For King and Country:
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King & Country: Colourful But Ordinary...
a Jane Masters adventure by Miss K
www.thedragnet.org
"How utterly perverse", mused Jane Masters, formerly Lieutenant Commander
Anthony Pierce, still agent 004 On His Majesty's Secret Service. He was
nestled into the crook of his superior officer's shoulder, feeling the
rise and fall of James Bond's chest exhaling, in perfectly diminishing
circles, the smoke from his fifteenth Cartier of the day.
A feeling of rare contentment permeated every layer of Masters' body and
mind as he looked up at the orange sun setting over the high Alps across
the valley from their vantage point. He wriggled his legs so as to cause
the torn black and almost non-existently sheer nylon stockings on his
thighs to rub together; a covert act of auto-frottage which only served
to flutter the warmth rushing through his still new, very pretty, female
body. "Young, blonde and ripe", Bond had called him earlier that day.
That compliment had given him a jolt of pleasure.
It seemed that Bond shared his strong feelings on the matter of good
musical taste. Still, it was only to be expected, thought Masters. Second
only to Bond's devotion to maintaining the independence and sovereignty
of Britain in all of its ramshackle post-millennial glory was his
ruthless pursuit of the very finest things to be found and experienced in
life. Masters was happy to have been included as a trophy in this
pantheon of the famous spy's fetishistic pleasures, along with the
inevitable Mont Blanc pen, the 30-year old single malt and of course, the
Aston Martin. Now the beautiful blonde lover with something extra.
So it was that the crystalline clarity of Miles Davis' 'Kind Of Blue'
echoed like a ghost around the small plateau on which the discreetly grey
2012 marque DBX was parked.
The dank overhanging cloud of the past few days had largely evaporated as
evening closed in. The warmth of the broad torsos of the surrounding
mountains had gathered a wreath of mist along their edges, looking for
all the world like a ballerina's tutu raised in mid-leap. Tombstone-like
basalt fingers pointed up through the cloud as if to warn of the ever-
present danger of complacency in the face of a bewildering number of
dangers to the New World Order of which the UK was a proud and prominent
member.
Suddenly Bond rose, pulling his white Gieves and Hawkes shirt around his
broad shoulders. He ran a hand through his grey crew cut and narrowed his
eyes. "Over there, look. Can you see it?" he whispered excitedly as he
reached for his Zeiss binoculars. *Typical man*, thought Jane, sleepily;
ironic, remembering his past male existence which, though recent, right
now seemed a lifetime away, dressed as he was in the torn remnants of a
black lace La Perla bra and panties which did little to conceal his
burgeoning female curves. Within minutes of a shuddering climax, Bond was
right back in full ops mode. Oh well, at least he hadn't rolled over and
fallen asleep.
What Bond had noticed was the glint of a reflecton off glass in the low
sun that sprayed across the valley.
****
Tristram Horner had good reason to feel equally, if differently,
contented as he unscrewed the long telephoto lens of his trusty Nikon F3.
He connected the camera's digital back to his iPhone and fired up the
satellite uplink, as he began to upload the sensational pictures to his
unidentified and wildly generous clients.
It had been worth the dreary wait in the previously foul weather for the
chance to photograph this gem of a commission. Tristram made sure that
he'd saved a personal copy of the images on his phone for in truth he had
been very turned on by what he had seen. He thought briefly of posting
them on his private and exclusive server for fellow connoisseurs of a
particular form of flesh, but realised he just didn't know his mystery
clients quite that well.
The sight of Bond making love to that beautiful blonde transsexual (as he
had realised with happy astonishment half way through photographing the
act) had stimulated Tristram no end, and he had toyed with the idea of
caressing his own satin panty-filled trousers himself, but Bond's
reputation travelled before him.
He knew that His Majesty's man was unlikely to welcome the attentions of
a paparazzo photographer whilst screwing a shemale in a variety of
increasingly gymnastic positions on the bonnet of his Aston Martin in the
gorgeous dying of a Tyrolean summer afternoon.
****
In one fluid motion, Bond cast aside the Zeiss's, fired up the V10
engine, found first, dropped the clutch and shot the Aston forward like a
cannonball out of the secluded roadside verge, leaving Masters a
dishevelled mess half in, half out of the cream leather bucket seat.
