Harry Learns he isn’t a Bottom

The Silvergrey Sea

Part Three: Conspiracies and Secret Orders

Harry Learns he isn’t a Bottom

* * *

I generally end up pissing people off in my line of work. I’ve been punched more than once. Several mostly lame attempts have been made on my life. I’ve been abducted and tortured twice.

So, waking up in chains for the second time since landing on this world caused me to question the wisdom of my vocation; and that’s something I hadn’t done since that first shaky year as a P.I..

In hindsight, I should have been grateful.

I was in a decent bed, shackled at wrists and ankles to steel posts that ran along either side. The room was made of a yellow-orange stone. Gold flecks glinted in the light streaming in past a row of pillars to my left. Sheer drapes blurred the landscape of stone buildings poking up through white foliage.

It appeared I had arrived at the southern temple city of Kusini.

Other than the bed, the room was bare of decoration.

I was under a light blue coverlet. It was quite soft. I could feel its softness very well. A bit too well, in fact. I knew I was naked. Twisting around a bit made me gasp. The intensity of the sensation of touch on my body from the blanket and the sheet under me was off the scale. I’d obviously been drugged.

Now that I attended to it, the sound I thought was animal noises from outside seemed more like people—male people—grunting, moaning, and shouting.

A suspicion began to dawn on me that I might not be here for my health. A stiffness in the groinal area caused an orgasmic sensation when I moved my hips a bit.

I mean that literally. It felt as intense as any orgasm I’d ever had. Except it wasn’t. No spooge, flaccidity, and sleepiness.

This couldn’t be what it appeared to be. I was an alien. Why would they subject me to this? Did they intend to fuck me to death?

Of all the horrible ways my career might kill me, I hadn’t considered that one.

Though I’d really hoped.

While I was mulling over my predicament, a door to my right opened. In walked a girl in a plain white robe. As the door closed behind her, she shed it, revealing an adolescent body.

Though she looked sexually mature, I didn’t think she could be older than fourteen. She was slender and almost as tall as I was. Her curves were gentle, her tits small and capped with areolas slightly lighter than her golden burnt umber skin. Hips swelled just enough to define a graceful hourglass. She was hairless below her arched eyebrows. I could clearly see her inner labia peeking out from her outer. My body reacted to her sex as my mind rebelled at what I was sure was about to happen.

I’m the first to admit that I’m a randy old goat, but I do have limits. I had been apprehensive when I woke and now, I was slightly horrified. I didn’t want what was going to happen. Not even a bit. This kid needed another decade or so before she’d pique my interest. My penis stubbornly begged to differ, traitor that it was.

Come to that, I wasn’t all that interested in being the one tied down.

I was a prisoner.

I had no choice. Though I was bound to enjoy this, I tried to rationalize it as being beyond my control. It was a brutal struggle that my conscience lost.

She never looked me in the eye, never spoke.

Walking over to the bed, she pulled the coverlet off, drawing another involuntary gasp from me.

I had been completely denuded of hair. My Old Fella was nudging my navel.

I gave one last try at being honourable. “Look, honey. I admire assertive women, but I like a little romance before the fireworks. Could we—”

The girl had a blade against my throat so fast I barely saw her move. Some of the silken black hair that grew to her waist slipped past a shoulder the colour of rubbed ebony and covered her arm as she leaned in. Those mocha, gold-flecked eyes bored into mine as she placed a finger to my lips.

I got the message.

She made the knife disappear again. I was a trained observer and I still couldn’t tell where the knife went.

I’d rather have been tied to a chair while some goon tried to beat information out of me.

So I desperately tried to make myself believe.

This kind of assault was beyond my experience, though not beyond my fantasies, the perv in my head insisted. I tried to shut him up, but he was baying at the moon and ignored me.

I tried to make myself calm. I knew it wasn’t going to hurt. The perv chuckled and made a crude joke. I was a bit apprehensive about how it was going to feel, based on my current understanding of the effects of whatever I’d been drugged with.

