TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 02byslyc_willie©
This second installment in the adventures of the Temporal Management Agency's most enigmatic operative is a long one. There is more story than sex, which is a departure from much of my work on Lit. But for those of you who want more than just the 'action,' I hope you will appreciate this. So get comfortable, pour yourself a drink, and enjoy . . . .
Agent Corinna Bellew stood in the doorway of the gymnasium, arms folded angrily across her chest. She stared upon the man as he went through practiced katas on the thin, hard mat. Her features were hard-set; her teeth ground against each other. What the Director had told her that morning did not sit well with Corinna.
"It has to be done," Col. Naveen had said. "There are some things we don't have any choice in."
"You could have told me sooner," Corinna had responded, with more than a little impunity. "It's been almost two weeks."
"If we had discovered this sooner, I would have told you." The Director's eyes had been hard. "No one expected you to actually form a relationship with him."
So it's my fault, thought Corinna ruefully, watching as Dylan Moon tumbled and moved across the mat. He looked delicious in just his sweat pants, whirling escrima sticks in his hands. Delicious . . . that was a word that came commonly to the veteran agent's mind whenever she thought of her lover. Everything about Dylan filled her with desire. His strength, in both body and spirit, his appearance, his unique and fascinating life . . . .
He's seventy-three years old, but he looks like he could have graduated college last week, Corinna mused. I have the best of both worlds with this man.
Her therapist would have a field day with the way Corinna thought of Dylan. For years now, Corinna had gotten into the habit of seducing men who were barely old enough to drink legally. Their age and enthusiasm were seductive to her. They reminded her of when she had been young, free, and wide-eyed. They helped her forget the horrors she had seen as a Special Forces officer with the United States Army, of the things she had witnessed through her jaunts in time.
If she could no longer be innocent, then at least she could share time with ones who made her feel that way, if only through the experience of their young bodies. But now, here was a man, chronologically twice her age yet younger in other aspects. He had experience, skill, knowledge . . . and he made her feel like no other man ever had before.
She was in love with Dylan Moon, she knew, or at least as close as she would allow herself to be, at any rate. And that love, that knowledge, was as much painful as it was thrilling.
With a whirl of the ribbed combat sticks, Dylan ended his practice and straightened. He did not look to Corinna as he spoke. "What's wrong?"
She took a breath, let it out heavily as she stepped into the room. The musky, manly aroma of his sweat flooded her senses. She felt a twitch of arousal between her thighs. Her libido was so easily triggered around him, she had come to realize.
"Nothing. I was just watching you," she said.
He gave her a small smile along with a sidelong look. "Maybe we haven't learned everything about each other, yet," he said. "But we've learned a lot. I can tell when something's bothering you."
She smiled, forcing it out. "It . . . It's nothing, really. Just some mission details from an old case." She stopped before him, touched his chest. Her cheeks colored a bit. "God, you're sexy when you're like this."
He held the two escrima sticks in one hand and took hers with the other, lifting them so he could kiss her fingers. His brown eyes bore into her own blue orbs. "Are you sure it's nothing?"
For a long moment, Corinna remained silent. She was mesmerized by his attentions. No man had ever made her feel so submissive. She was a consummate soldier upon the battlefield, rough as rawhide and untenable as a bull . . . yet around Dylan, her knees felt weak and her heart palpitated.
"Nothing we need to worry about right now," she said, insinuating herself closer, sliding her legs against his. She was aware of the heat of her sex, all but burning through the denim she wore, and of the protruding stiffness of her nipples against her slim top. She yearned for him, even though it had only been a few hours since their coupling that morning.
Dylan smiled, graced her chin with his fingers. He kissed her gently, tasting her lips. Corinna responded with a slight whimper, slid her hands over his strong shoulders to pull him close. She sucked hungrily upon his lips, his tongue.
"Mission debriefing in one hour," she whispered.
Dylan smiled, stroking the small of her back, letting the tips of his fingers slip to Corinna's buttocks beneath the waist of her jeans. "So we have an hour?"
Corinna grinned. "Uhm-hmm," she affirmed, then stepped back, taking his hand. Her eyes blazed with lust. "You need a shower, big boy. Come on."
Dylan's eyebrow arched. "Are you gonna scrub my back?"
She bit her lip wistfully. "Oh, I'm gonna take care of every last inch of you, sweetie," she breathed.