"Buckle up, Lieutenant. The Service wouldn't want you to have an accident
with that gearstick. Could make for rather embarrassing paperwork," Bond
joked, glancing aside with a smile on his cruel, handsome mouth.
"What's going on, James? You could at least have warned me," pouted
Masters, struggling upright and reaching between his legs for the very
brief Chloe mini dress that Bond had ripped off his back some time ago.
The car sped along the switchbacks, threatening to hurl itself off into
the valley below at every turn; but Bond was calm as he turned to Masters
and said "I hope you're not feeling shy - someone's been photographing us
for the last thirty minutes and I think it's time we had a word with them
about the usage rights".
Masters felt a tide of burning crimson wash over his face. Supposing his
family was to see those photographs of his wild sexual abandon. But he
knew that his mother, father, sister and brother would never recognise
him now. Would they?
He felt Bond's cold semen trickle down the inside of his thighs and
smiled, knowing that he wouldn't have missed this afternoon for anything
in the whole world, even if it was the last thing that a few months ago
he would have expected to enjoy. The surgical feminisation and hormonal
treatment that he had undergone in order to prepare for his mission into
the stronghold of the Red Fist had been one thing; his treatment at the
hands of the Fist had been quite another - the torture and conditioning
he had suffered had had a profound impact on his entire psyche. Not since
his teenage years had he felt any real attraction for the same sex. He
had celebrated his rite of passage with the usual braggadaccio of sexual
conquests without making any longer term commitments, in the heartless
manner of brash young men all over the world. Anthony Pierce had been was
what is known as 'one of the lads'. The irony of the fact that he had
become just exactly like one of those posh, blonde, sweetly pretty
Chelsea girls that he had used to chase after was not lost on him now.
Not that he felt entirely female. Sometimes he felt other voices in his
head resisting the lure of his new life; felt that all he had become was
a mannequin upon which different masks could quite easily be hung.
Which is one of the reasons why he still thought of himself as a "he" not
a "she". Jane Masters was not all girl, certainly, although he played the
role utterly convincingly. But neither was he Anthony Pierce any longer.
No. Jane Masters understood that that old life was behind him. Feeling
himself fall hopelessly in lust with James had changed the parameters of
the game for ever. On the slow boat back from the mission in the Far
East, Bond had been everything and more that Masters had fantasised about
since he had first given him sweet head months earlier in this same car.
Masters already knew what a beautifully proportioned uncut cock Bond had.
What had really taken him aback was how sensitive and gentle Bond could
be in bed; and overwhelmingly violent, cruel, strong and passionate at
the same time.
In that cabin in the swaying luxury yacht, Jane Masters had willingly and
noisily surrendered his anal cherry (and any remaining vestigial thoughts
of reclaiming his masculinity) to his commanding officer. How good it had
been. He smiled dreamily as the Aston screeched around another bend.
Today had been the first time he'd seen Bond since that boat trip, three
and a half months ago. He'd fully expected to have become another in the
long line of Bond's conquests. Bond's reputation as a wilful Lothario
remained with him even in middle age. Masters had scarcely believed his
eyes when the legendary agent had turned up at the Zurich field office
with a bottle of Cristal on ice, a glint of mischief in his cold, grey
eyes and the promise of a mountain fling in the dying embers of the
summer. Bond was off on assignment to North Russia that night. One had to
grasp life's pleasures when they arose in this job - fleeting as they
were, and all the sweeter for it.
****
Tristram had noticed the Aston's sudden departure and beads of sweat
formed expectantly as he tried to coax the big Land Rover Discovery into
a performance for which it had never been designed.
He realised that it would be only a matter of time before the Aston
intercepted him. He looked across the narrow valley to see the sleek grey
car hurtling down the last switchback. His vehicle meanwhile roared
stolidly up the other side of the valley. Horner fumbled across to the
passenger seat and picked up his iPhone. Time to destroy the evidence.
Now resigned to being caught, he pulled over into a layby and thumbed a
sequence into the device which uploaded the image files to his own secure
server. Then he used the digital shredder to completely destroy any trace
of the images. He sighed. He could always download them again in the
privacy of his hotel room.
