A Space Oddity Too

When I wrote A Space Oddity I intended it to be a one-off. However, a number of readers dropped heavy hints that they'd like to see more of my bunch of peculiar characters and even more peculiar plot (a cross between old-fashioned space opera and not quite so old-fashioned spy stories). So eventually I succumbed (even to the extent of sticking a serious story to one side for the moment—watch this space) and here it is: A Space Oddity Too. I hope you enjoy it. If you haven't read A Space Oddity it might help you to do so first and get to know the characters. My thanks to all those who made suggestions, especially WaxPhilosophical, TrueMort and Shaima32.

And to Stroudle who wants her own Megacomf sofa, I'll keep an eye on the dfs sales for you.

Characters in sex scenes are eighteen years old or over. All characters and places are imaginary—any resemblance to persons living or dead (or in this case yet to be born) is coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 to the author

In flagrante delicto (almost)

I nearly got caught with my panties down. Or, to be honest, completely off. In fact I was bare-arsed naked and unashamed and with me, equally naked and unashamed, was Ginger Rojerd.

For those of you who live with your heads tucked under your arms and don't know the name Ginger Rojerd, she was the famous dancing partner of the celebrated Frederica Stares. Frederica is now retired so Ginger reinvented herself and became the world's top lesbian erotoporn actress, known as the Queen of the Sapphic-Touchy-Feelies. And suddenly it looked as if Felice Lightener, my professional partner and private lover was about to catch us in flagrante (that means by the pubes for those of you who don't know Latin).

If you're a new reader, I'm Pond, Jaimie Pond, secret agent Double Oooh Eleven, licensed to thrill. Now don't get me wrong, I adore Felice, love her to bits, but the Double Oooh agent's handbook makes it mandatory for us to shag the heroines in our various adventures. This rule goes back centuries to the time of the fabled James Bond. In fact, they don't even have to be heroines—any willing beautiful woman is fair game; pussy galore you might say. Unfortunately, this is the part of my duty that Felice has trouble accepting. Add the fact that I'm one of nature's babe-magnets and I'm having to tread very carefully much of the time.

Felice had been attending a week-long training course on new and interesting ways to do away with villains. Being free for the week, I took up the offer made by Em (Head of Secret Intelligence) to get me a blind date with Ginger. I have to say that for all Ginger's reputation and prowess (that she could almost make her pussy sing grand opera), I preferred my Felice. However, I wasn't complaining (never look a gift pussy in the... whatever...) and this was one more for my treasure-book of memories when I grow old.

So there we were, Ginger and I, indulging in an exotic type of oriental clitoral titillation she was teaching me when a gentle incoming-message bell ting! echoed through the apartment followed by the mellow tones of the D-class robot doorkeeper announcing: "Ms Lightener is approaching the premises and will be with you shortly."

"Oh shit! She's home early!"

"Who is?" asked Ginger, "Your partner? The ever-so-slightly jealous one? The one with the gun? The fast-draw expert?"

"That's the one!"

"I'm outa here!" a panicking Ginger yelled.

"Yes! Quickly!" I gathered her clothing in a bundle, pushed it into her arms and hustled her, naked as nature intended, into the matter-transfer booth in the corner of the room. Although Felice and I are both averse to these machines, they come as standard fittings in the better class of apartment.

Ginger hastily punched in her mansion's number and when her E-class robot major-domo responded cried: "Beam me down, Stotty!"

As she seemed to shimmer and fade away, her farewell words echoed through my brain. "By the way, Jaimie Pond, you've got a perfect pussy!"

I scrambled into my thong and leisure gown just in time. Sixty seconds later Felice entered the apartment and it was massive hugs and kisses all round. And then we both spotted them at the same time, lying on the floor in their scarlet glory. They might as well have been shouting "Hey! We're over here!" at us. Felice got there first and picked them up, a very expensive and very erotic pair of Euphenia's Hush! panties. They were Ginger's very expensive and very erotic Euphenia's Hush! panties. I should know—I'd removed them from her luscious buttocks with my teeth only an hour or two earlier.

"Well, J-a-i-m-i-e?" my beloved asked in her most dangerous voice as she twirled the garment on a forefinger (at least it wasn't her Smith & Wesson .789 being twirled). I tried to think fast but my poor brain had come to a shocked standstill. Deliverance came from an unexpected source.