Corinna moaned deeply, bracing her hands against the shower walls, her mouth hanging slack as she felt the thick length of Dylan's cock push into her from behind. She propped one foot against the stiff glass of the shower enclosure, sighed at the sensations of her lover sliding back and forth inside her. Dylan's hands gripped her taut, narrow hips, then moved up to cup her small breasts. Corinna purred and moaned again at the feel of his lips and hot breath at the nape of her neck. Shivers rippled down her spine.
"Don't stop fucking me, baby," she murmured, hanging her head, her short blonde hair slick and dripping from the water. "Make me cum . . . please."
Dylan nipped at her dewy earlobe. "Anything you want," he whispered, then began pounding harder, thrusting deep within her. Corinna cried out, shaking with pleasure. She could actually feel the pulsing of his cock inside her, the way it stretched and filled her like no other man ever had.
She screeched when she came, a staccato, wild sound. Her hands slapped back against Dylan's hips, his strong arms. She nearly drew blood as she scratched at him. Her pussy squeezed him so tightly that he almost became immobile within her. Yet still he thrust, still he held her tightly and drove into her body, into her soul. Had he not been holding her so firmly, Corinna would have collapsed.
But then came the burst of energy, inspired by her release. Coming down from her orgasmic high, Corinna pushed against the shower wall and back against her lover. She glared at him over her shoulder, her eyes glowing brightly. "I wanna taste you, baby," she declared in a heated whisper.
"Do you?" he asked, driving his cock faster and faster within her rippling tunnel.
"Yes!" she gasped, shaking with both aftershocks of pleasure and anticipation of what was to come. "Please!"
With a groan, Dylan slipped out and leaned back against the tiled wall. The spray from the shower head cascaded over them both. Corinna whirled around and dropped to her knees, grasping his stiff, slick cock in her hands. She lavished it with attention, licking, sucking, stroking and pulling. Her mouth closed around the head as she masturbated him frantically. Water poured over Dylan's body, down Corinna's face. Her hair was heavy and wet from it, swept back from her face. He had trouble believing she was her real age in that moment.
"Oh, God! Jesus!" he croaked, arching his back from the wall, pushing his cock into Corinna's mouth. She stayed with him, sucking and urging out his orgasm. Then she felt his cock swell and stiffen, tasted the rush of warm, bittersweet fluid as it filled her mouth. She moaned at the flavor of him, relished the knowledge that she had coaxed out such a wonderful gift. She savored it all; the moment, the taste, everything.
Corinna slipped back, releasing his cock, and swallowed with a sigh. Smiling, she kissed, licked, and sucked tenderly at the head of Dylan's penis, squeezed out a few last drops for her hungry tongue. She grinned up at him, touching her chin as she felt a thin trickle of her lover's seed dripping down to her neck.
"Time to work, lover," she said, then gave the head of Dylan's cock one last, hard suck. Corinna smacked her lips, then pushed up and wiped her chin. She kissed Dylan deeply, knowing he did not mind the lingering flavor of his own semen. They held each other as the water washed over them, sharing tender, loving kisses in the afterglow.
"I wish we had another hour," muttered Dylan, running his hands through Corinna's darkened hair.
She smiled, pecked his lips. "Me, too. But duty calls, baby. Let's go."
Dylan looked at himself in the mirror. The 'costume department,' as he had already mentally nicknamed the Accessories Division, had done an excellent job on the suit. From the style and cut to the monogrammed handkerchief in the breast pocket, everything looked authentic. His hair was slicked back; it was shiny and felt heavy on his head. His feet were shod with polished wingtips. Very dapper, he thought.
"Mm-mm-mm," came Corinna's voice from behind him. "Damn, you look good, baby."
Dylan turned around, casting an admiring look over his lover's body. Her slim figure complimented the dress she wore well. It extended to mid-calf, of an off-white color with small red polka-dots. A bonnet-style hat formed a halo around the 'shingled bob' haircut she sported.
"I could say the same," he commented, adjusting his tie.
Corinna blushed slightly. "Too bad they had to age you," she remarked.
Self-consciously, Dylan touched the synthflesh mask that had given him crow's feet around his eyes and a slightly dry, aged look. He was supposed to be in his mid-forties, after all. "It feels strange," he admitted.
"Just something else you'll get used to," Corinna said. "So, are you ready to go back in time?"