He started to get excited again at the thought. He pulled out and drove
steadily up the side of the mountain.
****
"Look at this," muttered Bond. "He's driving along as though nothing's
happened." They were closing on the Land Rover now as it meandered at a
deliberately leisurely pace up towards the pass.
Masters glanced up at the mirror, straightening his hair and make-up.
He'd discarded his torn stockings and had put on a pale tan leather
trenchcoat, Missoni, over the short dress. Bond thought "she" looked
utterly ravishing. Hard to believe this had been that young male agent
just over a year ago.
Masters looked over at him, giving him a quick smile. "Let me handle
this, James. You stay in the car and look hard." Bond glanced down at his
crotch, raising a practiced brow. "*Look* hard?" he quipped. Masters
looked over and grinned again.
Bond pulled alongside the cruising Land Rover, pointing down at the
wheels as if to say "flat tyre". The driver was a shabby looking dark-
haired man dressed in tweeds. Possibly in his mid thirties, or a bit
younger, slightly chubby. He affected to not understand, smiling and
waving. Bond smiled back, then quickly sped ahead, twisting the wheel
savagely to force the nose of the Aston in front of the Land Rover's
bonnet.
With a squeal of brakes and a cloud of dust, the Land Rover pulled into
the roadside. Bond stopped the Aston twenty yards up the verge. He looked
into the rear view at the stalled Land Rover. The driver had put his
hazards on and was sitting behind the wheel, looking shaken.
****
Tristram Horner sat, rehearsing what to say. Outrage, he thought, would
be best: *What on Earth do you think you're up to? You could have killed
us all! I've half a mind to report you to-*
He looked up as the passenger side door of the Aston flew open and a
shapely pair of legs swung smoothly out, encased in knee high tan leather
boots with spike heels. His heart started to pound as the angel from the
plateau rose from the sports car and walked down the road towards him.
My God, she was stunning. Tall, with the athletic looks of a model. Honey
blonde hair right down to the small of her back; golden skin, a cinnamon
tan. Dressed in buff-coloured leather. A fitted coat that left nothing to
the imagination - it looked like she had nothing on underneath - and
matching tight leather gloves. She walked - no, strode - like she was
coming down the catwalk. He almost reached for the camera, he was so
excited. This was a man? Unbelievable. No wonder Bond had been fucking
the living daylights out of her. No angel. A Goddess.
Oh my God, here she was. She smiled at him and he smiled stupidly back.
Then he realised she was pointing at the door. "Open up," she was
mouthing. Horner wound down the window. He tried to remember what he had
wanted to say, but the words had dried up. She looked at the camera gear
on the passenger seat.
"Birdwatching?" she said. A gorgeous, husky voice, half-broken. A shemale
voice, aristocratic, English. Horner almost swooned. It sounded like
coffee and burnt brown sugar.
"P-pardon?" he replied.
"Been doing a spot of ornithology, have we? Can I see what pictures
you've got in your camera?" She leaned over, giving him a startling flash
of lace wired cleavage. Horner gulped.
"Er, no. I... there weren't really any good shots today..." he trailed
off.
She smiled, dazzling him. "Oh, but I don't think that's true. You see, my
friend and I," she indicated Bond's car, "were convinced that we saw you
taking some 'good shots' earlier. I love photography. The 'decisive
moment', wasn't it?" Horner was astonished that this vision, surely some
sort of high-class transsexual hooker, was suddenly quoting Cartier-
Bresson to him.
He was even more astonished when she pulled a Glock .38 on him. Where had
she been keeping that? "You see, I insist," she smiled, cruelly. "Get out
of your car and put your hands on the roof." Shaking, Horner complied. He
felt her hands frisking him expertly and felt a small, entirely
inappropriate frisson of excitement. He felt his cock stirring to
attention in its satin and lace prison.
Then she reached around and undid his belt. What was she-? "Hands behind
your back," she said. Horner did so, and she expertly and painfully tied
his wrists together with the belt. He felt her hand reaching round again.
She unbuttoned his chinos and they fell round his ankles. A hand shoved
him in the small of the back and he fell onto the dusty ground, arms
tied, legs all tangled, unable to move, his pink satin clad bottom stuck
up into the cooling air.