"Oh, you've found them, Ms Felice," said a smooth voice. Jives, our shared man-of-all-works, came in from the kitchen—whence he had discreetly retired when Ginger arrived—wiping his hands on his pink-and-white striped apron, the one he always wore when preparing a welcome home dinner for either of us. "They must have fallen from my pocket while I was doing my chores. Thank you, thank you."

"These are yours?" an astonished Felice said.

"Yes, Ms Felice. Or, to be more accurate, my dear sister's. I keep them as a memento. She's gone, you know."

Felice looked shocked. "She's dead? I'm so sorry to hear that."

"No, miss, not dead. She's gone—emigrated to the planet Femina where women are women and men unwelcome. She wants to find herself and what better place to do so?" With another word of thanks, Jives plucked the panties from Felice's finger and stuffed them into his pocket.

"Oh Jaimie!" Felice flung herself into my arms. "Please forgive my suspicious mind." Hugs and kisses. Crisis over. "Now I'd better go for a quick shower."

"I'll join you in a moment," I called as she left the room. Following our last mission, the strange case of Doctor Yes, Felice had been promoted to First Class Agent. Two more promotions and she'd earn a Double Oooh number herself. Then she might understand the pressures involved in having to chase beautiful women in addition to wiping out villains bent on domination (and no, that doesn't mean what you think it means).

I turned to our factotum and lowered my voice to a whisper. "Thanks, Jives. You might find an extra hundred or two in your pay packet this week."

He bowed slightly. "Thank you miss. I endeavour to give satisfaction and would hate to see a rift between my two favourite employers. Now Ms Jaimie, there was an urgent message from Ms Lettice Notapenny a few minutes ago. You and Ms Felice are required at Madam Em's office immediately if not sooner. It was recommended that you use the matter-transfer booth."

We didn't use the matter-transfer booth.

You only live once (if you're lucky)

The one thing you don't ignore in the space-ways is a distress signal. After all, you might be the next one sending out such a signal and you don't want passing captains to say: "He never responds to an SOS call so stuff him!" thus leaving you stranded in deep shit... er... deep space.

The luxury cruiser Star Bores was en route from the planet Tattootit to Earth when they picked up the urgent 'Mayday!' signal. "How far off are they?" asked the captain, short and rotund, looking up at his first officer, tall and skinny.

"Not more than quarter-million miles, sir," the first officer replied, "I've checked all around and there's nothing else within closer range. We've attempted voice contact but no luck."

"Ah well," sighed the captain, "We'd best go to see what the trouble is. When we're within sight range, I'll go to the control deck to supervise docking while you stand by here to check any personnel as they come through the airlock."

Eventually they came within sight of the distressed craft, first as a distant twinkle against the background of stars gradually growing until at last they were able to identify a drifting tramp craft, probably used for shifting small loads of goods between planets. There was no immediately obvious cause for the Mayday signal so the Star Bores officers assumed that whatever was wrong was inside the craft. The captain went to the control deck and slowly, skilfully docked the Star Bores so that the ships' air-locks slotted into place perfectly.

There was a sound of rushing air filling the tunnel between the adjoining locks and the control light changed from red to green, signalling that all systems were safe. The Star Bores first officer turned the wheel that opened the air-lock on his side to find himself brushed aside by the dozen or so roughnecks who pointed laserblasters at his head.

"Space pirates!" he gasped, "We've been bamboozled by space pirates!"

The apparent leader of the mob seemed to take umbrage at this. "Did you hear that, lads? He called us pirates."

"Shall I clump 'im one, boss?" said a cross-eyed brute, "Teach 'im a lesson."

"No, no, Louis. I'm sure he didn't mean to hurt yer feelings. A natural mistake, I suppose." The boss turned back to the first officer. "We're not space pirates, captain, we're interstellar gangsters and our Big Boss is a master criminal."

"And I'm not the captain," said the other, hoping to relieve himself of any responsibility, "I'm only the first officer." Looking round at his assailants, he guessed that their craft must be piloted by a first-class computer—the only expertise this heavily-armed lot would have would involve brutality and mayhem. As long as one of them was sufficiently literate to read the computer's control switch (the huge one marked 'ON/OFF') they'd probably be all right.

"Right, first officer, kindly summon the entire ship's company and have them join us on the main deck," ordered the leader.

