The Ravager 4 (Patreon)

Penelope seized hold of his throbbing length, though his size felt bone-jarring inside her finely boned hand, and she stroked him as ardently as she dared. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, until Bond was moaning with pleasure.

“Perhaps not everything,” he breathed. “I can see you’re a woman who likes to keep things firmly in hand.”

“What about your hand?” Penelope demanded.

Bond smiled. His callused fingers—the one jarring note of his otherwise debonair countenance—were at her snatch, fingers delving into the wet channel. Penelope jumped at the sudden contact. His touch frayed nerves from her perineum, just shy of her anus, to the very tip of her clitoris.

“I do believe it’s come between us,” Bond noted.

“Oh, James!” Penelope gasped. “Do it!”

But Bond wasn’t one to be ordered around, not when his own instincts cried out what Penelope truly needed. He took his hand away and drew it over her soft body, moving from her plump ass to her delicate shoulders and back again. He crested her round buttocks, shooting a finger into the crevice between, and Penelope became a convulsive mass of absolute delight at his taboo touch.

“Now we’re getting to the bottom of things,” he observed, his finger a whirling dervish inside her anal passage, stimulating her as no sex toy ever could.

“It’s not enough!” Penelope wailed. “Put it in, give it to me, I need it!”

“Hold yourself open,” Bond insisted. “I’m sorry to say I have a bit too much caliber for such a tiny target.”

Penelope obligingly reached down and spread her glistening folds, moaning gleefully as Bond crushed their bodies together again, letting her feel his steely erection all over the soft silky lips of her entrance. He kissed her, stifling her pleas for him to give her more than such foreplay—then came away just far enough to watch the passion-stricken look on her face when he came down on her, ramming inside her slippery channel until he was all but locked inside her.

“OOOOHH!” Penelope gasped, her eyes widening, then rolling, expressing a delirium her lips couldn’t manage to share when Bond was kissing her again, devouring her desire even as he fed it with a ramming thrust.

The two lovers thrashed and kissed, rolling and pumping from one end of the bed to the other, Penelope arching her body to take every inch of the hardness she had perhaps foolishly solicited from the man.

For fully half an hour Bond brought Penelope to the brink of sexual ecstasy and sometimes over—a kind of measured sadism in how he barely avoided overwhelming her, yet kept her fully aware that she was not equal to the pleasure she was being treated to. His own orgasm he consistently withheld, easing off and starting over whenever Penelope got him to the cusp of finishing.

Bond smiled to himself, remembering how as a boy, he could not think of a better way to let a girl know he fancied her than to pull her pigtails. Much the same principle remained despite their so-called maturity: whenever Penelope managed to challenge him, he first overcame the advance, then disciplined her by pumping even harder, bringing her to an even larger rapture.

To her credit, Penelope proved a glutton for punishment. She pressed herself to her tall, muscular lover until they were all but glued together.

Finally, Bond came in a burning flood that filled Penelope to the brim. She thrust out her arms to either side of the bed, stretching out her legs until her toes touched the floorboard, and screamed with uninhibited delight as his finish fueled her own wild climax.

She collapsed underneath him. Bond shifted his weight to the side but held her close—easy to do when she was a boneless pool of well-sated pleasure, panting along with him but otherwise unable to move an inch.

“That was wonderful,” Penelope breathed long minutes later, her eyes still shut.

“It’s about to get even better,” Bond told her, and was amused by how Penelope trembled lustfully. She’d learned well that he was a man of his word.

“Oh?” Penelope asked curiously, as if she were capable of playing coy with her flushed body betraying her. “What did you have in mind?”

“A little pharmaceutical accompaniment to the night’s festivities,” Bond said, reaching into his pocket to the little compartment concealed within the key fob to his Aston Martin. It should’ve held the miniature batteries such a device would normally need, but instead it carried an ampule made of a sugary substance much like glass.

“I don’t know,” Penelope purred, too contented to be very suspicious, but still as prudent as any intelligent woman would be. “I have work tomorrow… it’s a nice gig. I don’t have to go the full nine yards all too often, but when I do, they expect my A-game. It’s worth a lot of money.”

“That’s alright,” Bond told her. He held the ampule under her nostrils before breaking it, releasing the small, potent dose of hallucinogenic gas within. “When you wake up, you won’t remember saying no.”