"Well, well," he heard her laugh, "we *are* full of surprises aren't we?"
A hand spanked him hard on the bottom. "Don't *go* anywhere, will you,"
she said. Then he heard her rummaging in the car. The camera back pinged.
She was checking for images. Then he heard the phone power back up from
sleep mode with its familiar Apple chime.
After a while, Tristram heard her walk round to his front and then she
flipped him roughly over so he was looking up at her. Suddenly he was
frightened. The gun was pointed straight at his head. Something in her
green eyes told him that she had used weapons of lethal force often, and
well. Embarrassingly he still had a hard on in his panties, and he could
see from the way she looked down that this fact had not escaped her
attention. She was shaking her head, as if in disappointment.
"Almost, Mr Horner, almost. You deleted the files on the camera, you
deleted and even shredded the images on your phone's flash disk. But you
see, your remote access log shows two identical uploads of a series of
image files, one twelve minutes ago and one four minutes ago. And you
forgot to wipe your upload cache." She tutted, turning the tablet screen
to face him. There were the thumbnails of all the images he thought he
had deleted. The colour drained from his face.
Her boots crunched up the gravel till they were inches from his face. He
could smell the leather, the fresh polish. She knelt on her haunches and
tilted his chin up with the barrel of her gun. He looked into her
beguiling green eyes. Again, that hint of hardness, the cruel glint. "Mr
Horner, I traced the transactions back to their sources. The second
upload's to some piss-poor commercial web space. I suppose it's where you
hoard all that transsexual smut you're obviously so into."
"The other upload though, the first one, I ran into some serious security
countermeasures. Really serious shit." The word sounded strange coming
from her sweet mouth.
She paused.
"To whom did you sell our pictures, Mr. Horner?"
Horner decided to remain silent. His life wouldn't be worth spit if he
told British Intelligence about his deal. He somehow guessed that his
anonymous client was not the sort to take such disclosure with equanimity
"Mr. Horner, I'm only going to ask you nicely once again, then I'm afraid
I'm going to have to call my boyfriend over." She paused, smiling again.
"He's *really* angry..."
****
"It's Paternoster, James," Masters was saying into her cellphone as she
threw the big Land Rover expertly around the steep switchbacks following
the tail-lights of Bond's speeding Aston in the lowering gloom.
Paternoster. Tristram Horner shivered, trussed up in the passenger seat.
The vicious criminal organisation run out of St. Petersburg by the
Rodchenko family. They controlled the drug lines into the whole of
Northern Europe. What had he got mixed up in? He was just a low level
fixer for the European organisations. Photography, surveillance, forgery,
to supplement his legitimate Private Investigation business.
Earlier, on the roadside, Bond had only been able to break one of his
fingers before Horner had broken down himself, soiling his panties into
the bargain; they'd believed him when he told them he knew nothing about
the mystery clients. Squealing with pain, he'd quickly given the Masters
woman all the access passwords to the Korean-based server he'd uploaded
the material to. After confirming that the files hadn't been downloaded
yet by his clients, she'd wiped them, leaving what she'd called "a little
calling card" in their place. Horner had moaned a little then. It wasn't
the fact that his finger was in agony, or even the fact that from his
prone position he had a clear view up her obscenely short skirt, at that
little telltale bulge tucked into the underside of those expensive
looking panties. No, it was the realisation sinking in that he was going
to die soon, either by these agents' hands ("Licensed to Kill", as they
were) or by those of the client he had betrayed.
Bond and the goddess had had a little conversation there and then. "We'd
better keep hold of our friend," she'd said, nodding in Tristram's
direction. "It's getting dark and we don't want him getting lost." Bond
concurred and added, "you take him in the Land Rover. We'll go back to
Zurich. I've got a plane to catch, but I'm sure you and he have a lot
of..." he'd smiled, and Horner had shuddered, "things to discuss. Can you
trace the intended recipients?" She'd nodded, "maybe. Depends how
careless they've been." She'd hunched over his iPhone, punching a series
of instructions into it. "I've started a cloaked reverse trace from the
Korean machine. Might work. Take a while though. Let's go, James. I'll
let you know." He'd leaned over and kissed her hard on the lips before
striding back to the Aston.
