A Space Oddity

While my stories tend to have happy endings, most have their serious side too so I thought I'd go for total levity this time round. From the time I was knee-high to a bug-eyed monster I enjoyed Golden Age science fiction (1920s-1950s). Then when I was in my twenties, spy fiction was all the rage. So in a fit of madness I thought: why not combine the two and have a bit of gentle amusement at the same time. This is the result. I had a lot of fun writing this story—I hope you'll have some fun reading it. Firstly the story is dedicated to Isaac Asimov, Ian Fleming and all the other giants of the two genres. If I'd had a fraction of their talent, I'd probably be rich today.

The story is also dedicated to the e-mail friends I've made in Lit. You all know who you are—thanks for all your continued support.

To the rocket scientists among you, I know the science in this story is all wrong but it is just that, a light-hearted story not to be taken seriously.

Characters in sex scenes are eighteen years old or over. All characters and most places are imaginary—any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 to the author

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"...here am I, sitting in a tin can/Far above the world..."

David Bowie

...but that's just it. I wasn't sitting in a tin can (whatever one of those is) but reclining on a Megacomf sex-sofa in the latest Aston Martin interstellar jump craft. Neither was I far above our world but far above everything in every direction in very deep space, tens of light years from anywhere worth landing on. And the girl kneeling between my legs giving me very expert cunnilingus was my faithful sidekick and lover Felice Lightener.

My name is Pond, Jaimie Pond and I'm secret agent Double Oooh Eleven, licensed to thrill (although I guess it's not such a secret now I've told you lot about it).

My five-times Great Grandmother always said I was a lineal descendent of that legendary superhero of long ago Earth, James Bond. But I never really believed her—Grammy x 5 always was a bullshitter, especially after her third bottle of Venusian cloud-rum (when she was definitely shaken and stirred). Anyway, the whole galaxy knows that James Bond was a scion of a long-extinct race called The Flemings. Whatever, I guess when it comes down to it all I have in common with James Bond—if the old tales are to be believed—is our mutual capacity for carnal knowledge of heroines (but don't let Felice know).

There's not a lot to do in interstellar space between jumps except eat, sleep and... have carnal knowledge. Felice and I always indulged in as much of the latter as we can. On this occasion it distracted us from thinking that we were on what might prove to be the most dangerous mission of our lives...

Previously, on a planet far, far away...

When the sinister battle fleet swept in from deep space and landed marauders on the planet Femina the natives were nonplussed. It had been so long since the Feminati—few in number and mainly lady gardeners and farmers—had found it necessary to defend themselves against anything more deadly than crop-blight that most of them did nothing more constructive than panic and run around in ever-decreasing circles.

To their credit the members of The High Council behaved with more dignity. They assembled in the Grand Hall of their only city (imaginatively known as The City) to discuss their strategy.

"Let's bribe the pirates," suggested High Councillor Number Two, "Perhaps they'll go away then and leave us in peace."

"And what do we bribe them with?" asked High Councillor Number Three, "The whole planet's already theirs if they want it. And we haven't got much in the way of natural resources, no gold, no silver, no precious stones. I can't see these brigands accepting several tons of turnips as a ransom." She shifted in her seat and wriggled her backside about in an attempt to relieve an uncomfortable wedgie. Her fellow councillors were constantly urging her to stop wearing lingerie several sizes too small for her generous frame.

"What we ought to do is fight," mused High Councillor Number Four, checking her make-up in a small hand-held mirror. "However, none of us know how to so we of The High Council must do the honourable thing. We'll run away and leave the others to fend for themselves as best they can. Don't put that in the minutes, Madam Secretary!" she added hurriedly.

Madam Secretary coughed deprecatingly. When all eyes turned towards her she murmured: "Could we not call upon the Earth Federation for aid?"

"Exactly what I was about to suggest!" shouted High Councillor Number One, tugging at a loose lock of her grey hair, "Why didn't any of you numbskulls think of that?"

The air was filled with indignant recriminations, each of the twelve High Councillors claiming that she had been about to bring up this very point before Madam Secretary had so rudely interrupted. In her turn, Madam Secretary made a mental note to summon Federation aid while the High Councillors were arguing among themselves. She knew from long service that taking action herself was the only way to get things done. There were too many egos clashing among the High Councillors, each one of whom thought she should be Number One.

