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Chapter 3 by mike.peregrine mike.peregrine

Choose a scenario

Trench, Sylvia Trench

James Bond lay propped up against three fluffy pillows at the headboard of his king-size bed, the silk sheets wrinkled and crumpled beneath his naked body. The bed was flanked by two night stands, with a lamp on each. On the table to his left was a serving tray with an aluminum shaker coated with droplets of condensation and a half-filled stemmed martini glass with an olive. The table on the right had an ashtray with a dozen butts, a pack of cigarettes and silver plated lighter, a Walther PPK, and a state-of-the-art Motorola Pageboy I, the latest advance in 1964 technology.

Bond took a sip of his martini and admired the view of Wellington Square visible through the second store bedroom window. It was lovely balmy afternoon, with blue skies and darting birds, the type all too rare in that land of endless fog. The Plane trees were in full foliage and the well-manicured plots of grass, crisscrossed by concrete walkways, were a lush green carpet.

"Hand me my martini, please," the woman lying on her stomach between Bond's wide-spread hairy thighs asked. Bond passed the half-full glass from the tray to the out-reached hand. She tossed it back in one gulp, returned it Bond, and lowered her head to resume what she had been doing. Her long black hair, once done up in an elegant chignon, now flowed freely down around her shoulders.

Leaning over to his left, Bond refilled the glass from the shaker, and settled back to enjoy the tongue-bath Sylvia Trench was giving his family jewels. "Do you keep your Slazenger 1's this clean?" he asked, as Sylvia held his erection off to one side, out of the way, and flattened her tongue against his nut-sack and licked.

"But of course," she answered, gently kissing his scrotum. "If the dimples on the ball are caked with dirt, they do not create the turbulence in the layer of air next to be ball needed for longer flight. (Like Bond, Sylvia was an avid golfer.) "However," she opened her jaws wide, "I do not put by Slazenger 1's in my mouth."

As she now did with Bond's testicles. He exhaled a deep sigh and lowered his eye-lids, savoring the warm, wetness of her oral cavity. After several moments of this, sucking on them and flicking them with her tongue, she lifted her head, allowing the spit-covered nads to slip from her mouth.

Sylvia rearranged her position, drawing her knees up towards her chest, placing her hands palm-down on each side of his hips, and lifting her torso. Making eye contact with her lover, she parted her lips, slowly lowered her head, and engulfed the head of his erection as it stood straight up in the air. But she did not stop her descent. Instead, the black-haired woman took more and more of Bond's dick into her mouth, pausing for a split second when the wideness of his cock-head slipped past the restriction of the opening to her throat, and continued lowering her head until her nose was pressed against his abdomen. Her chin rested on his ball-sack.

For several seconds she remained hunched over like that, Bond's cock buried inside her throat. She knew that not many women were capable of doing this trick. And she further knew that most men loved it. One Italian count had even asked her to marry him, his proposal based primarily on Sylvia Trench's 'deep throat'.

Needing to take a breath, she slowly lifted her head, exposing more and more of Bond's now salvia-coated cock to his view. She did not remove her mouth from his one-eyed snake, once her throat was clear, she was able to draw in a breath.

Bond watched in equal parts of arousal and fascination. Sylvia Trench's skills and appetite never ceased to impress him. It was while she was doing this, slowly sheathing and un-sheathing his cock, that the pager buzzed.

Sylvia froze in her position, arms out to the side as if she was doing push-ups, her cheeks bulging, and her eyes wide as they darted from the pager to Bond's face and back to the pager. Her facial expression would be funny, if not for the seriousness of the dilemma 007 was now grappling with. Answer the call to duty, or 'bust a nut' down Sylvia Trench's throat?

What's next?

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