The first officer went to a communication point to do as bid and minutes later the crew's full complement was assembled under the muzzles of a dozen laserblasters. Even if they'd wanted, which most of them didn't, there was nothing they could have done. The Star Bores carried only one small pistol and that was locked away in the captain's safe.

A querulous voice echoed through the ship's communication speakers. "First officer, what the hell are you doing summoning all personnel to the main deck?"

Number one gangster said: "The captain?"

"Yes," said the first officer, adding helpfully: "You'll find him on the control deck. It's that way." And under his breath: "He's got the rank, let him take the shit."

The captain took the shit all right. He was brought along to the main deck, helped on his way by a series of less-than-gentle shoves and friendly kicks up the backside. A final push landed him on his knees before the gang's leader. The leader gave the captain a snaggle-toothed grin as he bent and pulled him to his feet. "You'll have to excuse my lads, Captain, they're only being playful. Don't know their own strength, that's the trouble. Now, let's keep this amic... amic... er, pally. I'm Al, that's short for Al, I think... What's your name?"

He bent to look at the captain's name-tag, lips moving as he ran a slow finger along the embroidered lettering. It looked as if he was the leader because he was the only one who'd made it past the letter 'C' at school. "P-I-N-K-U-S. Any other name, Captain Pinkus?"

The captain hesitated until a thick thumb dug into his short ribs, the shock causing him to break wind very loudly. "You hoid da boss," snarled the thumb's owner, "Whyncha tell 'im or da next time it won't be me thumb!" He gave the captain a glimpse of a wicked-looking knife. " 'N keep yer farts to yerself!"

"My friends call me 'Pomeroy'," the captain admitted.

A muffled voice called out from the back of the assembled crew. "He ain't got no friends!"

"And we call 'im 'Stinky Pink', " confided another disguised voice, " 'Cos he's always farting!"

Al shook his head. "That's not very kind, is it? I'll call yer 'Pink'. And no friends? Now that is sad. Still, Pink, we're on first name terms now, ain't we? We can be friends if yer plays yer cards right. Now if we hurry and get our business finished with, we can both be on our separate ways in no time and everyone'll be happy. So tell me, Pink, where's yer very important passenger?"

"What very important passenger?"

Al's friendly grin disappeared. "Dear me, Pink, that's the wrong answer. And here we were getting on so well." Shaking his head sadly, he took a huge laserblaster from a holster on his broad belt and held it to the captain's forehead. "Pink, you're probably wondering how many shots I fired when boarding you and in all the excitement, I kinda forgot myself. Oh, silly me! Of course I didn't forget—I didn't fire any shots. It was what they call a bloodless coop. Guess what? My pistol is fully charged so it should be good for at least a hundred shots. Do a lot of damage with a hundred shots. Now you must be wondering if I'll really shoot you if I don't get the answer I want to hear. So the question you'll got to ask yerself, Pink, is 'Do I feel lucky today?' Well, do yer Pink?"

Pink's face turned a whiter shade of pale and a fine sweat broke out on his noble brow. He gave Al a ghastly grin. "Oh, you mean that very important passenger."

Al held his arms wide in a friendly gesture, grin restored. "You see? That wasn't so hard. Yes, that very important passenger."

"She's in hibernation, doesn't handle hyper-space jumps very well."

"Good, makes our job easier. Right, three of you come with me to the hibernation unit. The rest stay here and watch Pink's crew. And be nice, lads—as long as they're good, don't kill them."

"We'll be good," Pink promised, collapsing into the flight-master's chair.

Al and his trio of heavies marched purposefully through the ship until they reached the hibernation unit. Their target lay at peace in a sleep cabinet beside which sat a huge muscular fellow in a Guardian Corps uniform. He was an old hand so the gangsters didn't need to tell him not to make any careless moves.

Al gestured towards the sleep tank with his laserblaster. "You the bodyguard?"

"I am," was the proud reply, "Our watchword: 'You Only Live Once!' Sworn to serve and protect and die for her if necessary."

"That's an easy one," said Al, raising his weapon.