And now Horner was listening to their cellphone conversation and
wondering how to get himself out of this mess. Just his luck to wind up
pissing off the only shemale in the world who knew how to hack into black
systems as easily as she might pick out an outfit to wear.
"Paternoster. James, Ymir Rodchenko - that's who the trace fingered.
Isn't that what you're going to the Baltic to investigate? Perhaps-" Bond
interrupted her and she nodded. "Yes, All right. Yes,' she smiled, "I'm
sure I'll come up with something." She glanced down at Tristram, still
smiling. "All right James, bye."
Somehow, he didn't find her smile at all reassuring.
****
She'd refused the valet service at the Park Hyatt in Zurich, preferring
that Tristram parked the car himself. She'd untied him in the outskirts
of the city and switched seats with him, instructing him to drive to his
hotel. He was very aware of the .38 trained discreetly on him from the
passenger seat.
Now they were in the underground car park of the hotel. Waiting. She'd
got him to park right underneath one of the surveillance cameras and was
keeping an eye fixed on it. Tristram was considerably more frightened
than he'd ever been before in his life. She'd explained softly to him
that they would have been seen arriving back at the hotel. They were now
waiting for something to happen. He watched the security camera with her.
Suddenly, the red power indicator under it flickered out.
"They're on their way," she whispered. He felt her lithe body tense up
next to his.
He heard squealing tyres on the in ramp and a black Mercedes swung into
the garage, coming to a halt at the far end. The engine purred to a halt.
"Stay here," she said. "If you do anything stupid, we're both dead. Do
exactly as I say and you stand a chance of living." He nodded.
She opened the door and swung her long legs out of the Land Rover. He
heard her heels clicking away on the polished asphalt floor of the
underground garage.
"Turn out your lights," he heard her shout, "I'm going to eject the
magazine from my gun." He heard a mechanical noise as she did just that.
Jesus. What was she up to??
The Mercedes' lights were suddenly extinguished and Horner was pitched
into semi-blackness. For a moment all he could hear was the pounding of
his heart. Any moment now, he expected to hear the sound of gunfire as
the life of that beautiful, brave shemale was extinguished too. He
waited, eyes closed.
There was a series of dull clicks. He realised that it was the Mercedes'
doors opening. Several shadowy figures emerged. A muttered conversation
ensued between Masters and his clients' representatives that lasted for
what seemed like an eternity.
Slowly, the conversation died. Then he heard footsteps again. Not hers.
Then the click-thump of the Mercedes' doors closing. The engine roared
back into life. Without turning their lights back on, they glided past
the back of the Land Rover, and up the exit ramp. He heard the tyres
squealing away until they were lost in the background noise.
He realised he'd been holding his breath. He let it all out in one
shuddering motion. He was alive. But what about-
He heard the sound of the magazine being replaced in the gun. Then her
footsteps coming back, clicking on the hard floor. He looked around as
she opened the door and slid into the passenger seat next to him. She
looked tired, but gave him a small smile.
"Good news, Tristram," she said. "They're going to let you live. In
fact," she glanced up as the surveillance camera light came back on,
"they're even going to let you keep all the money they paid you in
advance. Aren't you going to say 'thank you'?"
Somehow, though, he didn't really think that thanks were in order.
****
Months later, Tristram thought back to that night, and the exchange in
the car park where his future had been decided. Masters had left him soon
afterwards and he'd never seen her again. Where was she now, he wondered,
as he stood on the corner of Komsomol Street, looking around himself.
Probably in some glamorous location far away from a shabby street corner
in the meat-packing district of St. Petersburg.
He took another puff of his black-market Marlboro Light. Still couldn't
get used to those cheap Russian cigarettes so he frittered his earnings
on American smokes. He looked at the cigarette and his hand, holding it.
The long nails, almost half an inch now, painted a lurid purple today. Be
hard to even *hold* a camera with these talons. He pulled his pink fake
fur coat closer about him and shivered, wishing a punter would pull up so
he could get his poor, scantily-clad body out of the cold.
