At the Bottom

by

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Ma/Ma, Consensual, Gay, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Science Fiction, non-anthro, Anal Sex, .

Desc: Sex Story: There's plenty of room at the bottom, all right, especially if you're a bottom, not to mention non-human.

Copyright© 2003

"There's plenty of room at the bottom."
-- Richard Feinman

Trapped within human flesh!

Virgil had always suspected he was something else, something more than just an ordinary flesh-and-blood mortal. He had dreams where he broke free of the prison of his physical body... set adrift in unbounded spaces, floating like a gas-filled balloon among luminous spheres that pulsed with the heartbeat of the cosmos. He perceived them as higher entities of near-infinite power and wisdom. That was where he truly belonged -- in the realm of the spirit.

Escape. The thought had obsessed him for all the years of his childhood. Through long, hard winters of being a misfit, of taunting and torture by playmates and acquaintances. Through endless years of being misunderstood by adults and forced to live by rules that made no sense to him.

He grew up and the dreams faded. College, a job, getting married, a home and a mortgage... The adult world had no place for those who were truly different, perhaps not even quite human. He had gotten very adept at mimicking a normal person.

Some mornings Virg would wake, for a moment not comprehending where he was, why he was lying on his back in this strange bed in this strange place. Then came the sudden shock of seeing the alien creature beside him, her breasts slowly heaving as she breathed deeply, submerged beneath a blanket of sleep. His wife -- whom he was supposed to love and cherish. It all flooded back to him, and he knew his proper place in the world once more, and the crazy dreams receded.

But he didn't forget. He knew he wasn't like the others.

Everyday life dragged him down. He had too many bills to pay, despised his job, and didn't much care for his wife. Making love to her was more of a burden than a pleasure. More often than not, his dutiful efforts to please her were a total failure. Psychological impotence, the doctors called it.

Escape. He had to escape. How? The dreams --


The spheres of light had spoken. He awoke, remembering.

>> The way out is the way in. <<

>> Open yourself and let cosmic??? flow into your core. <<

>> The way in is the way out. <<

What did it mean? He couldn't know, but somehow he did. It was difficult to accept. Repugnant, loathsome, unnatural. He couldn't face it, yet he had to. He couldn't bear to continue living a meaningless, degrading life. He would listen, listen to his dreams, and follow the True Path.

Sex... that seemed to be the key. His efforts to translate the message of the spheres to human experience invariably led him to the sexual realm. Not the crude parody of sex he had been playing at with his wife, and with a few women before that. Not the normally accepted variation of a man penetrating a woman. No. Not that!

>> The way in is the way out. <<

"The way in"... into what? Into... into himself. Into his own body! Into his own dark interior. Into the nether regions of his own flesh!

>> Open yourself and let cosmic??? flow into your core. <<

"Cosmic???"... Might it be? Yes! It was a man's generative essence. The emission containing within it the accumulated energy and creative potential of reproduction. Sperm.

It was all very clear to him now. He would have to open his flesh to a man. Let a man into him. Penetrate him. Fuck him.


What now? Go to a gay bar, let a stranger pick him up, and... ? No! If he had to do this accursed thing, let it be even more impersonal, more dehumanized than that. Let it be a random penis, attached by accident of birth to a random male human. Let it be a random roll of the dice. That meant "the trucks."

There was a loading area near the docks, all the way over on the west side. Overnight, there were always a few tractor trailers and trucks parked in the area, usually left open and unattended. Desperate, lonely men turned up there in the hours after midnight for furtive interludes of quick and sordid -- sometimes very sordid -- sex. The trucks.

The filthy interior of the truck stank of blood and rotting meat. It was fitting. Virgil was looking for dirty and corrupt sex. He needed to open his body, but wanted to keep his mind disconnected. Down went pants and underwear. He bent forward over a splintery wooden crate, and waited. Pale reflections from distant streetlamps cast a sickly purple illumination. Sooner or later, someone would look in, see his bare behind gleaming in the faint light, and do what came naturally.

Footsteps. Heavy breathing. Rough hands pawing his buttocks. The harsh metallic rasp of a zipper. Sudden pain as something, something warm and firm pressed against his exposed opening (asshole!), then, with a sudden cruel lunge, rammed up deep into him. Stretching, burning friction, pressure in far recesses of his gut. Being taken, possessed, used. Having his inner chamber violated. Getting fucked. Getting fucked in the ass.

It ended quickly. A few brutal thrusts, then a piglike grunt and a throbbing up inside him. Withdrawal. Retreating footsteps. The man was gone. Alone again, with the cold night wind chilling his bare buttocks. Wetness dribbling out of him. Blood? No... a stranger's ejaculate.

It was degrading. Even worse than having to make love to a woman. Did it have to be that way?

.... There is more of this story ...

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