The Boy Downbelow
Chapter 1

Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/Fa, Magic, Slavery, Heterosexual, Fiction, High Fantasy, Rough, Prostitution, Slow,

Desc: Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Hamatsa has been imprisoned in an underground room his entire life. He doesn't know the people responsible for his predicament, nor does he have any idea regarding the reason why. Now, he has a chance at freedom, and perhaps some answers.


I sat cross-legged in the darkness, listening to water dripping from the ceiling. The constant plop-plop-plop was hard to tolerate on a normal day. Today, it was an affront to my senses.

I was bored out of my mind, alone, and feeling lonely. My sole source of human contact was absent, summoned by someone as she had been a thousand times before. She had not said anything to me before leaving; I was already in bed trying to sleep when the distinctive sound of the chamber’s main door opening and closing had signalled her departure and driven any thought of sleep from my mind.

I stood up and walked to the living room. Leaving my bedroom would not solve anything, but the ever-burning gas lamps in the other room would at least allow me to read. Reading gave me hope, it helped me tolerate the miasma of despair which was my life. Even though the books I had were not very interesting – the Prince’s library can teach one a lot about the origins of morality and the nature of truth, but there were not many plays or novels lying around – I still turned to reading whenever everything banded together to drive me down the spiral of depression and desperation.

I sat behind my table and resumed reading the book I had left open hours ago. The book was boring, the chapter even worse, the subject mind-numbing. The author, some so-called philosopher who had turned to dust centuries ago, argued that every action of every man was dictated by God, a single omnipotent and omniscient deity that his northern kingdom had worshipped at the time. In the same chapter, the idiot tried to defend punishing criminals.

If the omniscient God knows everything that is going to happen forevermore, then whatever is going to happen has already been written in stone. What would the purpose of punishment be then? What would the purpose of doing anything be?

No wonder the idiots had gone extinct.

Finally, frustration won and I slammed the book closed with a snarl. I was halfway through the damn thing only because the alternatives were worse. Reading an infuriating book for half a day aggravated me far less than thinking about my life for half a minute.

Of course, just because something was aggravating didn’t mean my mind knew enough to stay away from it. Noo ... of course not. The infernal thing had to constantly think about fairness. It had to rage against the circumstances which denied me any semblance of justice, too powerless to do anything about it and too weak to control itself.

I prowled the limits of my cell in rage. Trailing the walls with my hand and striking them with the side of my fist on each step. The walls were coarse stone, rough against the skin. The force of each strike increased as I became angrier, but I did not care about the pain in my hand, nor did I care about the heat of the gas lamps hurting my face as I walked past them. I was used to pain. Pain was power.

Someone opened the chamber’s door. The screeching hinges halted my prowl and I walked to the iron door and single window separating my suite from the rest of the chamber.

“Who is that?” I already knew it was Cathy; the words were meant to let her know I was awake.

“It’s me, Atsa.” She called. “I’m sorry it took so long to get back. Do you want something to eat?”


Her return pleased me. My overactive imagination terrorized me whenever I was left alone for too long. Tonight, thoughts of her death and my subsequent starvation in this damp chamber had been particularly prominent.

“Can you tell me where you were Cathy?” I drew out the final vowel of the name; mispronouncing ‘Catherine’ in its various forms annoyed her, and it amused me to do so. I drew a sort of sick pleasure from hurting the only person who cared about me. After all, she was the only one I could hurt.

You see, it’s hard to define power. Some define it as the ability to influence other people’s actions. Others call it the capability to influence the events happening around you. I have a personal definition. Having power is being able to hurt people without being hurt in return. Cathy would never hurt me, she loved me, as a mother or perhaps a friend. But I could hurt her.

“You know I can’t.” Cat stepped into the window’s line of sight. Her red hair clean and straight, as it always was whenever she returned from her forays outside these chambers. Her clothes devoid of their usual stains. She looked tired and sad, avoiding my eyes as she continued. “They don’t allow it.”

We had had this argument a thousand times. I didn’t care for the excuse. “To the abyss with their permission.”

She frowned and walked nearer the window. “Atsa, your hand please.”

I lifted my right hand to the window. Its outer edge scraped raw by the rough stone, blood seeping from the skin, slowly clotting. I didn’t look at her eyes, embarrassed by my predictability.

Her tone was sad when she spoke, throaty, as if she was trying to not cry. “I’ll bring bandages”

Her pity just made me angrier.


The next morning, I was not eager to leave my bed.