The guard held up his hands. "Now, hang on there, I was just quoting the book." He held up a thick, heavy volume of regulations and procedures. "Not necessarily my views at all so let's not be too hasty about this. After all, I'd say we're all working-class lads here, ain't that so? The common clay? Lumpen proletariat, salt of the earth types? Pushed around by her class all our lives... bloodsuckers, every one of them..." [Nobody had ever pushed Al around nor had he ever worked but he didn't like to mention this in the face of such stirring eloquence.] "...Why should the likes of us die for the likes of them, always grinding our faces in the dust?" [The guard had never had his face ground in the dust but why ruin a good performance?] "Besides, I haven't been given the proper training about how to die for the parasitic aristocracy. Be hell to pay if I was killed and my union found out I hadn't been on the 'Right Way To Die' training course. Good union man, me. Power to the workers, that's what I always say."

"Very fair," Al nodded, "We can't have the unions upset. It's only right that a bloke should be properly trained on how to die for the aristocracy. Tell yer what, suppose I let Lunk here hit yer on the head with his cosh. Then it'll look as if yer went down fighting..."

Leaving Lunk and the others to get their target to the air-lock, Al returned to the flight-deck. "Tell the World Presidents they'll be hearing from the Big Boss. By the way, Pink, noticed yer've got a cargo tender on tow, what's in it?"

Having surrendered their very important passenger, Captain Pink couldn't be bothered about the cargo. It was probably insured for two or three times its value anyway. "Two hundred thousand bottles of assorted spirits," he said, " El Collapso cloud-rum, Grappling Grannies gin, Bailiwick's Martian Cream, that sort of thing."

"We've got to take that Al," said another gangster, "If we don't the Big Boss will get very narky when he finds out—someone's sure to snitch—and yer know what he does to people when he's very narky."

"Yerse... wouldn't mind so much but the tight-arsed bastard'll likely keep all the booze to himself..."

A couple of hours later the gangsters were on their way with the double-helping of booty leaving Captain 'Stinky Pink' Pinkus nibbling his fingernails and wondering how to explain this to the authorities...

For you spies only

As was our habit, we took the lift up to the hundred-and-first floor, Em's eyrie. The E-class robot attendant eyed us suspiciously as we entered. "Behave yourselves while in this lift!" he snapped as if he was a C-class nursemaid robot admonishing badly behaved children. He had never forgiven us for making out in his little domain once, as if it was a robot's place to judge our behaviour. But he was a very old model and like most of his creaky vintage had been programmed with the then manufacturer's personal bigotries. We reached Em's floor and the robot said: "Your destination, er...ladies..." as if he doubted our status. As we exited the lift I whispered: "Scrapyard for you, rust-bucket." His red eyes flickered madly as his limited brain mulled this over.

Kew was waiting for us outside Notapenny's office. When she saw me, her lips twisted into their customary snarl so I smiled sweetly, pointed to my pussy and said "Boom!`' causing her to flinch and hastily try to divert attention. Her recent attempt to rid the galaxy of me was fresh in all our minds. "You didn't use the matter-transfer booth," she grumbled.

"We've told you before, Kew—neither of us wants to sprout wings and multi-faceted eyes and be sick on our food before syphoning it up through long proboscises. Uggh! And as for being a spider's mid-morning snack, forget it."

Kew looked at me as if I were ready for the women in white coats. "Do you still believe that old story about a man and a fly getting mixed up in a matter-transfer booth? It's a legend, Double Oooh Eleven, just a legend!"

"Well that's as may be, Kew, but don't blame us if you suddenly find yourself buzzing around looking for a manure heap to lay your eggs!" I said.

As Kew ushered us into Em's office and Notapenny turned on the pink 'Do Not Disturb' door-light, Felice whispered: "Any eggs she lays will pollute the manure heap anyway."

"Ah, Double Oooh Eleven and First Agent Lightener," Em greeted us without looking up from whatever she was studying, "Thank you for coming so quickly." Kew started to snort contempt then changed it to a cough as I smiled an insincere smile and pointed to my pussy while mouthing the words: "Cobalt bomb." For a while at least I had her by the boobs and she knew it.

Em looked up. "You two did an excellent job in capturing Doctor Yes and a merit commendation has been placed on your records. Our psychologists are making good progress with the Doctor and when mental rehabilitation is finished and training is complete she should make a satisfactory agent. [Good, maybe a chance to repay those great orgasms she gave me when last we met—but not a word to Felice.] Now, to business... Are you ready for another mission which may or may not be your last mission's equal in danger?"