Disclaimer: You are about to read a fictional story. This story features underage boys engaging in sexual behaviour. All similarities with any persons living or deceased are purely coincidental. If you're not allowed to read this, then please don't. If you don't want to read this or find it offensive, please feel free to peruse friendlier works of art. Comments, suggestions and criticisms are very welcome, but please note that I'm not a native Am Eng speaker so I might mess up here and there.
Hello, and thank you for taking the time to read my new series,
Agent 69. This series will be my
testing ground for new ideas and themes that lie outside my comfort zone. It's
a challenge to write, but a fun challenge at that. This is just a few notes for
anyone who would like to read the series:
-----The series is set in the near future. This will explain some of the technology you might encounter in the series. I'm trying to write what is essentially a kid James Bond so it's no surprise there are futuristic gadgets, and such. I'll never specify the exact year this story takes place in just so it's not anachronistic to anything. Think of it as, it could be five to ten years from now, but at the same time it could even be next year, or tomorrow, depending on which Science journals you read.
----------A little suspension of disbelief is required, at least a little more than most stories. The series will NOT feature paranormal or supernatural themes, but I might introduce other concepts that may be a little strange, if at least loosely grounded on science.
--------Easter eggs, tons of easter eggs. It's just my thing. Especially if you've read my other stories (in Y!Gallery).
-------- Story structure will be episodic, like a TV show. One chapter may not be immediately chronologically related to one another (except the first couple of chapters, though I will have a story arc on the whole. Also, I won't call my chapters as numbered "chapters" for this reason. I'll call them "missions". Occasionally, I will have "debriefing" chapters bearing the same name as the "mission" chapters. These will serve as epilogues to the mission chapter of the same name, and merely provide extra exposition or added closure but are essentially optional reads.
And with that, Please enjoy :)
Don't send a man to do a boy's job
Activation: Should you choose to accept it
"He's coming to . . . "
Where was I?
"Heartbeat is still irregular—it's too soon."
Opening my eyes was a mistake. Everything was a blur, and the bright white lights all around me were blinding. It hurt to look at anything.
"The incision to his phallus hasn't healed yet. Who eased up on his anaesthetics?"
My ears felt like I hadn't used them in a long time. Hearing was painful. I could barely register the voices of men and women arguing somewhere near me. I could also hear the subtle beeping of some kind of machine. White, vague shapes kept drifting in and out of my vision.
"We haven't even cauterized the third batch of grafts. He'll get lacerations if he moves! Someone get the gas!"
What were these people talking about? Where was I? What was I lying on? Who were they?
Just then, I realized that I could hear myself breathing. Inhaling, then exhaling, heavily and quickly. My lungs felt like they'd been pumped full of cement. There was some sort of rubber-feeling . . . whatever . . . covering my mouth and nose. I could faintly see hazy smoke coming out of it. I tried moving my head around, but it hurt too much. My arms, legs, my whole body—they felt like they didn't want to move.
"I brought the extra canisters. Plug it in so he can go back to sleep!"
Sleep? Yeah, that sounded like a good idea. Maybe just five more minutes, I told myself—I'm sure I'll wake up before I'm late for class. I always wake up on time . . . just . . . five more minutes . . .
The next time that I woke up, I instinctively knew that I'd messed up—the amount of time that I'd been out had definitely not been just five minutes. On the other hand, I also felt extremely refreshed, like I'd already gotten all the sleep that I'd need for an entire week. I wondered how late I was for class. I bet Miss. . . . Miss. . . . somebody would . . . get . . . pissed. Hmm . . . that was odd. I couldn't seem to recall her name. I remembered having a teacher, but I couldn't remember who she was. Or rather, I knew that I was supposed to have a teacher, even though I didn't know who it was supposed to be.
I got up from bed and stretched my arms up over my head. It always felt so satisfying to hear my joints pop when I did that. For some reason, though, my whole body felt stiff. Worse than stiff, actually—I felt like I'd gotten hit by a truck. I tried stretching my body some more before I pushed the covers off of myself.
Oddly enough, I was naked. Had I slept naked? Did I usually do that? I was drawing a blank on both those questions. I wasn't sure why I was alone in a strange room, sleeping on a bed without any clothes on. Though actually, it wasn't something that really bothered me all that much. Maybe it should have, but right then, I was drawing a complete blank.
I surveyed the room around me. It was windowless, and lined with metal plating that gave it a silvery sheen like an industrial building. In addition to the bed, there was a nightstand to the left of it, with a lamp on top. There was also a plastic chair, and at the end of the relatively small room was a two-seater sofa. Save for a standing mirror and the bright lights above, there was nothing else in the room. No posters, no decorations or anything. Was this my room? It was strange because I would have preferred having posters on the door and the walls, posters of . . . something.
