You Only C.U.M Once (Pt. 06)

I ducked and rolled in the same fluid motion as De La Cruz shot over my head. Her foot slammed into the tree behind me and the lithesome M69 agent turned her jump kick into a backflip, soaring overhead. "Come on!" I said, then stood up as Michelle snapped a punch at the side of her head. De La Cruz caught the blow, then brought her knee up into Michelle's gut, but Michelle rolled with the blow, turning her being grabbed into her grabbing De La Cruz. The two of them tumbled down and out of sight of the goons that were still massing at the front of the island base. They rolled into the jungle and I leaped on after them, my feet hitting the loam and the slope of the hill that the two of them were rolling down.

I skidded after them and came to a stop and found that De La Cruz was on her back, squirming and wriggling as Michelle pinned her arms over her head, grinning down at her.

"So, as my friend was saying," Michelle said. "You really need to get out of that medicalized, TEFY-"

De La Cruz put her foot up against Michelle's belly, then shoved, hard. Michelle landed on her palms, flipped up, then came down on her feet panting.

"-headspace," she finished. "Being trans isn't about whether you got bottom surgery or-"

"Shut up!" De La Cruz shouted, flicking her wrist to pop out a throwing knife, then hurling it straight at Michelle, who caught it between her index and pointer finger as she jerked her head to the side.

I moved around to De La Cruz's side -- and she swept her other hand out, putting two of her fingers together so that her mono-molecular whip came out as a threaded, double helix that literally turned the tree next to me into so much pulped plant-mass. I rolled under the whip before it could seep past my body, came up and punched at De La Cruz's knee. She jerked backwards, her arms spreading wide as I added, to help Michelle's line of argument out.

"You're not a freak for wanting to be a woman-"

I snapped up a kick. She dodged, then punched at my chest. I rolled to the side, caught her arm, then blinked as she swung up both of her legs, locking them around my neck and using me as leverage to whip herself around, then fling me down into the loam. The soft leaves I crashed into were a hell of a lot better than the tarmac. I groaned and got my hands under me as Michelle, springing over my prone body, added.

"It's totally fucking normal to find yourself hot-"

"I do not find myself attractive!" De La Cruz snapped, parrying the knife that Michelle swept at her chest with her own knife. "It's you who has autogynephilia."

"Oh fuck that!" Michelle snapped, parrying the counter stroke with a spray of sparks. "There's no such fucking thing as autowhatever!" She parried again and again, giving ground as she hit back with words. "That's some wonk ass bullshit made up by a transphobic bigoted asshole who wanted us to feel bad about doing that totally normal thing that every single fucking human being in the fucking world fucking likes -- which is to feel sexy and attractive! In what universe is-" She ducked low. "That!" She came up with a shoulder to De La Cruz's chest -- and De La Cruz stumbled backwards. "Weird!"

I swept my arms around De La Cruz's belly, an idea striking at the same time as her body molded smoothly to mine. Lovemaking and grappling weren't quite the same things, but they came awful close sometimes. My bulge slotted against her pert, hungry ass and my hands slid along her belly to her shoulders, hooking my arms to hold her against me and pin her arms back and to her sides. She tensed and I felt a cocky confidence explode through me. Medicalized, TERFY bullshit filling this poor young S-agent's head. She had spent her whole life hating herself for wanting to be a woman...god knows what she had thought as she had taken her S-hormones and gone through the same transformation I and Michelle had.

And now, as I held her to me, I heard her breath catch and her eyes widen.

How could someone who felt that way about themselves possibly have ever had sex?

I whispered, warm and husky in her ear. "What's your name, cutie?"

"Rosemary," she whispered, trembling slightly.

My mouth pressed to her ear. My lips were warm and soft and oh, oh so moist. My voice was the softest, hungriest croon I could make it.

"Have you ever gotten laid, even once? Has anyone touched this pretty, perfect, surgically sculpted pussy of yours?" I breathed, my fingers creeping down, freeing one of her hands as my palm reached along her belly. She didn't stop me -- though I gave her ample chances, my movements slow, deliberate. She could wriggle free.

Instead, she trembled.

"I..." She stammered. "S-Shut up."

