and he knew as a guy how much he’d been turned on by a woman wearing Chanel. A sudden panic hit and he drew his fingers along the smooth, hairless skin of his thigh, then checked his armpits, sighing with relief to see he was perfectly smooth and hairless. He’d just gotten waxed, but again- Dallas. Bond had come to love being smooth.

He made his way to Booth 2, smiling, giggling, tossing his hair as the guys in the crowd told him how hot and sexy he was. He glanced toward Dallas’ private  table, and though he’d tried not to be obvious, but as he glanced over, he met Dallas’ eyes. Dallas stared, lifting his glass in a silent toast. Bond trembled, felt something inside him clench. Those eyes said it all. Dallas wanted him and would claim him sooner or later. The realization sent tremors of feminine pleasure through his slender body. He looked away, lifted one knee and twisted his hair around a finger, demonstrating the submissiveness he knew Dallas craved. He could have stood there forever– having Dallas look at him like that made him the happiest girl on Earth, but he had a client.

When he entered Booth 2, he saw a man in a suit, a fedora, his head lowered so Bond couldn’t see his face. Bond had been learning to read men– as a woman. He’d read men all his life, sizing up their grit, their toughness, their reliability. But reading them as a woman required a whole new calculus. He now had to assess who might be a stalker, an obsessive, which guy might try something. He considered part of his newly developed feminine intuition, and he’d learned to trust it.  His instant read on this guy was “creep.”

“You got a nice ass, honey,” the man said in a weird voice. “And even better tits.”

One of these, Bond thought with a sigh, but he giggled and tossed his hair. A customer was a customer, and the bodyguards were just a scream away. “Thanks, handsome,” he said. “I love dancing for big, strong men like you.” He started dancing, moving closer, planning to pluck the guy’s hat off. He liked to make eye contact and, besides, creeps were less likely to try something if a girl knew what he looked like.

“Say, sugar tits,” the guy went on. “You mind if I call you Nancy?” He paused for a second. “It’s my daughter’s name.”

“Daughter? What the hell?” Bond snatched the man’s fedora and then squeaked as he saw who it was.

Halsey grinned. “Hey, beautiful,” she said in her dude voice.

“Jerk,” Bond said, shaking his head but, actually, now that he knew it was Halsey and realized he was being teased, he laughed, a bright, feminine laugh. He also instantly re-assessed – the creep vibes had come because he’d know something wasn’t right about this “guy.”

“Sit,” Halsey said as she placed a small, rectangular object on the table. Wispy green lights rose from it and scanned around the booth, then a green light lit up on the object itself. They could now talk freely.

Halsey watched as Bond sat, smoothing his skirt under him, crossing his legs at the thigh, female style, then hooking his hair behind his ear before putting his hands on his knees. He smiled a bright, feminine smile. “M send you to check up on me?” Bond said, and Halsey noticed right away that he spoke in the cadences of a young woman. In fact, he moved and talked just like a girl.

Halsey’s mind was elsewhere as she let her eyes drink in Bond’s pretty face, all made up, eyes popping. “Your dance was amazing,” she said. “I think half the guys in the audience might have cum in their pants.”

“Stop,” Bond said, his high-pitched voice filled with mock outrage.

“You’re a really good stripper, James.”

Bond loved the compliment,  but he was also suddenly self-conscious. Halsey was someone from his past– his male past– and what was left in his memory of the man he’d once been felt ashamed of how much of a sex-kitten he’d become. Besides, he had little doubt whatever he said to Halsey would spread throughout MI6, and he didn’t want everyone back at headquarters knowing he loved stripping.  “I’m undercover,” he said. “Playing the part.” He fidgeted with his bracelets. “I totally, like, hate being a dancer.” They both felt it now—the strangeness of it. James Bond wearing a bra, a skirt, panties, his face painted. James Bond a girl, while Halsey, man spreading, sported a man’s suit. It seemed both wrong and right at the same time.

Halsey raised an eyebrow. She could tell when people were lying, and though Bond had been trained to lie, he did not know how to lie with his pretty new face, which showed every emotion.  She had also been trained not to be shocked or to show shock, but the incredible and almost impossible to believe reality she just confronted was too much. “Bollocks,” she said. “You love being a stripper.”

“That’s crazy,” Bond said. “You’re so full of it.” He dropped his eyes to the side and prayed that his makeup hid the fact he was actually blushing. “Anyway, I’m guessing M sent you for a briefing, so maybe we should focus on that?”

Halsey decided to let it go. Besides, she’d only paid for a 15-minute dance. “Let’s hear it, honey buns.”

Bond huffed like an annoyed female, then went into his briefing. “So, I’m just waiting,” Bond said, his feminine frustration showing in his voice, “for him to make a move.”

“We need to push him,” Halsey said.

“How?” Bond said, nervously playing with his hair. “He doesn’t like pushy girls.”

“He does like to play the knight in shining armor,” Halsey said. “So, let’s make you a damsel in distress. We’ll give him a chance to rescue you. I’m thinking, just like last time, protecting you will get him all kinds of horny.”

“If that’s what you think is best,” Bond whispered, his voice growing hoarse. Rescued. A damsel in distress. He wanted that. He wanted it so bad. “I mean, it’ll be so embarrassing, but I’ll do it for the Queen.”

“I bet you will, princess.” Halsey said, cupping his smooth cheek. “And it will be so terrible.”

“So, so terrible,” James Bond agreed, a hand to his cheek. “So very, very terrible.”

May the 4th Be With You

Some May the 4th gender swapping for all the Star Wars fans out there! I also attached a previous pic. If there are any newer members who are Star Wars fans, I did a series of illustrated Star Wars stories awhile back. You can find them here:

https://mega.nz/folder/tzIVRYSK

Decrypt: U9SaZTo1zjzQjdnshG1ZYA

Cursed!

This is a random cover image. No story to go with it just yet.

Links to the Mega Folder for May

Hey, all. For those who are new, all of my material is posted in the Mega folder. This includes past books from before I started on Patreon as well as short videos and captions. To access, click on the link and then enter the code.

https://mega.nz/folder/kmgACTZJ

Decrypt: sNWCQQ5xhZ42gbeotOsuaw

BTS Custom Face Design

Thanks, everyone, for your support.

Captain America-- Feminine Fates

Just having fun with a fake cover. No plans for an actual comic or story. I do have a couple more cap covers with his new outfit, though.

Trancers 4

Who is the mysterious man who saved Jack and McNulty? The secret revealed!