The Ravager 2 (Patreon)

His drink arrived. Bond took it, touched his glass to hers, and then spilled it on the man on the neighboring stool.

“Hey, watch it!”

“Terribly sorry,” Bond said, with schoolboy sorrow, and took the man’s seat as soon as he went to wash up.

“Are you sure you can afford spilling drinks at these prices?” Penelope asked him.

“You’re right. Let’s buy a bottle and drink at your place.”

“After you went through all the trouble to sit next to me? I’d hate for that effort to go to waste.”

“Believe me, it’s not wasted.”

Sitting beside Penelope put him in a capital spot to enjoy the liberal display of silk-sheathed thigh Penelope offered. She noticed how he savored her, but made no move to pull down her skirt. Instead, she reached over to Bond and pulled the zipper down his jacket. Looking at how his shirt adhered tightly to his broad pecs and chiseled abs.

“If you’re disappointed, keep unzipping me. You’re sure to be satisfied sooner or later.”

Penelope picked up her drink. “This is all I need to satisfy me.”

“Only a Long Island Iced Tea. I’d think it’d take something harder to satisfy you.”

“Who says I can be satisfied?” Penelope teased.

Bond leaned forward, looking deep into her eyes. “I do.”

***

Before she finished her second drink, Bond had moved his stool close enough for his thigh to touch hers whenever she let it—spinning idly on her own stool. He put his arm around her shoulders and spoke with a delicate softness, so soft she could hardly catch it, so it seemed only natural when he came in close to let her hear and his breath tickled her neck.

She moved onto her third drink and Bond onto his second. Penelope warned herself to be careful. Three drinks was her maximum; she knew she’d be good and loose, even if she weren’t over her limit, and she had to take care from now on. She’d made herself exquisitely vulnerable to Bond and she didn’t know if she didn’t want him to take advantage.

A number of times, as Bond put his arm around her shoulders so he could whisper into her ear, his hand brushed away the strap of her blouse from her shoulder. He didn’t let her top fall enough to expose her breasts, but held onto the strap before less than apologetically straightening it back onto her shoulder. Tantalizing her with the thought that he could let it drop and get a perfect look at the straining fabric of her white bra.

Penelope didn’t scold him for this. She only gave him a modestly reproachful look. But the fact that she let him keep doing it was encouragement enough.

She was far more worried about the other men at the bar, who might see what Bond was putting on display. She could see that more than a few were watching enviously, but they were too far away to make her scold Bond out of the act. A thought which only made her wonder how close they would have to be to tell Bond to stop.

Her three drinks got to her. She didn’t mind his hand at her thigh—not at first. Bond’s little game with her shoulder strap distracted everyone, including her, until it was like she didn’t feel his touch at all, only the casual warmth it brought.

And when that warmth moved up between her thighs, under her skirt, it was too late to protectively close her legs. And far too late to consider if she wanted to.

“I’ve never much cared for panties,” Bond said, even his whispered voice drowning out Penelope’s tiny gasp as his fingertips made their first delicate contact with the gusset of her underwear. “The damn things have to try and look better than what’s beneath them, but they never manage it. And they’re fine to the touch, I suppose, but not as good as what’s—”

“Oh, don’t,” Penelope muttered, both relieved and a little disappointed when the stirring touch on her panties went away. “Not here…”

“Then where would you like to be touched?” Bond asked, his smile putting an exclamation point on his obtuse act.

“Someplace private.”

“I thought that’s where I was touching you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“My place,” Bond said. “It’s close. No time at all to get there. Your panties won’t get any wetter—”

“Don’t be too sure about that…”

She liked his way, confidence bordering on the domineering. It reminded her of her father; Penelope was self-aware enough to know that she was attracted to the same breed of man that had spawned her.

She was also self-aware enough to know that men like that gave her the best sex, so the Freudian implications were irrelevant. Still, she played it cool. She didn’t want Bond to think she was easy. Men like him appreciated the chase.

Finally, Penelope knew she couldn’t hold out much longer. It’d been hard even to tell him to stop fondling her in the middle of the bar. He had the magic touch and her three glasses were empty…

After that, Penelope’s memory was only in a long-distance relationship with her awareness. She didn’t remember very much about leaving the bar or walking through the dark parling lot. She remembered Bond’s car—a Cumberland Grey Aston Martin V8 so sleek and speedy that it looked as much silver bullet as grand tourer—and how he got the door for her, his hand on her bare shoulder to ease her in with a touch that was both command and flirtation.

When his fingers came away, her shoulder strap was down her arm, letting her blouse stray away from any modesty, and it wasn’t the drink that made Penelope unable to care.

Bond parked the V8 in front of a tall, modern apartment building and slipped them through the lobby with a wink and a nod to the doorman. The moment the doors of the elevator slid shut, Bond took hold of her, keeping her close as he kissed her. Penelope felt the size and the throbbing need of his manhood against her belly. She wondered if it could really be as big as it felt. Maybe he had some kind of harness on to simulate the extravagant size he wanted her to think she had.

But Bond didn’t seem the type who was afraid to show his cards. And she was about to see what hand he’d been dealt.

They came off the elevator with Penelope well-kissed and on the way to being touched as much as she wanted to be. She didn’t even know what floor there were on. With a pat on the ass, Bond sent her ahead of him—Penelope knew it had to be so he could trace his eyes up the backs of her stockinged legs and watch how her ass swayed with each step.

“You have an excellent pair of legs,” Bond told her, stopping her with a brisk tug on her lowered shoulder strap when they reached his door. “It’s a shame they have to split up.”

“Thanks. But they don’t have to,” Penelope said, smiling condescendingly at him while he keyed the lock.

It was a bluff. The way she was feeling, she could barely keep her legs together long enough to only show Bond what was between them. Besides: the man had a way of delivering his compliments with a wink and a grin that made them feel inoffensive despite how audacious they were. No matter what the present climate, Bond clearly had a firm certitude that if he objectified a woman, she would enjoy it.

Penelope would’ve liked proving him wrong if he weren’t so handsome and it weren’t such a lie.

Bond steered the door open and flipped the light switch and ushered Penelope inside with an ineffable sureness, almost a smugness, that mildly irked her and fully aroused her. His place was a three-room apartment, impressively furnished to what she’d seen of the man’s tastes.

It wasn’t exactly luxuriant, but Bond had clearly put an effort into making the living space over to an exacting eye, then kept it neat and tidy to the point where, even if the aesthetic wasn’t to Penelope’s taste, she’d appreciate living in such cozy surroundings. More than her own living quarters, even.

Penelope suddenly recollected Bond suggesting on the road that they stop for a few mixings and a bottle of vodka; having so recently experienced a professional mixologist’s work, he’d show her what a passionate amateur could do.

She’d turned him down, both because she was excited to reach his bedchamber and because she didn’t want to be too ethered to enjoy it. Now there was nothing to put off the inevitable.

And no misgivings on Penelope’s part, she realized. She couldn’t muster up any offense at Bond’s antics when every boundary he broached fell with her smile enjoying it.