A Greeting Card

A second day spent sitting on the patio behind his 'blind' of potted plants yielded nothing for 007. Not even the appearance of the brunette relieved the boredom of his stake-out. He had rather enjoyed watching her... sunbathe... yesterday. Even the groundskeeper did not show up until mid-afternoon, those two German shepherds held closely on their leashes.

Finally, a little after five, he called it quits and headed for the shower. His intention was to hang out in the casino in the center of town. If Lamarque was going to contact him, that would be the likely place for the S.P.E.C.T.R.E. operative to look. However, once he had finished showering and dressing, Bond began to prepare the special clock Q-Section had built for him. He had made a point last night of letting the young woman know where he was staying, even going so far as to give her his room number.

He set the clock to be photo-activated. If the lights of the room were turned on, the clock would begin snapping pictures every thirty seconds. If the lights were turned off, the camera would cease photographing. He placed the clock on an accent table against the wall directly opposite the entrance door. Plugging in the cord that provided power for the camera's mechanism, he carefully aligned it, making certain that the lens hidden behind the clear plastic in the center of the clock face was aimed in precisely the right direction.

Then, flipping off the lights to his suite of rooms, he departed.

***** ***** *****

When James Bond passed through the foyer of the casino, he saw the woman from last night sitting at the bar, appearing to be absorbed in reading a newspaper. Walking up behind her, he said, "Good evening."

She did not look up immediately, as if the paper held her attention. When she did half-turn on the bar stool, she exclaimed with a startled look, "Why, it's you!"

Bond took the stool next to hers, taking out his cigarette case and offering her one as he said, "I had a feeling we would meet again."

She accepted a cigarette and the follow-up flame from his lighter, saying, "Thank you." She took a drag on the smoke. "My name is Babette."

Bond: I am Norris. Edwin Norris.
Babette: Hmmm... You do not look like an Edwin. An Edwin has long, scraggly hair and is obsessed with some obscure academic pursuit... No, you are more of a... Robert... Or perhaps, a James... Yes. You are definitely a James.
Bond(trying not to appear rattled): That's funny... My middle name is James. Edwin James Norris.
Babette: What do you do, James? You know... with your life?
Bond: Nothing, but I do it extremely well.
Babette (laughing): Ah... Then you were left a lot of money?
Bond: Not a lot, no. I make a living by playing what other people call games of chance.
Babette: Then you live dangerously?
Bond: Let us say insecurely... And you?
Babette: Oh, I live insecurely, too. But I have no complaints. I've been very fortunate.
Bond: I am sure you can have anything you want.
Babette: Certainly. If I pay. We all pay, one way or the other, don't we?
Bond: What about Monsieur Lamarque? Does he pay?
Babette: Monsieur Lamarque? I don't know. I really don't know.
Bond: I believe he got his payment by having acid thrown in his face. They tell me that is why he walks around like the Jack Of Spades. In profile... He doesn't make friends easily, does he?
Babette (shrugging): I don't think he makes them at all.
Bond: How about you?
Babette: Oh, I am discrete... Which is why you may ask me for dinner.
Bond: I would love to, but unfortunately I have an engagement.
Babette (firmly): Had.
Bond (smiling): Had an engagement.
Babette: That's better. I hate predictable men. Where shall we go?
Bond: The Cap-Of-Colors, where else?
Babette: I had an engagement, too, I must make a telephone call.

She slid from her stool, flashing a bit of inner thigh, and headed for the phone booth in the corner. She closed the folding door behind her, inserted coins, and dialed a number. The call was answered on the second ring. She identified herself and said, "I want you to go to the Englishman's hotel apartment, Room 506, and search it. Search it very carefully. You can take your time," she turned to smile and wave at Bond at the bar through the glass of the booth. "We won't be back for at least another two hours."

***** ***** *****

Immediately after the phone call from Babette, Raoul Godeau drove to Bond's hotel and parked across the street from the entrance. He was a short man, in his late twenties, of slender build. His hair was cut short and he wore black horn-rim glasses. People often told him that he looked like Woody Allen.