Hmm. For some reason I had only the barest inkling of what I wanted a room to be, and not any details of what I wanted it to look like.
I walked over to the only feature of the room I could check out, and then took the opportunity to check myself out. The mirror was tall enough that I could easily see my whole body reflected on it. My hair was hopelessly messy, and though I tried flattening it with my hand, it `poofed' right back up like someone had just affectionately ruffled it. It actually looked cool, after a few seconds of reflection. I ran a finger over my face; somehow, I had a compelling urge to feel the skin of my well-rounded cheeks. I certainly should have had my own face memorized, but I was strangely curious about it right then. I put my finger on my button nose and trailed it down to my lips—they looked kinda puffy and barely seemed redder than normal. My eyes were a deep shade of blue. For some reason, the sight looked very strange to me, as if the person I was seeing in the mirror was a complete stranger.
My hands trailed down to my chest, where I could feel the slight contours of my muscles. I think I was starting to develop abs, but just barely. It did kind of feel good to just rub my tummy like that. Before I knew it, I was sporting a boner, and my right hand grasped my length gently, as if the two were long-lost friends that had just been reunited.
I couldn't accurately measure how long mine was right then. All I knew was that it looked really good on me. It fit. I had a few scattered strands of pubes on my crotch, and my balls were almost still clinging to my body, with my sack looking just a bit tight. I gently gave myself a couple of strokes, and it was amazing how just that brief touch gave me a shiver—it felt that good. I think I actually moaned.
I looked at myself in the mirror again, this time examining every curve, every crevasse, and every inch of my body. I'd vaguely noticed one particularly puzzling aspect of my appearance earlier, but now that I was really looking hard, I could definitely see them: there were very faint lines etched in places all over me. They looked slightly lighter than the rest of my skin, but it was almost impossible to see them, unless you looked really, really closely. There were lines running up and down my arms, and another was running across my chest. There was yet another pair that ran the length of my legs. Even stranger was the discovery that I had one on the underside of my dick, and I could only see it because it was so hard.
"What . . . are these . . . ?" I managed to say out loud.
To my complete surprise, someone answered. "Right now you might be seeing the incision scars left over from your various surgeries. But don't worry—they're nothing. Practically invisible to anyone without augmented eyesight."
Up until then, I hadn't even noticed the man who was in my room. I guess during the time that I'd been checking myself out, he'd slipped in and had been watching me for some time. He looked young for a doctor—maybe somewhere in his twenties—and was wearing a pristine white coat whose single breast pocket had five pen-like objects pinned onto it. He had neatly-trimmed hair that would probably have been better suited to a schoolboy than a grown adult. He was wearing a gadget that looked like half of a pair of glasses, attached to his left ear and covering his left eye. The thing looked impossibly technological, with the metallic tubes and surfaces and the greenish-looking eyepiece making the man look almost like a cyborg.
"We're not sure at this point if they'll ever go away completely, but they're unlikely to be visible to most people," he continued. He was busily looking at his pad, running his finger across it several times. He didn't even look at me once while he was talking.
"Uh, sir?" I asked hesitantly. I was still quite confused about everything right then, and I didn't know how to talk to him. Also, my mouth felt horribly dry, as if I hadn't used it in a really long time.
"I know you have questions. Please, feel free to ask and I'll do my best to answer," he told me, still without breaking eye contact with his pad.
"I want to ask . . . " I began. But . . . where was I going to start? I looked around me, grasping at words and then looking back at him.
He still didn't look back at me, though. It was really annoying.
"Yes? Ask about what?" he replied, more to his pad than to me.
"Well, there's quite a lot to talk about," he replied nonchalantly. "But I guess it's better if I just tell you all of it right away."
He paused for a bit and I sat back down on my bed, straining my ears in anticipation of what he was about to say.
"You were in a really bad accident," he finally sighed. "In fact, you were technically dead for a number of minutes. Unfortunately, the hospital that responded to your case was ill-equipped to save you. But luckily for you, our men were also on the scene and were granted permission by the hospital to take you. You see, our organization is pioneering human enhancement and modification. We're also very good doctors with the very best of equipment.
"Our reasoning was that, if our technology could save you, then what we could learn might help to save others. And if it didn't, well, the hospital was about to put the covers on you, anyway. As it turns out, we succeeded," he concluded with a triumphant smile. I expected him to finally look over at me, but his nose remained buried in that pad of his.
"What happened to me?" I mumbled. I'd actually wanted to ask something more than just that, but those had been the only words that I could muster at the time. It felt like my brain wasn't so ready to function very well quite yet.
"I assume you're asking what we did to you. As I already mentioned, you were in an accident. Broken bones everywhere. Lacerations, severe burns, torn muscles—you name it. Your face was quite mutilated, too. We patched you up, using the latest in surgical technology, and everything worked perfectly. Except . . . for your face. For that, we needed to give you a new one. I daresay our facial construction tech is . . . bloody brilliant. The only evidence still visible are those faint lines."