Along the street, he saw Mascha. They'd got quite close recently. Many of
the other travesti whores along the strip didn't like him at all. They
didn't trust foreign girls, especially if they were blonde and tall like
him and attracted the punters. Most of them were Azeri or Armenian, a
couple of stray Turks. Sucked into the Paternoster operation like he'd
been. Most wouldn't ever get out again.
They'd come for him later on the night of Masters' meeting in the car
park. They'd grabbed him in the men's toilet of Klosten Airport as he
waited for his hastily booked flight back to Birmingham. He'd been
bundled in a daze into a waiting cargo van that took him around the
airfield to a different flight altogether. All his belongings left
behind.
In the cold cargo plane hold, they'd stripped him down to his still
stained panties - he hadn't even thought of removing them as he'd
hurriedly packed for his flight. They'd laughed at that and let him keep
them on, making coarse sounding comments in Russian.
They'd let him shiver for a while, then thrown him the pink coat. He'd
gratefully accepted it. He got the first hormone injection in the butt on
that flight too. It was the beginning of a strange journey. One that had
brought him to this street corner. Just another transsexual hooker
looking for a john.
Masters had cut a deal. What a deal. The kind of honourable and twisted
agreement that criminal organisations can't seem to help but agree to.
Obviously, he'd screwed up. The British Government didn't want to be seen
to be involved in such a sordid affair, so she'd been prepared to hand
him over on the condition that he was spared and put to work for the
Paternoster organisation to pay off his considerable debt.
He was to be accorded a singular honour. To be pimped by one of the
Rodchenko family himself. Andriy would feed and house him, protect and
procure for him and Tristram would in turn pay him from his earnings
until his debt was paid off. He became a very good whore for Andriy, who
would show Tristram he cared with regular beatings and rapes. He made
lots of money on Komsomol and the surrounding travesti district streets
though. After Andriy's 90% cut and the rent and board and the money for
the hormones taken out, he reckoned he'd be able to pay off the debt to
the organisation in one hundred and sixty-eight years. That's if he kept
his looks.
What a deal. Masters had one sick head on those pretty shoulders. As
she'd left the Land Rover, she'd whispered in his ear, "take it from
someone who knows, Tristram, not many people get a second chance at life.
Enjoy it while you can." And it was true. She'd been true to her word. He
was alive, and it was some kind of life at least. In the White Nights of
summer, when the sun never sets on the canals of St. Petersburg,
Tristram, now called Koshka (or "Kitten"), had stood on the street
corners in a basque and glittery hotpants, smiling at the passing cars
and sucking seductively on a lollipop. Those days had been good. He'd
almost started enjoying himself in the brief warmth of the summer.
Now it was winter and he was still here, in the dark, waiting for the
man.
Oh look, there was a punter. He could tell by the way the car slowed
down. Kitten unfolded his arms, threw his mane of blonde curls back,
stuck out his voluptuous chest and started to put it about.
****
High up in a rented office building, across from an alley just off
Komsomol, Jane Masters smiled, adjusting the focus on the telephoto lens
to look more closely at the face of Tristram Horner, head thrown back as
he was impaled onto the bonnet of a silver BMW by a huge man dressed in
black leather.
Horner's long-lashed eyes were slitted and fluttering, his glossy pink
lips parted in ecstasy, purple claws grasping his own firm boobs, thigh-
booted legs wrapped around his punter's back as he was reamed repeatedly
in his backside on the shiny bonnet of the car, his tiny, useless cock
flapping limply in the cold Baltic breeze. Jane pressed the shutter,
preserving the picture forever. The sight was making his own manhood
flutter with life. He'd never really enjoyed watching people get it on
when he'd been a man, but seeing another transsexual get well and truly
fucked was definitely doing something for him, not least because he'd
been responsible for the little slut's present circumstances in the first
place. 'Ah, power. It corrupts us all', he thought as he watched on.
Well, he'd told him to try and enjoy his new life. Looked like Horner was
taking his words to heart. Actually, he looked good, in a cheap, porno
way. Some of Horner's original plumpness had stayed on this new body,
giving him a curvy voluptuousness that was pretty hot. Masters took
another shot as Horner opened his mouth in a silent scream.