My residence was a prison. It combined the sick pleasures of solitary confinement with the luxuries of a barracks. It had a living room constantly illuminated by the gas lamps and a damp, insect-ridden bedroom farther back. To make my sleep miserable, my benevolent benefactors had placed a hole in the bedroom floor meant for excrement; the smell suggested that it was filling up. The only pieces of furniture were an old bed too spans short for my height, a table with stacks of books and scrolls scattered across it, and a bare wooden chair close to breaking.

Simply looking at the damned chair made my buttocks hurt.

This luxurious apartment was separated from the world outside by stone walls and a single door. I had never seen it opened in my life. There was a ragged gash in the door, through which my books and food came in. The gash always mocked me. Cathy had told me a story about how my head got stuck in the it when I tried to escape the room as a child; the scars on the back of my head a constant reminder of the costs of escape.

The bedroom was damp, and cramped. Half lit by the light reaching in from the living room, it was a good home for fungi and a rich ecology of crawling insects. I hated the room with a passion. The shadows jumping across the walls; the cockroaches skittering across the floor, their little legs scratching the stone; the nauseating smell of shit; the ceiling weighing down, as if it wanted to choke me; anyone of those by itself was enough to paralyze me with fear. I had slept on the floor of the living room for the first fourteen years of my life, preferring the rough stone to the terrors inside. Going to the shithole was the worst part of each day, dreaded since the moment of waking up.

Great Lady be blessed, the insects avoided light like the plague.

When I was fourteen, I decided to sleep in the bedroom. I didn’t make the decision lightly. But age was changing my understanding of the world, and I’d realized that being afraid was a good way to remain imprisoned forever. I did not want to stay where I was.

It took me fourteen days of shivering in fear, jumping at every sound, before I fell asleep in the room. The experience had been torture, two weeks of not leaving the room, not eating anything, just drinking water and shivering in bed. Cat had begged me to give up, yelled at me for being a stubborn bastard, and cursed me for ignoring her. I had not budged. When I came out of the room after eighteen hours of sleeping, she cried with joy.

The fear didn’t go away, even now the crawling cockroaches made me want to scream and run. But I never slept under the lights again. Fear was power.

My stomach rumbled at the smell of food in the air. I got out of bed and stumbled into the light, yelling, “Morning, Kaytee.”

She yelled her answer from the kitchen, or at least what she called the kitchen, I had never seen it. “Good morning, Atsa.” Irritation tinged her greeting, I congratulated myself on a job well done.

The sound of sandals against the floor signalled her arrival. She had a sweet look on her face and a tray of food in her hands. She caught my eyes and spoke in a soft tone, “You had pleasant dreams, I hope?”

I gave her a long look and sighed. She knew I couldn’t sleep well.

We spoke with the easy familiarity that comes from a long association. Catherine was a slave, assigned to my prison for some reason, which she’d never been clear about, but she had taken care of me since I was young enough to have trouble speaking. She’d taught me how to read and write, she’d fed me, talked with me when I felt lonely. I liked her, and I chose to believe she had a fondness for me too. After all, no one made her sit with her back against my door and talk with me all day long. At worst, I knew that Cat preferred my company to loneliness.

I spoke between mouthfuls of scrambled eggs, my finger drawing a circle in the oily wooden pan. “Can you tell me anything about last night?”

“It was like it always is Atsa. They sent the soldier for me. I had no warning, or I would have told you before leaving.”

“Who sent for you?” I tried to suppress the question, knowing it was pointless, but doing so proved impossible. My mouth has a mind of its own sometimes.

“Atsa...” She drew out my name.

“Sorry. What happened next?”

“I left the library, got on the boat they sent, and went where they wanted me to go.” She fidgeted in her seat before continuing in a lower tone, as if afraid of someone eavesdropping, “They asked me questions about you, what you did, what you ate, what you thought. I told them the truth and then they sent me back. As always.”

It was the same story every time she left. I would’ve asked her why she told them the truth about me, why she obeyed their orders. But I already knew the answer. It was because she was a slave. Slaves are born with fear in their hearts, disgusting in their blind obedience to whoever owned them. Bred for submission and stupidity.

Something reminded me that Cat had been born free – if poor – and she was neither stupid nor blindly obedient. I ignored it in favour of fuming against her refusal to give me anything or anyone real as a jailer. I needed something to hate, something more concrete than a faceless blank.

Cat was the closest thing I had to a mother. She was the only person who cared about me, my only friend. Even so, I could not purge the dismay I felt at the fear on her face as she looked away, concealing beautiful green eyes from my sight.