"Did anyone come looking for me?" I blurted out suddenly. This was way too much information for me to process at the moment. Why wasn't anyone with me? Why wasn't there someone that I knew who could help me take this all in?
"No," he replied with a sad shake of his head. "You were the only survivor among a great many unidentifiable casualties. There were no identification records on your person, and the damage to your face made a visual match impossible. As a result, no one knows who you were."
"But my . . . my . . . what about my . . . parents?" This was an automatic reply that just tumbled out of my mouth. I was only beginning to realize something horrible when I said it.
"Can you tell me their names?" he asked in reply.
"I . . . their names are . . . well . . . ?"
It was then that the full truth of the matter finally sank in. I didn't remember. I didn't know the answer to that question, or to a lot of other questions, either. I knew that I was supposed to have parents, but I didn't remember who they were . . . or anything else about them, for that matter.
"You suffered extensive head trauma, and even some brain damage. We fixed it, but . . . yes, memory loss was hardly an unexpected outcome."
It annoyed me how he was saying all of it so coldly, so formally. He still hadn't even bothered to look at me. This was going too far, I thought, and I felt myself getting angry.
"Who . . . who am I?" I asked in what sounded like a threatening growl. Or at least that was how I wanted it to sound.
"We don't know."
"So you guys—with all of your fancy tech—can't even find out who I am?"
This time, he stopped thumbing through his pad and paused for a minute before speaking again. "No."
His unapologetic tone really worked its number on me. I was getting furious, and this time, I shouted my reply with genuine rage.
"Will you just look at me for one second, you stuck-up asshole?"
That seemed to startle him. He then adjusted his eyepiece and looked up from his pad. And finally, he looked over at me. That was enough to calm me down, and my earlier agitation seemingly evaporated.
"I—I'm sorry," I stammered in hasty apology, looking away from him as I said it. "It's just that you're telling me all of these things, and I don't even know anything anymore, and you won't even look at me, so . . . "
Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. My still-unknown `companion' was sitting beside me on the bed, his eyepiece and pad now seemingly forgotten on the nightstand beside us.
"No, you're right—I should be the one to apologise. I honestly don't know how to talk to you. What can I say to someone who I first met as a corpse?" he asked, this time in a gentler and kinder voice. If I hadn't known better, he might have sounded almost like an older brother. Not that I remembered having any right then.
"It's okay, I guess. But where am I? What now?" I was drawing a blank. After knowing all of what I'd just been told, what was I supposed to do with my life?
"Well, you're in our headquarters. For now, stay here and rest up. We'll get you into physical therapy so that you can fully recover, which is our primary goal right now. You've been out for three months, and muscle massages can only do so much to prevent them from atrophying."
"Three months?" I blurted in complete disbelief. That was more than just shocking. But . . . being out cold for that long would certainly explain why I felt so well-rested. Among other things.
"Don't worry about it, okay, bud?" the man said. "We'll take care of you. Just rest up for the meantime, and I'll come around later with something to keep your mind busy . . . " he concluded as he abruptly stood up.
Before he could walk away, though, I grabbed his arm. "No, wait, don't go . . . I . . . I have so many more things to ask. I just can't think of them right now. Please, stay with me." I felt this insane urge . . . this need for someone else to just talk to and be with. I guess being asleep for a quarter of a year had something to do with it.
The man just looked at me, and then, for some inexplicable reason, he gulped. He also looked as if he was beginning to sweat. "I really can't . . . I have much to do and . . . "
"Is something wrong? I didn't say anything wrong, did I?" I pleaded, as I tugged him back to the bed. After he let me, my hand drifted over to his, grasping it firmly. Somehow, the feeling of his skin warmed and comforted me.
"No, it's just that . . . you . . . that is to say . . . " He was stuttering now. Nervousness, I wondered? Why was that? Was I scaring him?
"What's the matter?" I asked in bewilderment at his abrupt change in bearing.
I looked up at him, and he looked back at me. I could see the hesitation etched into his face. But there was something else, too. He was staring deep into my eyes, his head leaning in nearer and nearer to mine. He could have kissed me if he'd wanted to. Did he want to? That `something else' . . . I realized with a sudden start what it was.
It was longing.
"You're too cute, you know that?" he sighed.
That was odd, I thought. What a very strange thing to say. He was still looking at me, our eyes locked in silence, when I felt my dick getting hard again. Something warm was enveloping my excited appendage and giving me a sudden jolt of unexpected pleasure.
"Hey, what . . . ?"