High Councillor Number One rapped furiously on the meeting table and glared until her fellows were silent. "I have a cunning plan—"

They never did find out what the cunning plan was. At that moment the doors of the Grand Hall started to reverberate under a series of brutal blows and after a few moments collapsed entirely. A dozen burly warriors armed with laser-rifles, each encased in black armour and grotesquely helmed, marched in and lined up on each side of the shattered doorway to form a makeshift guard of honour. A gigantic figure, similarly accoutred and carrying a wicked-looking power-mace, strode in to the head of the table. Following closely was the only pirate not in full armour. This strange-looking individual was around seven feet tall, almost as wide and was unarmed save for three short, thick planks of wood clutched in one massive fist. His suit, designed for someone much smaller, was made from old sacking and big toes peeped through the front of his boots.

The pirate chief shouldered High Councillor Number One to one side and glowered silently at each and every one until all quailed. Then he spoke.

"Who's in charge here?" boomed the giant in a deep, deep voice.

All the High Councillors started pointing at each other and shouting at the same time.

"She is!"

"Moi?"

"Never! You are!"

"No, she is!"

"Not me, it's her!"

"No it's not!"

"Right there beside you!"

"What about her?"

" I never wanted the job!"

"You lying bitch! You'd drop your panties for the job!"

"You'd climb into anyone's panties for the job!"

"Enough!" The giant brought the mace down on the antique table, knocking a huge chunk out of it and reducing its value to nothing. "It matters little. From now on, I'm in charge. You may have heard of me. I am Doctor Yes! Any questions?"

The High Councillors paled in unison and indulged in some synchronised head-shaking. They had certainly heard the sinister name of Doctor Yes, one of the most feared criminal masterminds of the space-ways.

"You may wonder why I've chosen your pitiful little planet. Because it's well clear of the normal space routes and will make a satisfactory hiding place between raids until I grow bored with you. And while we're here, I suggest you behave. No heroines, no rebellions, no stupid moves likely to end in death—yours."

One of the High Councillors raised a hand, bowing and bobbing as she did so. "Is there any way we can help you, mighty sir? Any little thing to ensure your well-being and comfort?"

"As a matter of fact, there is," admitted their new principal, "Conquering planets always turns me on. I've a strong and active libido and I'm feeling the urge. So why don't you round up about half-a-dozen of your most beautiful young women for me to take a look at..."

Another High Councillor outdid the previous one with her bowing and bobbing. "Great Sir, I must object! You may not know but this is a Sapphic planet. Our beautiful young women may not be suitable for one such as yourself."

"Hmmm! I'm well aware of the nature of your population and it makes little difference to me. However, if you wish to debate the matter, you may care to discuss your objections with my chief negotiator here." Doctor Yes beckoned to the plank-carrying creature. "OddSlob! Present your arguments to the lady."

OddSlob grunted, lifted the three thick planks in front of his face and head-butted them, reducing them to a pile of splinters and sawdust. Another pirate stepped forward and handed OddSlob three fresh planks.

"Well, madam?" said Doctor Yes.

"No sir, on reflection no further objections."

"Good! Now perhaps you'll find me that dozen beautiful young women."

"But you said half-a—" She looked at OddSlob and hastily amended whatever she'd been going to say. "A dozen beautiful young women coming right up, Sir!"

While they could not see the pirate leader's face, there was a definite leer in that booming voice. "You need not worry about your young women, ladies. By the time I'm finished with them they'll be more than satisfied. Much more than satisfied."

"What about your... colleagues...?" asked High Councillor [formerly] Number One, a hand fluttering towards the menacing-looking guards.

"Don't concern yourself with them," said Doctor Yes, "You've perhaps heard that pirates and brigands pillage and ravish. My captains and crews are programmed to pillage only. Any ravishing to be done, I do it."

Then they were all so busy rushing to do the pirate's bidding that nobody noticed Madam Secretary sneaking out of a side door and scuttling down the corridor...

Secret Service HQ Planet Earth

I was bored. I was sitting at my desk, idly playing with myself but it only distracted me slightly. Not a mission nor an adventure for several weeks. And I'm a woman of action. What I needed was for Felice Lighter to come bursting into my office with her lively tongue ready to apply some pussy therapy but this morning Felice was down at the range perfecting her markswomanship. Why all her targets had the faces of women who fancied me I don't know...