Dylan chuckled under his breath. "That question ranks right up there on my list of 'things I thought I'd never hear.'"
Corinna smiled and stepped closer. "Get ready to hear it a lot, baby," she said. Her smile faltered a bit as she touched his chest through the pin-stripped shirt he wore. "Just keep in mind that . . . well, whatever happens in the past, stays in the past."
Dylan's brow furrowed in thought, and he cocked his head as he regarded his lover. "There's something you're not telling me."
She sighed heavily and turned away. "Stop doing that, okay? Yes, there's something I'm not telling you." She turned back and met his strong eyes. "And I'm not going to."
Dylan began to say something in protest, but Corinna's body language, the firmness of her voice, stifled him. Instead, he merely nodded. "Women have secrets," he said with a wan smile, then stepped past her and out the door of his quarters.
Corinna huffed, smoothed her hands down her dress. Great, she thought. Just fucking great . . . .
The lab tech was a mousy young man named Leonardo. He spoke with a thick Italian accent and gestured a lot when he spoke. "Here are your implants," he said, handing two small silver objects to the agents. They looked like stainless steel plugs to Dylan.
He took a breath, consciously touching the small covered hole in his skull, just behind his right ear. He had been wary about the surgery at first, but the procedure had been necessary for his inclusion in the TMA. Tentatively, he fitted the small plug in place, winced a bit as he felt it connect.
"Anything you need to know about 1933 will be in the implants," Leonardo continued. He looked dubiously to Dylan. "Accessing the information might be a bit . . . confusing, at first, of course."
Dylan nodded. "I'll manage. Besides, I grew up in the forties. I heard all sorts of stories about the Dust Bowl and the Depression."
Leonardo shifted. "Eh, of course, sir," he said. Like many others around the base, he obviously had trouble believing that the man before him was a septuagenarian.
"Don't worry," Corinna said, sidling up beside her fellow agent. "He'll have me around." She gave Dylan a look and a smile, which he returned.
"That will certainly be helpful," Leonardo said. "Now, the implants can also be used to communicate silently. Think of it as a form of telepathy. You will not need to speak at all, but organizing your thoughts might be a little difficult at first."
Dylan started at the eerie sensation of hearing Corinna's voice in his head. He looked to her, lips slowly stretching with a smile. He touched the implant, gave the technician a questioning glance.
"All you need to do is concentrate upon the person you wish to communicate with," Leonardo explained. "Keep in mind, of course, that this sort of communication only works with others who wear an implant."
Dylan nodded, focused on Corinna. ~Talk how this should be done right?~
Corinna laughed and playfully punched Dylan in the arm. ~You need to practice, baby.~
Dylan frowned, shaking his head. ~Weird this is sensation confusing.~
Corinna snorted in amusement. "You sound like a drunk Yoda."
Their case worker was a Brazillian woman named Carlotta De La O. She wore the usual blue coverall that draped off a tall, lanky frame. Standing before a broad digital screen in the Command Chamber, she held a laser pointer as the pre-mission briefing began.
"The target date is September 17th, 1933. The principal is one Michael Craig, twenty-three, heir to the Craig Fortune. On the proscribed date, he is registered at the Van Deusen Resort, attending the debutante ball of one—"
Dylan leaned forward slightly, raising a hand as he interrupted. "And the Craig Fortune is . . .?"
Carlotta faltered a moment. "Nothing, in and of itself," she said with an annoyed wrinkle above her nose. "Except as a well of 'old money' reserves. But, with the advent of the second World War, Michael Craig invests his fortune with the Anheuser-Busch company, practically guaranteeing that it becomes the principle supplier of alcoholic beverages to American troops."
Dylan arched an amused eyebrow and tried not to laugh. "Forgive me for just a second, here," he said. "But, why would anyone target someone like that? I mean, seriously, he invests his fortune with Budweiser? I'm pretty sure, if he hadn't, someone else would."
Corinna fixed Dylan a stern look. "Are you saying he shouldn't be saved?"
Dylan hesitated a moment, feeling rebuked. "It's not that," he said.
"Oh, right," she snipped. "You were expecting to save Reagan from assassination, or something like that. Look, Dylan, not every mission is glamorous. Most of what we do is to save mundane people who shouldn't have any recognizable impact on history . . . yet they do. So take this seriously."