"You've never even been touched, have you?" I nibbled her ear. The whimper she released was almost pained and I felt a twinge of raw, fierce, bone deep sympathy for her. Imagine having the libido of an S-agent and having to constrain it like she had. My fingers crept against her belt and then pushed under, to feel the smoothness of her utterly bland panties. "Have you?" I breathed as Michelle prowled closer. Her breasts pressed against Rose's breasts, and with Rose trapped between our bodies, I could feel the stiff upper lip of the British agent literally begin to quiver.

"Never..."

"A virgin?" Michelle crooned. She ground against her from the front and my fingers slid under her panties, and I found her soaked, soaked, soaked, soaked pussy.

The touch did more than I could have possibly expected.

"Aiiiiiiiiiiiiihhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" Rose screamed, throwing her head back, her spine arching into an almost perfect C. Her hips bucked and bucked and bucked and I felt her sex twitching against my finger, her contractions fierce enough that even without putting my finger in, I swore I could feel them. Her juices frothed along my finger, soaking my palm, her pants, her inner legs, her panties, all of her lower half, honestly as she kept cumming and cumming and cumming, her eyes fluttering shut, her teeth locked as she let out soft, animalistic, guttural grunts. She hung her head forward, trembling, as her entire body went completely limp and she literally passed out, her moans sliding from animalistic to soft and oh so feminine. "Ah...yes, oh yes..."

The two of us blinked.

I looked at Michelle.

"Do you think that orgasming so hard you just...passed out counts as consent to do whatever we want to her sleeping body?" I asked.

"On the one hand," Michelle started.

Fortunately, the ethical and moral quandary of the moment was solved for us by the gordian knot of regrouped and prepped goons. They entered into the jungle with their rifles at the ready, and soon gleaming red dot laser sights were sliding along our bodies as Rose drooped down. I raised my hands, smirking faintly, while Michelle did the same.

"Over under on acid pits?" I muttered.

"Acid pits, no way, she's gonna try and seduce us," Michelle said, nodding.

"If I win, you have to bottom the next three times," I said as the goons advanced towards us, one of them drawing a pair of heavy duty manacles.

"If I win, you wear the maid outfit," Michelle said, her grin wicked as the other goon that moved up with manacles clapped them around her wrist. The third goon with manacles hefted the woozy Rose to her feet. Rose blinked, looking around as she did so.

"Zuh? Huh? What?" she blinked one last time, clearing the fatigue from her eyes. "Oh bugger."

"It's f-" I started before one of the goons lifted his rifle butt and smashed it right into my face.

***

I woke up with a slow groan and a sensation of suspension. My head pounded and I frowned as I looked left, then right, then up, then down, and took in where I was. I was currently buck ass naked, contained in a trio of metal bands that wrapped around my body at my shoulders, my belly, and my ankles. All three were attached to a network of chains that went up to a ceiling harness. Below me was not an acid pit, but the acid pit's ruder, less pleasant cousin: A intersecting, interlocking set of grinding gears. The kind that you'd use to mash rock powder into a fine paste for processing. Under the gears was a quartet of flame throwers, which were primed to torch anything that fell out from underneath.

And under the flamethrowers?

A burbling pit of...

I sniffed the air. Under the machine oil and the flame thrower's pilot lights...

Yes!

"Acid! Hah! I win, technically," I said, grinning. The rest of the room was an enclosed set of three concrete walls and open space that looked in towards an adjoining room, which contained both a bunch of control consoles and a collection of twenty incredibly nervous looking goons and a frowning, shockingly plain looking man with his arms crossed over his chest. He was short, mousy, with a balding head, and big, thick glasses. He sighed, pulling his glasses off his face and rubbing them with his hankie, revealing that his eyes were watery and unfocused.

"Hello, uh, Miss Woods. Um. Miss? Mz? Agent! Agent Woods?"

"Kimmy's okay," I said, cheerfully. "So, where did Anarchsex get you from?"

"Oh, uh...I don't-" he stopped, blushing.

"Wait, you don't work for Anarchsex?" I asked, arching an eyebrow at him. It was then that I noticed that there was a dramatic, curved chair in the back of the room -- which swung around, went too far, overcorrected the other way again, then came to a stop and I blinked, completely shocked at who I saw sitting there.

"Marcus Etan?" I asked.

Marcus Etan beamed at me with a smug look of faintly sociopathic glee. His missing arm had been replaced with a sleek silver cybernetic and his missing leg had been replaced with an equally sleek looking silver cybernetic -- both of them looking like they'd been pulled straight from the future and slapped onto him. His flesh fingers were casually petting a bright white fluffy cat that looked badly like it'd rather be anywhere but on his lap.

