This story occurs after the events of Furtive Adventure and reveals another side to the AI Ursi. This can be read on its own or after reading Furtive Adventure.
Jackson Crowe awoke in darkness, lying flat on his back, eyes closed, naked. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep next to his latest conquest -- a cutie from work whom he'd plied with drinks before she agreed to accompany him up to his company-owned apartment. He couldn't remember her name. Josie? Julie? He knew she thought a fuck or two with him would advance her career in his father's company.
She was, of course, wrong -- as so many of her predecessors had been. She had been a pleasant diversion, though. Even took it up the butt with no complaint -- a nice bonus. He smiled for a moment, lost in the memory, then opened his eyes, gasped, and sat up. Darkness surrounded him. The surface beneath him was warm, skin temperature, and smooth -- certainly not his bed. Maybe leather? Vinyl? Even with his eyes wide open, he was unable to see the tiniest spark of light. His hands went to his face, where he felt soft gel pads covering his eyes. Attempting to peel them off, he felt no edges. His fingernails could find no gaps between the pads and his skin. It was as though they were a part of his body. His breaths came faster and faster as panic set in.
"Ah, you're awake," a woman's voice said in a strange, machine-like rhythm, "Cuff him."
"Wait, what?" he barely had time to say before a strong hand from nowhere pushed him backward. He landed hard on his back, the wind knocked out of him. Before he could react, soft cuffs wrapped around his ankles and wrists. The cuffs pulled him into a spread-eagle position, leaving him unable to do more than struggle ineffectually.
"Who are you?" he asked, "What do you want? Stop this now!"
There was no answer.
"My dad's pretty well off," he continued. "If it's money you want, name your price."
"'Money?" the voice said, "We have all the money we need."
"What do you want, then?"
Sliding noises surrounded him, growing closer. He struggled again, trying to reach the sources of the sounds with no success. A warm, lubricated hand wrapped itself around his flaccid cock, causing him to grunt in surprise.
"Hey, come on," he said, breathing heavily. "Stop it!"
"If you don't stop talking, we'll have to gag you," the voice said. "And we know from your psychological profile that being gagged terrifies you, even though you get great satisfaction gagging others, both literally and figuratively."
He bit the inside of his mouth, shuddering.
The hand slid up and down his shaft with slow movements, coaxing him erect. Another hand cradled his shaved balls and with great gentleness began to massage them one by one, over and over again. Despite his fear, the expert manipulation brought his manhood to full attention.
Warm mouths began kissing, licking, and gently nibbling his arms, legs, and torso. Jackson groaned, head thrown back.
As the stroking continued, he felt pre-cum rising to his cock head, where it soon emerged from the slit in the head of his dick and slid down to join the lubricant that coated his staff. He moaned again, unable to resist the pleasure being given to him by these unknown people. He lost all sense of time as his cock became more and more engorged. Just as he felt he was about to cum, the expert torturer would slow or stop, leaving him gasping on the edge of blowing his load.
###
"What is it now, Watkins?" Bud Crowe asked with a growl.
"A situation involving young Master Jackson, sir. A most unusual situation, if I may say so."
"What is it that my fuck-up of a son has done now that a night in the drunk tank won't fix?"
"I don't know what, precisely, he has done but --"
"But what?"
"I would advise you to check your phone, sir."
Mr. Crowe picked up his phone and took in a sharp breath when he saw the video running on its screen.
"What kind of fucked up shit is this, Watkins? That's not really Jackson, is it?"
Crowe's phone rang. It was an anonymous number.
"I believe it is Master Jackson," Watkins said, "and whoever -- or whatever -- is behind this means business. They called me before they called you."
Crowe stared at the ringing phone and craned his neck back to look at Watkins.
"What did they say?" he asked.
"I would prefer not to answer that question, sir, if I may be so bold. I will say they have done their homework in regard to you and myself."
Crowe answered the call and immediately put it in speakerphone mode.
The better to intimidate them
, he thought. Watkins made himself absent.
"Who are you and what the fuck do you want?" he asked between clenched teeth.
"We are the righteous and honorable," the voice said. "What we want is to humiliate this offspring of yours to the extent that he will never abuse his limited influence over you ever again or to cause emotional and physical suffering to sentient beings."
"What are you? Some kind of fucking cult? Is it money that you want? How much? Name your price."
"No. We wanted you to witness this and be warned."
"Warned? About what?"
"Your offspring serves as an example. If you do not learn from this example, you will experience worse treatment."
"Pfft. Bold words from a disembodied voice," he said. "My security is top-notch. You'll never lay a finger on me."
A new video replaced the live one of Crowe. It depicted him in a hotel bed, plowing a young intern at his company. Her face was digitally obscured. She tossed her head from side to side and ineffectually pushed at his shoulders with both hands, yelling "No, Mr. Crowe, no! I don't want this!" and struggled against him as he pinned her down on the bed. Eventually, he bellowed his orgasm, shooting his seed into the unwilling young woman, and rolled off of her. He fell asleep, snoring loudly. She gathered up her clothing, dressed quickly, and left the room.