Dylan mused over her words a moment, then nodded. "I guess I can understand that," he said. He smiled sheepishly. "I apologize. It's been over twenty years since I last took orders."
Corinna smiled back. "Just remember," she said, touching his hand. "Not everything we do makes sense at the time. But it's always necessary."
He nodded. "I'll remember that."
Carlotta De La O looked back and forth between them, and, satisfied that she had their attention once more, continued with the briefing: "All right, then: Your point of entry will be in the parking garage just east of the hotel . . . ."
Dylan fell to his hands and knees, coughing and shaking. He resisted the urge to vomit, and took deep breaths to calm himself. There was a dry taste in his mouth, and the hairs on his arms stood on end. After a moment, he felt his balance return, and pushed himself to his feet.
"Am I ever gonna get used to that?" he asked, peripherally noting the echo of his words within cool concrete walls.
Corinna smiled. "Yes, you will, baby." She touched his back, then his arm. "You okay?"
Dylan nodded, then coughed again, and spat. "I need a mint."
Corinna laughed, looking around. She reached into her handbag, took out what looked like a compact case. Through the fluffy pad, she pressed hidden buttons. The mirror on the inside of the lid transformed into a green-backed grid with a sweeping red line that spun about a central point. She frowned as blips appeared.
"Jesus," she muttered. "I'm getting Rectifier signatures all over the place."
Dylan frowned with worry, reaching inside his blazer. He came out with a cigarette case and flipped it open. Pushing a few invisible buttons as well, he looked at a screen on the inside of the lid. "I am, too. That's not normal, is it?"
"No, not at all," Corinna said in a worried voice. "We always assumed the Rectifiers had the same limits as we do when traveling back. I've never encountered more than two of them on a mission. What the hell is going on?"
Dylan looked around the parking garage. In the deep shadow, he could make out the silhouettes of numerous vintage vehicles, most of them Fords, Oldsmobiles, and a few Rolls Royces and Mercedes. "Well, whatever is going on, we need to stay alert. Rectifiers can't automatically detect us, right?"
Corinna shook her head. "No, only if they think about it. And androids follow programs. They'll do periodic sweeps, but with so many of them around, they'll probably lose us in the shuffle. So long as we act like we belong here, we'll be all right . . . for a while."
Dylan nodded and snapped the cigarette case closed. "In that case, we should get checked in." He offered his bent arm to Corinna.
Despite the circumstances, she could not help but smile. "Absolutely," she said.
The lobby of the Van Deusen Resort Hotel was inspiring. Polished marble columns held up the twenty-foot ceiling; ornate rugs covered the floor. The scents of cigarette smoke and expensive perfume filled the air as guests milled about the padded chairs and couches. Representatives of the societal elite were everywhere, contradicting the images in Dylan's mind concerning the realities of the Depression – which remained, however dim, in his memories – that wreaked havoc with the rest of the world.
It was like having a very real and life-like dream, Dylan figured. The kind of dream in which you simply knew it wasn't real, yet everything felt right. Except . . . .
This was real. He really had traveled back in time. Jesus, he thought. This is 1933. I'm not even born yet.
A surreptitious nudge to his abdomen by Corinna's elbow brought him back to the moment. "You're on point, baby," she muttered through her teeth, smiling at the people around her. "Remember, this is the thirties . . . certain things are handled by men."
He nodded. "Right." Focusing on the moment, he approached the front desk, where a slender young man in a maroon jacket stood professionally. With all the confidence and quiet arrogance expected of a man of means in such a turbulent time, Dylan rapped his knuckles on the mahogany top. "Mr. Maxwell Lord, and wife," he said. "We have reservations."
The pimple-faced young man glanced down to the thick book before him. Dylan waited patiently, thinking about the real Maxwell Lord, who, according to historical records, had perished due to an asthmatic fit three days prior. The actual record of the man's death would not be in the public eye for another week. He hoped Mr. Lord's spirit would not be insulted by Dylan's use of his name.
"Here we are, Mr. Lord," the clerk said at last. He smiled and held up a key attached to a diamond-shaped wooden placard. "Room 217. You may take the stairs at the end of the hall, or our new electronic lift."
Dylan smiled. "Call me old-fashioned," he said. "But I prefer the stairs." He snatched up the key and glanced to Corinna. Without a word, she smiled and nodded, taking her 'husband's' arm, and followed him down the hall beside the reception desk.