With no ceremony, the girl climbed on the bed and straddled my waist. She began fingering herself, eyes closed. Those black pussy lips parted as long, slender fingers made a vee and the middle one pushed in between. The fingers of her other hand began rubbing her clitoris. She leaned back, hips thrust forward, giving my infuriatingly schizoid mind a beautifully clear view. Soon, she was breathing hoarsely, hips swivelling backward and forward. A second finger penetrated her cooch, then a third. I lost all self-respect as I joined the perv in my head and lusted. I’d feel ashamed for a long time after I finally got out of there.

Her breathing was slow and deep to start. Small firm teats rose and fell as one hand wiggled on her button while the fingers of the other pistoned in and out of her sopping twat. I could hear the sticky, squishy sound it made. She switched hands and, judging by the way her unburied fingers twitched, began working her g-spot, all the while keeping up the punishment of her clitoris.

Her breath began to come in hitching gasps, small boobs jiggling. A soprano moan escaped her. Then another.

I thought she’d finish before fucking me, so I was taken off guard when she stopped masturbating.

Reaching down with a sticky hand, she levered my cock up, drawing a grunt from me as it was painfully stiff. I gasped as her thumb brushed that bundle of joy-joy nerves just below the head. She slowly impaled herself on me.

I can’t describe the feeling nor the scream it drew from me. The sensation was stronger than any orgasm I’d ever had.

And that was just the first downstroke.

I couldn’t make myself stop looking at her. Nor could I hold in the screams of ecstasy. My rat brain took over, and I began thrusting up and down as neurocircuits older than my primate ancestors demanded I reach climax.

I don’t know how long it lasted.

I lost track of my own orgasms and of hers.

Or maybe I was hallucinating. The pleasure was a constant and at such a level that I may not have been able to distinguish orgasm from the background sensations.

Finally, she stopped.

I passed out as she was climbing off the bed.

* * *

When I woke the chains were off, setting off mental alarm bells.

I’d been bathed again.

I sat up slowly, feeling a kind of hangover for which I had no name.

I first confirmed that they hadn’t shaved my head.

I know, I know, but I’m proud of the hair I’ve got left.

I sat slowly and waited while a wave of dizziness passed before standing.

A tray had been placed on a side table that either hadn’t been there before, or which I hadn’t noticed. My uncertainty bothered me. I’m a details man—it’s my profession.

I lifted the cover. Food. Meat, veg, and a tall glass of what a sip confirmed to be water. I was famished, but I had some answers to get, first.

My legs were a bit wobbly but firmed up after a couple of steps.

I went for the door.

Locked. No surprise.

I found another robe in the alcove. No sign of my clothes, though. Shrugging, I donned it. The comfort it provided was more emotional than physical.

I went toward the pillars. Passing through the drapes, I found myself on a deep, railless balcony of sorts.

I walked right to the edge and looked down. Between the treetops and I was nothing but a couple of hundred feet of warm, humid air. Not getting out that way.

As I turned back, I noticed another doorway. This was on the left, before the pillars.

It turned out to be a loo.

I took advantage.

Feeling better, and a couple of pounds lighter, I headed back to the bed and ate.

I took the first few bites slowly, waiting to see if anything like the priapism of the previous day would occur. When it seemed it would not, I finished the meal.

I did nothing that whole day. I had nothing to write with or on, so my musings about my case and current predicament were jumbled and difficult from which to gain any insight.

I figured that Abram had to be trying to find me and here was the place he’d most likely look.

I wasn’t that optimistic about his chances.

I wanted a cigarette so badly I would have welcomed more conjugal torture for one.

Almost.

I shouldn’t think things like that. The perv was quiet, perhaps ashamed to appear now that I was back in charge of myself.

* * *

Another tray arrived, sliding along the ground through an opening in the door that closed before I could get halfway to it.

I’d been awake most of a day, judging by the angle of the sun.

I was hungrier than I had been when I woke.

I wolfed down the food.

I got very sleepy, very quickly.

I didn’t remember laying down.

* * *

I awoke chained and naked again.

The same woman-child visited me. Seemed I was destined to be her baby daddy.

Part of me groaned inwardly, while the other cheered.

Fuck.

— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, September 2026

© Gideon Jagged
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