A firm hand suddenly planted itself on his nude backside. Jane squirmed,
trying to keep his mind on the task. The hand travelled up his pliant
spine and round the front to caress his erect nipples. Jane Masters found
himself quite unable to concentrate. Bond sat down next to him on the
satin-sheeted bed.
Jane, buck naked, flipped over on the slippery sheets and wrapped his
slim arms around Bond's neck, pulling him down into a deep kiss.
The two of them began a sensual exploration of each other's bodies, the
surveillance quite forgotten. Jane's cock was still semi hard, even in
it's shrunken state. But Bond wasn't interested in Jane's remaining
vestige of masculinity. His hand slid up her legs, caressing her soft
supple skin, reaching her exquisite buttocks and squeezing them hard.
Jane yelped with pain, but pain tinged with pleasure.
Bond wanted her then, wanted to drive his rock hard cock deep into her
arse. He wanted, no, needed to ride this wonderful specimen of
wo/manhood. What an irony. A creature he'd help to create had become his
regular lover - someone who could command a special place even in his
cold heart.
Jane was enjoying the rough play, but he needed to taste Bond. He needed
Bond's cock in his mouth. The ultimate surrender of masculinity - to take
a cock deep into his mouth - was Jane's final surrender. He knew now that
he loved the taste and feel of cock, especially Bond's, and he knew he
needed it now, before Bond lost himself in the lust of the moment and
drove himself into his hole.
Jane pushed himself away from Bond's body, breaking the kiss, and slowly
slid downwards. Bond had maintained his perfect physical form and the
sight and feel of it kept Jane on the very edge of sexual anticipation.
Planting little kisses, he worked his away down his Commander's torso.
Bond lay as still as he could as she licked and kissed him. He knew what
was coming and he smiled with delight. God, he loved this woman. An
almost alien thought for Bond. But this was the closest he'd come to
feeling love since his wife had died all those many years ago.
Jane had reached his target and, like a good marksman, was taking his
time as he set up his shot. He gently kissed the tip of Bond's cock,
taking it firmly in his feminine hands, and pulled the foreskin sharply
down. Bond exhaled as Jane then pushed the tip of his tongue into the
slit at the top of his cock. Tasting the pre-cum, Jane smiled with
delight. This was a taste he'd come to love and now he wanted more.
He slipped his lips over Bond's cock, taking almost half of it in one
fluid motion. With his hand he gently wanked the base and bobbed up and
down, sliding as much of the meat into his mouth as he could take, then
back out again. In and out, up and down, Jane needed Bond to cum. He
needed to taste Bond again. Greedily he sucked and slurped, working his
hand faster and faster.
Bond wanted Jane to stop. He wanted to fuck this girl, but she was having
none of it. He knew she wanted a gob full of cum, so he let her have it.
He felt his balls fill up and then it was exploding, shooting from his
tip deep into Jane's willing and open mouth. Jane had once more expertly
worked him up into a massive explosion. He grunted with delight as wave
upon wave of pleasure suffused him and gobs of cum streaked from his cock
into her willing, waiting mouth.
Jane swallowed his prize with the utmost pleasure. This was what he now
looked forward to; pleasing his man to the degree that he would come like
an explosion in a dairy. Sure he loved his job, and yes, he was proud of
what he did for King and country, but since the "change", what he enjoyed
more than anything was the sex. As a beautiful transsexual, the sex was
just so much more that the traditional sex he'd experienced as a man.
This was what he now enjoyed, now craved, and with James it was a sexual
nirvana.
Taking a last look at the spent cock, Jane sat up, licked his lips and
smiled down at Bond. He knew it would be a few minutes before even this
superman would be able to finish the job, but Jane knew that that was
what would happen. A flush of pleasure passed over him at the thought. He
put his eye again to the viewfinder of the camera.
"Anything worth writing home about?" Bond whispered, rising to nuzzle
Jane in the neck.
004 smiled and pouted his bruised lips. "Just the local birdlife, James.
Colourful, but ordinary."
****
THE END
of King & Country: Colourful but Ordinary...
Jane Masters will return...
if you want her to...
Please read my stories at http://www.thedragnet.org/blog/scribblings/
missk@phreak.co.uk