Walking confidently through the lobby, he entered the elevator and pressed the number five button. The door lock provided no difficulty, and he was able to pick it in a matter of seconds. When he closed the door behind him, flipping the dead-bolt as a precaution, he also turned on the lights.

Which set the camera inside the clock in motion.

***** ***** *****

Typical of a dinner at a French restaurant, the meal lasted about two hours, from soup to dessert. With two different types of wine. They talked about everything and nothing. Babette was amusing, animated, phrasing her words like a school-age child but with the thoughts of a world-wise woman. When they had at last finished lingering over coffee and made their way outside, Bond asked, "Where shall we go next? A walk along the beach? Or perhaps..."

"Your hotel room?" she interrupted him as they strolled towards his automobile. He looked at her as if waiting for an answer to the question she had asked. "Alas, the evening is late and I really need to be getting home." She paused for moment before allowing a sly smile to spread across her face. "But do not worry, James. We can sit in your car for a bit."

He did not press the issue, but when they arrived at the rented vehicle and he opened the passenger side door for her, she said, "No, no. You sit there. Let me go around to the other side." Already she was taking the keys from him and, with a shrug, he indulged her. Once she had circled around and slid into the diver's seat, she explained, "This way the steering wheel is not in my way."

Without further words, she turned in her seat to face him and leaned forward to begin unbuckling his belt. Bond did what any healthy heterosexual male would do in such a situation; he leaned back in his seat and allowed her to proceed.

With his pants open, she snaked her hand inside the fly of his boxers and pulled out his already hardening dick. "Oh, so you remember me, do you?" she asked, staring down at Bond's cock and speaking to it. A few encouraging strokes with her hand and she was then in possession of a primed and loaded weapon. Her next goal was to make it go off. To that end, she leaned forward with parted lips, engulfing the love-gun. As she had done the night before, Babette bobbed her head up and down while pumping the zipper-sausage with her fist.

Bond petted the crown of Babette's head as it rose and fell over his lap, gently rubbing her hair as she sucked him off. And suck she did. It felt like the head of cock was inside a warm, soft, wet vacuum cleaner as she slurped on his meat-missile. Her free hand grabbed his balls, rolling the twin orbs around in the palm of her hand with her slender fingers as her mouth and other hand worked on his flesh-cigar.

The longer she slobbered the knob, the wetter his cock and balls got as spittle oozed down the length of the shaft and onto the hairy nut-sack. The soggy, glugging noises of her lips and fist were accompanied by the trilling, purring sounds she was making. The woman worked with a purpose, steadily, rhythmically, un-tiredly, blowing her dinner date, wanting to get a mouth full of man-cream for her last course.

Over the slushy sounds of her oral caresses, she could hear Bond's breathing growing more intense, more rapid. And she knew that he would not last much longer.

Indeed, 007 had nearly reached the point of no return. He was teetering on the edge, just about to bust his nut. With a sudden intake of air, he grabbed her head with both hands as he exploded inside her mouth. His salty splooge flooded her mouth as he emptied his nuts into her warm, sucking mouth.

Babette let out a startled grunt when that cum-gun began shooting out gooey bullets spunk, ricocheting off the roof of her mouth, blasting the insides of her cheeks, filling her with his heavy load of spunk. But like the brave trooper she was, Babette continued to suck and bob, gobbling up the gooey baby batter he was feeding her.

Finally, when his orgasm ended and his hands fell away from her head, she straightened up in her seat, coughing and gagging. "Why... why didn't you give me a warning, James?" she gasped. "You nearly drowned me."

Offering her his handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe away the jizz that had leaked out around the corners of her mouth, he answered with, "You said that you liked a man who was unpredictable."

"Yes," she panted, dabbing at her mouth and chin. "But just shooting off inside a girl's mouth without a warning... That is, as you English say, not very sporting."