"The one and only," he said, leering at me.

"The inventor of the SpeedZoom Car Holes?" I asked, my eyes wide. "The owner of E3? Edison Electric E-Vehicles? Co-founder of MoneyShove?"

"Technically, I just...bought MoneyShove, then sold it," he said, cheerfully. "But yes!"

I gaped at him. "What the fuck, these were your goons?"

"Of course!" he said, glaring at me. "You think only you weird freaks can have a secret base and goons?"

"Yeah," I said, immediately. "That is...also, dude, freaks? Seriously?" I shook my head. "You already make billions on the stock market, what the fuck do you need an island base for? And goons?"

"That's exactly it!" He thrust his fleshy hand at me, pointing it me. I noticed, his fancy cybernetic arm still hadn't moved, which was damn weird, considering it was his dominant hand. You'd think he'd use it more often. I narrowed my eyes and watched it closely as he ranted at me. Honestly, I was listening to him with one ear. It went: "Blah blah blah, transhumanity shouldn't be blah blah constrained to sexual devients blah blah blah, government oversight bad blah blah blah with you I can blah blah blah."

By then, I'd figured out the deal. His cyber arm and his cyber leg were basically prosthetics, yeah. But they were baseline technology prosthetics. I'd talked to Tabby about this before: They basically existed not to help someone who was missing their limbs look more normal. It didn't make them comfortable or particularly useful. Like, there were all sorts of YouTube videos that showed off someone's cool robotic fingers, but nine times out of ten, they weren't as actually useful as, like, a hook or something actually built and designed by disabled people.

Yeah, it turned out, disabled people knew what they needed better than abled people shilling for funding on YouTube? Who knew!

Well.

The disabled people knew that. Obviously.

"And so, with Anarchsex on my side, I can create an S-hormone treatment that can work on people who aren't sex perverts like you!" Marcus Etan clenched his flesh hand into a fist, squeezing it and drawing it close to his chest with a dramatic thump. "What say you to that, Kimberly Woods?"

"Uh," I said. "Oh! Uh! Sure!"

"Sure?" he asked, frowning.

"Yeah, sure!" I nodded. "Cool."

"...were you even listening?" he asked. I could see a vein bulging above his eyebrow.

"Not really," I admitted, yawning. "Oh, I did want to ask you one thing. How did it feel when your Edisons kept bursting into flames? Did you ever manage to break up that union for the factory in Texas?" He kept glaring at me. "Oh! Right! No, real question: How does it feel knowing that your girlfriend blocked you on twitter?"

"Shut up!" He screamed, and...

Bingo.

He pointed his dominant arm at me.

His cybernetic one.

It was not perfectly strapped on, and when he thrust it angrily at me, it came free with a pop and flew through the air. One of the problems with an arm made more for style than for actual usefulness -- there was no way to seat it properly without a whole lot of extra, unsightly straps. The arm flew out and I jerked my head upwards, smashing my face into it to alter the trajectory. It hit the wall, rebounded, and then dropped onto the lever that activated the lowering mechanism. I sucked my breath in, closed my eyes, and scrunched myself in and up as hard as I could. My spine screamed at me, but I just barely managed to get my shoulders out of the restraints. I swung my chest upwards, my belly muscles tightening, as the shoulder straps hit the grinding crunchers.

Sparks flew and I felt the tremors of the impact of the grinding teeth shoot through the harness. The restraints cracked and flew open -- like, obviously, they would do that if the whole of my restraint was being chewed up. That normally wouldn't be a problem, because my head would be currently part of the mulching.

Of course, the opening did have a problem for me: I immediately fell away from the harness, dropping towards the cruncher. I slammed my ankle into the harness a second before I fell away, imparting an extra bit of spin, and landed with my toes right on the edge of the massive cruncher, my arms flared wide and twirling as I barely kept my balance. I pushed off again, backflipped and landed on one of the consoles.

I kicked a goon in the jaw, then sprang off the console, landing on the chair of a gaping technician. The chair slid on its wheels, zooming me away from where I had stood as two goons opened fire, their assault rifles chattering as bullets punctured one of the walls with a spray of sparks. The tech, who was currently gaping at my rather impressive dick hanging right before his cheeks, didn't even seem to notice the bullets whipping by.