I couldn't finish my question as the man's hand began stroking my hardened member. Waves of pleasure emanated from my crotch and spread throughout my body, strangely invigorating every single one of my muscles. The feeling was beyond words, and none even dared come out of my mouth for fear of interrupting the euphoria that I was experiencing.
The man then used his other arm to pull me closer to him in a tight hug, and he rested his head on my shoulder as he kept stroking me. With our heads so close together, I could hear his laboured breathing and I'm pretty sure that he could hear all of the little grunts and panting noises that I made. He was so gentle, and his hand so firm, yet so careful. I could only last so long before I inevitably burst.
"Gaaaaahhhhhh . . . ."
It couldn't have been more than five minutes this time, I told myself. At least this time, I'd managed to wake up quickly after passing out. It's kinda embarrassing how such a simple thing as cumming could put me out like a light, but I supposed that the labcoat guy would have been much more worried than me. For all that he knew, I could have been dead again. And his frantic reaction when he saw my eyes flicker open said as much.
"Holy shite! You're awake! Oh, thank gods you're not dead! You really had me panicking there . . . whoo boy . . . "
I just lifted my head to look up at him. With my eyes still half-closed, I gave him a simple thumbs-up before my head slumped back onto the bed.
"I really shouldn't have done that . . . this is the first time that your body has been active in months, and exerting yourself like that might have overtaxed you. I should have known that. I'm sorry."
"I'm okay. That was . . . awesome. Like, really. I guess that must have been my first cum in three months, huh?" I said groggily.
"Quite," he confirmed with what I imagined was a smile. "I'm sorry that you can't inspect your handiwork anymore. I wiped everything clean when I thought that I'd killed you," he continued with a nervous laugh.
"That felt good and all . . . but why the sudden handjob?" I asked as I dragged my body to a sitting position.
"I guess I'll need to come clean . . . well, as clean as I can be in the current situation," he began, a rueful smile forming on his face. The awkward humor actually felt quite comforting to me.
"You're a very special boy," he explained.
"Special how?" He was beginning to pique my interest.
"We found that your body has developed an unnaturally strong pheromone. Call it a mutation if you will, but either way, you have the unique ability to produce this intoxicating chemical mix that alters the way that other people perceive you. It messes with their heads, if you will."
"What do you mean? What exactly does it do?"
"Well," the man began, placing two fingers between his eyes in a gesture of thoughtfulness. "Pheromones deal largely with how people are attracted to each other. It's a chemical signature that's usually airborne, usually accompanied by a distinctive odour. But yours is odourless and especially potent—so potent, in fact, that being near you causes absolutely anyone to develop natural biological urges to sexually pursue you."
"So . . . anyone who gets near me will get the urge to fuck me . . . ?" If being dead and then being brought back to life with a new face had sounded weird, then what he was telling me was entering batshit insane territory. If I hadn't gotten the impression that he was a respectable person, I would've thought that he was making up excuses for wanting to mess around with me.
"To put it bluntly, yes. That's why I wanted to leave a while ago. I knew that you'd affect me sooner or later . . . and you did," he replied with a guilty look.
"It's okay. And well, thanks . . . it felt great. You don't have to feel sorry about it. But what does that have to do with anything?"
"Well . . . we didn't save your life for nothing. Or rather, I would have, but once we found out about your ability, our . . . superiors found it prudent to do more than just patch you up. You're more than just a normal boy now. You're so, so much more."
"I still don't get it," I admitted as I scratched my head. I kinda understood that they wanted me to repay them for their efforts, but how in the world was I going to manage that?
"We're an organization who looks for individuals who possess . . . a particular set of skills. You're the first to be considered. The way they see it is that you owe us for helping you, so they want you to help us . . . or more specifically, to work for us."
"Do I have a choice?" The whole thing sounded like extortion, and I was afraid of what might happen if I attempted to back out.
"Well, look at it this way. I'm not really very supportive of the higher-ups. But I genuinely do want to help you. I was part of the team that worked on your operation, and for now, I'd advise you to treat this offer as an opportunity to find out what you can do and who you are. Since you have no memory of your prior life, it's something to pass the time, yes?"
Well . . . he did have a point, I had to admit. To be honest, I was actually getting excited. "Well, then—what do you want me to do?"
"You'll see in the coming weeks. We'll train you. We'll teach you everything that you'll need to know—skills, knowledge, and how to make use of your . . . ability," he explained, sounding nearly as excited as I was.
"Alright," I agreed. "I might as well, I suppose. But first . . . I don't even know you. Would you be willing to fix that?"
"Ah, yes, I'm sorry—I forgot to introduce myself. You may call me Doctor Johnson. Around here, I'm your friend, and I'll do my best to live up to that," he assured me with a sincere smile.
"Thanks, Doc," I said appreciatively as I shook his hand. "So, what about me? What are you gonna call me?"
"Well, from here on out . . . you're Agent 69."
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