Ms Moneypenny

"You do wonders for Armani", my companion purred, her fingers stroking the sleeve of the tuxedo jacket she herself had picked out that afternoon. "But I think I like you better without it."

I looked down at her in the dim lights of the theater and smiled. "Patience, darling," I told her, and nodded towards the stage. "We've a long night ahead of us."

She sighed and shifted in her seat, crossing her legs with the barest whisper of silk. "And then we have that tedious cocktail party after." Then she smiled, her blue eyes gleaming as brightly as the diamonds on her fingers. "But after that, you're all mine."

I call her Mrs. Moneypenny. She does bear a slight resemblance to the Bond character, the same knowing smile, that unflappable poise, but that's not why I call her that. Mrs. Moneypenny enjoys her money; lavishly, foolishly, but then she can afford to. She could throw hundred dollar bills off bridges like confetti every day for a year and not make a dent in her fortune.

She has a husband, a stoic man with whom she conceived two children before he moved out of their bedroom. He preferred to concentrate on business, he informed her, rather than waste time on silly things like physical pleasure or emotional intimacy. She mused to me once that perhaps it was the right choice; he was, after all, very good at business - hence their fortune - and it left her free to pursue other avenues of pleasure.

On this particular night we were at the opera to see Carmen, which she adores. She's active in fund raising for the local guild, and keeps a private box. As she relaxed beside me, caught up in the performance on stage despite her earlier protestations, I studied her.

She looked at least ten years younger than she was, a testament to hard workouts and a near religious devotion to staying out of the sun. Her pale blond hair was swept up, her shoulders left bare by the elegant black dress and the pearls around her neck gleaming dully in the faint light. She was slender, with a regal bearing that might have looked affected on a lesser woman. On her, it was a perfect fit.

Our time together usually involves a social engagement, as she has many such commitments on her calendar and doesn't like to attend alone. She also enjoys the speculation among her high brow friends as to just who that young man with her is. Their whispers have followed us through ball rooms and cocktail parties, charity fundraisers and black tie dinners. She said to me once that she’d have a lot more respect for “these people” if they’d just come right out and ask. But there seems to be an unspoken don’t ask, don’t tell policy among this crowd, so she just smiles, smug, as she makes her entrance on my arm.
Though I guess, technically, I'm on her arm.

After the performance, we did the rounds with the cocktail circuit. She smiled politely, making small talk and dispensing air kisses where appropriate. A veteran of the high society social wars, she knows what’s expected of her and how to navigate these waters. She does it almost automatically, falling into familiar patterns with hardly any effort, and though it takes a keen eye to spot the bored disinterest in her china blue eyes, it’s there.

It was almost midnight when I helped her into the subtly luxurious limo waiting at the curb, and she sank into the upholstery with a sigh. As the driver pulled smoothly away from the curb, I reached out to stroke the nape of her neck.

“Oh, that feels lovely,” she murmured, and tilted her head to give me better access. “I can take the necklace off, if it’s in your way.”

I eyed the pearls, a string of perfectly matched orbs that glowed against her fair skin. “It’s not in my way,” I assured her. “Besides, I like the way you look in it.”

She smiled, eyes closed as she leaned into my touch. “They were my mothers,” she said, “and wearing them always makes me feel like such a lady.”

“You look like a lady,” I told her, and she opened her eyes.

“I’m done being a lady tonight.” She reached over to flick the intercom button. “Derek, keep driving until I tell you to stop.”

“Yes ma’am,” the driver replied, and the intercom clicked off.

“Sawyer?” She reached up and tugged at the neckline of her gown to that it fell away from her shoulders, baring her to the waist. Then she reached out and hooked her fingers in my collar. “Make me feel like a woman.”

“Yes ma’am,” I murmured, and tumbled her to her back.

My favorite thing about Mrs. Moneypenny? It’s not her money, or the fancy evenings out on the town, or the designer suits she loves to buy me. It’s the way she tangles her fingers in my hair and tugs in rhythmic concert with her panting breaths as I pleasure her with my tongue. How wet she gets when I nibble behind her ear. The way her perfectly manicured nails bite into my shoulders as I move fast and hard inside her.

The way she looks, naked but for a string of pearls and the occasional splash of moonlight, in the back of a limo winding quietly through the town.