I kipped off his chair -- sending him skiddering into the belly of a goon, landed beside the fish-gasping Etan, and wrapped my arm around his throat, then yanked him forward against my chest. He arched his back desperately to try and keep my girldick from grinding his ass and I swung him around to be between me and the goons.

"So," I said, casually. "Now's where you, uh, tell them to stand down."

"Stand down! Stand down!" Etan squeaked, his voice almost breaking as his "cybernetic" leg came free from the stress. It remained standing for a few seconds before slowly clattering to the side and rolling to a stop on the ground, having lost connection to the foot as well. The whole thing only held together if you put fucking weight on it. I shook my head, slowly, as the guards started to lower their weapons to the ground -- each one touching the floor with a soft clack.

"Really, dude, just get a peg leg." I muttered.

The door to the room opened with a groan and a stumbling guard. He crashed down onto the ground and, standing above him, was Rosemary, who was adjusting her collar with one hand, frowning down at the goon. Her warm brown features were just as cold as they normally were -- no matter what kind of amazing orgasm she had had.

"I do say," she said, dryly. "The hospitality-"

Boom.

"-here leaves something to be desired."

***

"Does that really count as an acid pit?" Michelle asked.

"Uh, in what universe does a pit with acid not count as an acid pit?" I asked.

"The plutonic ideal of-"

"Platonic!" I held up my finger and stepped over a prone body.

"Whatever," Michelle said, rolling her eyes and making a hand jerking motion. "The platonic ideal of an acid pit is a pit, with acid."

"You're not wriggling out of our bet on a technicality," I said.

"I'm just saying, it had grinders and flamethrowers and machine guns and-"

We both came to the main communication room of Etan -- and I had to admit, it was a definitely upgrade from our last little hideaway. Behind us walked a subdued and blushing Rose. The three of us had caused some serious fucking damage. I'd kept walking past smoking parts of the base and there were more groaning, unconscious goons than I knew what to do with. I grinned cheerfully as I looked around the large circular chamber, then threw myself down in the big comfy chair that sat in the center of the chamber, and as I settled into it, I said: "Let's contact Kate. She's prolly worried about us."

"Absolutely not!"

Michelle and I both slowly turned to face Rose.

"You do remember that she's our mentor, right?" Michelle asked.

"You..." Rose blinked at us. "You don't know who she is?"

Michelle and I both exchanged a glance again.

"She's Kate Thorton? She's a famous TASK agent from the 1960s?" I asked.

"Oh my..." Rose put her palm over her face, then sighed. "Do you know why MI-6 formed MI-69?"

"Cause limeys hate the fact that they don't have an Empire anymore?" Michelle asked.

"No!" Rose glared at us. "MI-69 was formed in 1969-"

"Oh!" I exclaimed.

Rose blinked. Her mouth opened. Her mouth closed. Her mouth opened again. "You thought...you...t...the..." Her brown cheeks turned so dark, so flushed, so embarrassed that I was honestly worried that she was about to pass out. "That's not why it's called that!"

"I'm not saying anything," I said, holding up my hands, palms out, placating. "Just, you know!"

"You harlot! No!" Rose shook her head. "No. Absolutely not! It's MI-69 because it's a division of MI-6 that was formed in 1969! Christ!"

Michelle covered her mouth with her hand to hide her giggling. Not that she tried very hard, considering I could hear her snickering. Her shoulders shook as Rose put her hands on her hips. "Do you know where the majority of villains came from in the 1960s?" She narrowed her eyes. "The Russians? The Communists? No! It was from ex-TASK members. The majority of all S-agents in the world were TASK trained, and baseline led -- and in the 1960s, this led to defection after defection after defection. Mars Mistress. Dr. Chaos-"

I squirmed, looking aside at that name.

"The Golden Girl!" Rose said. "And Kate Thorton was part of that stock and she was on the other side."

"What?" I blinked. "No, no way, there's no way that TASK would take her back if she tried to take over the world."

"Oh, would they?" Rose asked, narrowing her eyes. "Then...tell me: Where did she get her Makerov?"

"In Moscow, duh," Michelle said.

"No, that's exactly it: She didn't get it in Moscow. She got it from Moscow. TASK was undergoing a kind of civil war -- ops were going off the record, agents were disobeying their baseline handlers. The whole organization was falling to pieces, and their best agents were defecting to super villainy or, in Kate's circumstances, to the Russians."