Suddenly my desk-com unit buzzed sharply and I only just managed to pull a finger from pussy (with an audible slurping noise) before the screen lit up. It was Lettice Notapenny, the Head of Service's private secretary. She smirked. "Hope your finger's not too wet, Jaimie," she said.

"Wouldn't need to get it wet if you'd come down and help me out sometimes, Letty," I complained.

"Now, now, Jaimie, you know my rule. No petting pussy during working hours. But here... just for you..." She quickly opened her black-and-silver tunic top, giving me a flash of perfect boobs. As she refastened the garment her voice changed abruptly from flirtatious to official. "Em wants to see you immediately. I think it might be a mission."

Nobody knew why the Head of the Secret Service was always called Em. The title stretched back into the mists of time. One theory was that a Head in historic times had been called Emma, affectionately known as Em to her friends, and the name just stuck.

A mission! Great! Much as I enjoy sitting around with a finger—or Felice's pointed little tongue—up my snatch, missions kept me from getting stale. It could be such fun going to distant lands or planets, meeting new and interesting villains and killing them. Actually, I prefer loving to killing, but when some mastermind's minions are dangling you by the ankles over a pool of starving piranhas it leaves you little choice but to take the offensive.

I stepped into a lift—I was one of the few people remaining who use them, most preferring matter-transfer—and was about to state my destination to the robot attendant when I heard a voice calling urgently: "Jaimie darling, wait Jaimie!" Felice almost fell into the lift and my arms as I ordered: "Em's office." We were whisked on our way to the hundred-and-first floor.

Felice was sweating slightly, having obviously been ordered from the range to join me and having run all the way. We both shunned the matter-transfer booths, had done ever since in an old book we had read of a twentieth century film called The Fly. The thought of buzzing round feeding on shit and avoiding hungry spiders didn't appeal to either of us. Anyway, Felice in a slight sweat always turns me on—her body smells so much more womanly at such times. I pushed her against the back wall of the lift and we kissed avidly, our hands roaming over one another's body. Immediately my pussy was damp, my nipples like organ stops and it was only because we were heading to meet Em that I didn't start ripping my lover's tunic off.

"Please ladies, kindly get a room!" the robot's rusty metallic voice snapped. We jumped apart. I didn't know that robots could be prudish about human sexual behaviour, especially E-class menials such as the attendant. But this was an old model, possibly from a time when the then CEO of Robots R Us had also been an elder in The Church Of Strictest Morals For All (And That Means You!). No doubt robots from that era were programmed to be puritanical. Anyway, we were saved by the bell as a bong! announced arrival at Em's floor.

Lettice Notapenny directed us straight into Em's private office and switched on the pink doorlight to show that the Head of Service was not to be disturbed. Em was sitting behind her desk peering at us through the unnecessary eyeglasses she favoured. Glasses were usually only found in museums these days but Em liked them because they unnerved junior staff—it made their knees go wobbly with fear when Em glared at them over the top of her glasses. "Glasses are best," she told me once, "You can't peer accusingly over the top of your eyeballs,".

And standing behind Em was Kew, the Service's Chief Scientific Officer. Shit!

Kew had her good points and her bad points. Her good points: she was a genius; an inventor nonpareil; a top non-invasive surgeon; a nuclear physicist; an aeronautical engineer; and a first-rate quartermaster. Seems a lot for one lifetime but she was about two hundred years old and took lots of vitamin pills.

As for her bad points: she hated my guts and wanted to eliminate, annihilate and generally get rid of me in all manner of unpleasant ways, whatever her warped mind could dream up. It was all rather petty. Simply because I'd managed to destroy some of her greatest one-off gadgets while overcoming the bad guys and bringing them to justice she detested me. Such a fuss to make over a measly few millions. She also had the hots for Felice (at her age, for fuck's sake!) and thought that with me out of the way she'd stand a chance (some hope, Felice isn't into Gilfs, Milfs or any other sort of ilfs).

Even worse today. Kew smiled at me—not a good omen. I liked it better when she scowled, sneered or snarled. At least I knew she was being sincere then.