Penelope’s eyes opened briefly as the tart smell hit her senses, but then her pupils rolled up in her head. She was off on her trip, all but comatose, while Bond rolled out of bed and made for the bathroom. Q had assured him the gas was only viable at extreme close quarters, dispelling into the atmosphere before it could affect anyone but the recipient. But while Bond enjoyed a healthy dose of risk in his life, unnecessary risk was not his brand.

In the bathroom, he washed up before redressing. Ms. Trait’s seduction had taken longer than he’d anticipated, yet he hadn’t skimped on the festivities, which put him behind schedule. Still, much as M might like to replace him with an unfeeling machine capable only of doing his duty, Bond took as much joy in being alive as he did in skirting death. If he were to pass up a delight the likes of that he had shared with Penelope, it would be an insult to the blood that flowed in his veins and the breath that filled his lungs.

Besides which, it would be scant reward for a woman who’d had the good taste to allow herself to be seduced by Double-Oh Seven. Bond felt the usual tinge of ill will towards M, the OO Program, all the vagaries of international espionage that required him to use such a fetching young woman for more than her inviting body. But such was the life he needed to lead. He’d grown comfortable with resenting it all only so much, then getting on with the bloody job.

Moving back to the bedroom—and trying to ignore the enticing sight of Penelope squirming about with all but her most lethargic energies going towards enjoying her drugged dreams—Bond retrieved the woman’s purse and dug out her phone. He didn’t need any of Q’s gadgets to unlock it; a moment with Penelope’s slack face was enough.

Moving with a level of technical prowess that belied his age, Bond brought up the contacts, then went to the man he’d been briefed about: Channing Phelps. Travel agent to the world’s coldest souls. He sent a text.

PENELOPE TRAIT: Hey, I forgot to mention it after we landed, but I heard a funny noise in the engine whenever I was near the bathrooms.

PENELOPE TRAIT: It was like one minute it’d be humming along, just fine, but the next there’d be this CLONK.

PENELOPE TRAIT: Like someone dropping a book or something, only over and over again.

CHANNING PHELPS: Shit SHIT how can you telling me this now we’re supposed to fly tomorrow our clients pay us to fly them wherever and whenever they ask

CHANNING PHELPS: We can not tell this guy that his plane isn’t ready I need to talk to maintenance right now

PENELOPE TRAIT: Do you still need me to come in this morning?

PENELOPE TRAIT: Wait, is maintenance even at the airfield at this hour?

CHANNING PHELPS: An I’ll have to report any issue to the FAA shitshit

The little ellipsis icon popped its head, disappeared, returned, did its disappearing act once more. Bond let Phelps simmer, weighting whatever options he had. The ‘noise’ could be nothing. On the other hand, if his client died from a plane crash, he would have much more to worry about than higher insurance rates.

Bond turned his attention to Penelope as he waited for the seconds to tick by. As exquisite as he found her naked body, he pulled the bedsheets up over it, with a protectiveness that even he found absurd. More usefully, he turned her onto her side in the recovery position. Q had assured him that the drug, especially with such a low dosage, was harmless and non-habit-forming. But even a man with the sterling work ethic of his old friend Q couldn’t be right all the time.

Returning to the phone, Bond started typing again.

PENELOPE TRAIT: I know a guy. He’s available 24/7. For a couple thou, he’ll look the engine over.

PENELOPE TRAIT: If it’s nothing, we forget about it.

PENELOPE TRAIT: If it’s something, then we can start calling in favors.

CHANNING PHELPS: great yes whats his number??

PENELOPE TRAIT: He doesn’t like having it spread around. I’ll call him.

PENELOPE TRAIT: You get the money ready and be there to buzz him in.

CHANNING PHELPS: ok

CHANNING PHELPS: if this guy works out I forgive you for not telling me about the noise before

CHANNING PHELPS: just pls tell him to hurry!

Bond dropped the phone back into Penelope’s purse. He wrote a quick note to leave on the nightstand, then traded his jacket, pants, and shoes for the more workmanlike attire Phelps would be expecting.

As he finished lacing his boots, Penelope moaned in her sleep. Bond looked through the doorway to see that she’d turned over, her bedsheet falling away from a supple breast. In her present state, Penelope looked to be in the passionate post-delirium that he’d always found so appealing in a woman. Sated and sleepy, her appearance was the equivalent of riding at the head of an Imperial legion as it returned through the gates of Rome. Sadly, he would have to deny Penelope whatever pleasure she’d take in waking up together and being sent on her well-romanced way.

“Well, she is a feminist,” he reasoned. “Maybe she’ll appreciate having a career chosen over her.”