“Can you tell me more about the outside, Cathy? I ... want to hear about it”

She was a coward and I was a weakling. What a perfect pair we made, sitting with our backs against a door, Cathy talking about the smell of sea salt on the morning breeze and watching warehouse workers from afar as they passed by and me listening with envy.


Sleep eluded me that night. I lay in my bed, uncomfortable, sweating profusely and making the already dirty sheets smell even worse. It had gotten progressively hotter in the room throughout the day, and now even breathing was difficult

The water dripped from the ceiling as always, the cockroaches scuttling about, the shadows dancing on the walls. I did my best to ignore them all.

Catherine had mentioned something about a late-summer heatwave taking over the island during our talk, I had not paid it much attention back then. Now, it seemed like the heat had reached my subterranean chambers at last. The high temperatures made the insectoid fiends haunting me restless, thousands of them crawled out of cracks in the floor and walls. They moved in the mindless way that insects move, mocking my fear. They knew I was afraid and they relished their power.

I lay on my back, hands clenched into fists and pressed against the bed, eyes forcefully kept open, my gaze fixed on the ceiling. It took all my willpower, but I kept my eyes on the terrifying insects that moved on the ceiling without shivering.

The fires of the gas lamps roared outside and then went out. Absolute darkness overtook the room. A fearful gasp escaped me.

I could feel a bout of panic coming on. My heart started beating faster and faster, breathing became impossible, and shivers ran down my limbs. Fear consumed my mind and battled for the control of my limbs. I refused its advance.

Trying to control my breathing and thinking about Cathy’s voice describing the sun helped as a distraction from the absolute darkness. Ripping away bandages on my hand and tearing the scabs off the flesh wounds sharpened my thoughts against insidious emotions.

I rolled off the bed and back-pedalled out of the room. The retreat shamed me, but I didn’t relish the thought of those insects gaining courage in the absolute darkness that was their home, falling from the ceiling and onto skin, burrowing under it, perhaps entering my nose and going into my brain...

Abyss take cockroaches.

The living room was in absolute darkness too, but navigation through it was easy. I’d had years of experience moving around this room and darkness could not hide its layout. It was easy to walk until my back was against the cold iron door. I leaned against it and slid down, sitting as I did while talking to Cathy.

Now that the main room was dark as well, the insects wouldn’t feel any need to remain in the bedroom. They would crawl and skitter and fly outside, invading my sanctum, dragging their disgusting bodies across my books, and when their violation of everything I held dear was finished, they would reach me. They would crawl over my body and violate me, too.

I straightened my back, slowing my breathing and fixing my hands on my thighs. Control ... control was what I needed. Control over my own body and mind first, and over what the insects would do afterwards.

Meditation successfully calmed me most of the time. In fact, it had worked every time for the past three years. It would slowly, but surely, give me back control of my own body. Whenever it failed, I was simply left where I had been, crippled with fear and angry at my weakness. It failed me on this night of all nights. But something was ... different about the failure. I was calmed at first, but when my beating heart finally relented and I opened my eyes, everything was different.

I was dreaming, or hallucinating, a hellish version of my chambers. Everything was different. For once, there was light. Not real light that illuminated, but a sort of darkness that glowed. Everything was black and there was no lamp, but I could see the walls and the ceiling, my chair and books, the table. I could see the objects, and they were not normal. They looked bent and twisted, unnatural.

My consciousness recoiled from the sight and my focus changed. Now the room itself was in the background, looking unreal. Unimportant and insignificant.

What replaced the furniture amazed me at first. Tiny glowing embers surrounding me. On the walls and ceiling, under ground, under the table. The doorway into my bedroom glowed bright with the lights. I didn’t know what they were and reached out in curiosity, focusing on one of the embers nearby. My attention brought the thing into focus. A tiny insect, a cockroach, perching on the wall to my right, less than a hand from my face. Its dull brown carapace had light leaking out of every little joint. Its eyes glowed bright red, and the creature returned my gaze unflinchingly. I could feel the endless hunger it had inside. A desire to eat and mate, a fearless will to survive at all costs.

Fear and rage mingled inside me. I wanted to draw away and hide, as I had done at the wrongness of the furniture. Another part of me wanted to lash out and extinguish the lights. It was the part of my soul that I liked, it was hope, hunger, raw desire to live. I gave it free reign.

My mind twisted, and something whipped out across the room, twisting reality to match my will. The strange lights went out in a wave centring on me. The door I was leaning against shuddered, and then screamed.

I lost consciousness.

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Story tagged with:
mt/Fa / Magic / Slavery / Heterosexual / Fiction / High Fantasy / Rough / Prostitution / Slow /