"Ah, Double Oooh Eleven and Agent Lightener, thank you for coming so promptly," Em said. Another bad omen. Em was usually grumpy and abrupt to the point of rudeness. When she was friendly and polite, be ready to cover your head and dive for shelter. "Are you both fit and ready for arduous action?"

"Yes Ma'am!" we replied in unison. The question was really rhetorical because two of the pile of differently-coloured files on the desk were our annual physical fitness reports (yes, despite the high technology of several centuries, bureaucrats still loved their paperwork).

"Good! Well done! You'll need to be at the peak of your fitness because I'm sending the two of you on a mission."

"Thank you, Ma'am," I said with a happy grin, "the four walls of my office were becoming rather boring and oppressive."

Em nodded her approval of my enthusiasm. "Make no mistake," she went on, "this will be a dangerous mission, possibly the most dangerous mission of your careers, one not to be taken lightly."

"More dangerous than the dastardly plot hatched by sadistic Ms Goldtoe who wanted to chop me in half with a laser beam?" I asked.

"Absolutely."

"Surely not more dangerous than the Thunderbox affair when Signora Garglo had me thrown in the swimming pool filled with woman-eating sharks?" said Felice.

'Without a doubt," said Em, "Why else would I choose my two top agents?"

"Ma'am, there's one very small point," I said, "you haven't told us yet what the mission is."

"Haven't I? How very remiss of me. Have you heard of the planet Femina?"

"No, Ma'am."

"It's a Sapphic world, two hyperspace jumps from Earth. You two should fit in well. We've received an appeal for help from their High Council's secretary. They have been invaded and subjugated by space pirates. Your mission is to go there and destroy the pirate fleet. Oh, and while you're at it, capture Doctor Yes."

"Doctor Yes!" we chorused, "You mean the Doctor Yes?"

"Exactly!" Em beamed at us as if we were two not-very-bright pupils who had just solved a simple arithmetic problem. Standing behind her, Kew tried to conceal a snigger. I think she liked the idea of Doctor Yes tearing me a second... well, you know...

"Anyway," Em continued, "Femina has been invaded by and is now under the control of Doctor Yes's band of villains." She leaned forward, voice dropping almost to a whisper. "A band of villains comprised entirely of men."

"Men?" We were shocked. In these enlightened times it was generally accepted that a man's place was in the home. That's what they were trained for from birth, not for becoming pirates, brigands, hit-persons and other jobs which were rightly those of women.

"Yes, men," Em confirmed unhappily, "It's not widely known—after all, we don't want men here getting ideas above their station—but out there beyond Earth's influence there are quite a lot of men behaving badly. So, Double Oooh Eleven and Agent Lightener, you leave tomorrow. A new Aston Martin jump craft has been put at your disposal, pre-progammed by the computers to get you to your destination. The pilot is one of the latest Alpha-plus model Sweary robots. In recognition of the perils of this mission, your craft is fitted out with all modern conveniences, including a Megacomf sex-sofa—from what I've heard about you two, I just ask you not to wear it out. Furthermore, pull this off and there could be an order of merit noted in your service records." She leaned towards me and whispered: "Confidentially, Double Oooh Eleven, my wife is a personal friend of Ginger Rojerd, the dancer and erotoactress. I think perhaps I could organise a blind date for you.

"Now..." she clapped her hands, "I have an important meeting with the Minister to attend so I'll leave you in the capable hands of Kew." Wow, that made me feel better.

When Em had left the office, Kew turned to me with a wicked gleam in her eye and said: "You will try to bring the Aston Martin back in one piece, won't you Double Oooh Eleven?" Ah, that was better. That was more like the old Kew I know and love. But then she switched again giving me that unnaturally friendly smile. "But of course you will, my dear, just joking." Uh-oh! I neither liked nor trusted this new all-friendly Kew.

"To business," Kew continued briskly, "We have labelled this operation Mission Him because Doctor Yes and his crew are men. Femina is a planet roughly the same size as Earth but with a far smaller population. It's a farming world now. Centuries ago it was peopled by a feudal type warrior society. They waged war until they managed to wipe themselves out so the Earth government of the time took the planet over and Sapphic pioneers settled the place. They have a cloning station so the population remains fairly constant. Femina has one city, called The City, and your craft is set to land in a small valley about two miles away.