by Kenze, Kyle
Vortex
The Harem at the End of the Galaxy #1
By
Kyle Kenze
©2018 Kyle Kenze, All Rights Reserved
Cover Design ©2018 Ming Destiny
Except for brief passages quoted for reviews and/or recommendations in magazine, radio, or blog posts, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. Please don't post my stories on sharing or pirate sites. The small fee you pay for my books allows me to continue writing the sexy sci-fi harem adventures you crave.
If you are offended by explicit descriptions of the realities of polygamous harem sex including nudity, multiple erotic encounters with a variety of thirsty women, threeway and more-way encounters, frequent physical contact between open-minded women, and a good helping of gratuitous swearing, then boy oh boy... you have picked up the wrong book. All characters are consenting adults over age 18.
This story is fiction written for entertainment. The cover models are for illustration purposes, and no model was involved in the activities described in this series. There may or may not be secret bunkers underneath the Pentagon, but the one described in this serial novel sure ain't them. This novella is around 12,500 words, and the entire 5-book novel-length series is around 55,000 words.
Table of Contents
Vortex (The Harem at the End of the Galaxy, #1)
A Peek Inside
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
About Kyle Kenze
A Peek Inside
Clayton Parks is just another low-level civilian contractor at the Pentagon. Then he's snatched through time and space to the opposite ends of the galaxy, where he learns he's the last man left...
“Of course, the fucking Moon is visible from Earth,” I said. “But, come on. This can't be the Moon. There's air. I can breathe. So you know?”
“Oh.” She blinked several times to gather her thoughts, although it was pretty clear her attention had already drifted back to my royal hard-on. The way she kept staring at it, you'd think she'd never seen a dick before. “Um, well, so we have some things to talk about. But I don't know how long you'll stay in our time, so we need to work fast to collect your, um, seed. You don't mind sharing your body, do you? The records suggest you're very open to sharing.”
Her blouse was history, and now the bandage skirt was scooting down those long, impossible legs inch by sexy inch. She wasn't the only ditz getting distracted.
Sharing? Was that code for playing around?
Focus.
“How is this the Moon?” I was prompting myself as much as I was prompting her.
“Well, you know, like, when it became clear the Earth was hopelessly contaminated by the virus, NASA made a last ditch effort to convert the Moon into a new home for humanity. So they like slapped an atmosphere on it or something. Oh, and a gravity generator. For, you know, strong bones.”
NASA apparently didn't bother to send any underwear to the Moon. But maybe they'd set up a waxing salon or two to judge from the silky gloss of her hairless delta.
The bandage skirt dangled from a polished toe. She flexed and kicked, and the white fabric went flying. Neither of us watched it go. Her legs were two tanned arrows pointing to the place I needed to be...
Chapter 1
I hate shit that goes beep when I'm trying to sleep.
“Clayton Parks live and in the flesh.” A pause. “His vitals look good, so why isn't he awake?”
“Traveling through the vortex may have affected his brain. We always knew it was a possibility.”
“If he never wakes up, we're fucked. Everything's fucked.”
Beeping and female yapping. Just what I didn't need after a long day at the office. Although... hadn't it been morning a minute ago?
“I don't understand it. According to the brain monitor, he should be awake already.”
“Maybe you didn't set it up right, Darlene.”
“Fuck you, Lacey. I did everything it said in the diagram.”
“Good thing they drew you a picture since you're too fucking dumb to fucking read the instructions.” The words were harsh, but the tone was teasing, even affectionate. These two were long-time friends.
“A diagram is not a fucking picture. It's a diagram.”
“Yes, doctor. Understood.” You could hear the fake salute in the honeyed voice, even before this Lacey broke down in a giggle that could only belong to a blonde.
I am awake. Hey. Listen. What's going on?
I struggled to sit up, struggled to speak up. Couldn't. Couldn't even fucking lift my eyelids or open my mouth. Shitfire. It was the dream again. The nightmare. I'd had it on and off over the course of my life, and it always went the same way. An all-female and evidently not too terribly well-qualified medical crew had me sprawled out in a coma on the hospital bed where they kept trying to bring me back to life.
As per usual, this was the part where I realized I was dreaming and sat up in a cold sweat, suddenly all too awake and alone. Heart pounding, sweaty dick in my hand wondering where all the females were...
Except I wasn't waking up. Not this time.
The beeps kept beeping. The women hovering above me kept yapping.
“Well, somebody's regaining consciousness. That's progress.” A hand slipped inside the tied-together strings of my cheap cloth hospital gown.
Somehow, even though my eyes were closed, I knew exactly what I wore and how it was tied together in front to give the medical team access. Maybe I'd blinked into consciousness before. Even managed to open my eyes. Didn't remember doing it, but...
What I did seem to remember didn't make a fuckton of sense. An image of a lot of too-tight, button-snapping white blouses floated into the forefront of my mind, each well-packed blouse made of fabric thin enough to clearly reveal the tiniest goose-pimples on the pointy, poked-forward nipples inside those blouses.
Fucking hell. That couldn't be a memory of anything except an old-school porno flick.
Anyhoo, I somehow knew the wandering hand belonged to Darlene. A busty brunette. Bobbed hair that curled under her ears. Tortoiseshell glasses she thought made her look smarter. It was such a precise image I knew I must have seen her somewhere before. Maybe in a previous version of the dream.
Dr. Darlene wasn't in the least bit bashful. Instead of pressing a stethoscope to my heart, she made a hot, warm circle around the base of my cock with her thumb and forefinger. “Blood pressure is normal and stabilized.”
That's not how you check a dude's blood pressure, hon.
“Is it supposed to be that big?” It was the voice made of honey again. Lacey. A tiny blonde with blow-up tits and a waist-length tumble of blonde curls. Although how could I know all that when my eyes still weren't open?
“How the hell should I know how big it's supposed to be?” asked Darlene.
“I think it can get even bigger.” A petite hand slapped Darlene's hand away, then wrapped itself in a tight fist around my root to begin jerking me up and down.
Suddenly, the beeping and the yapping were distant irritations, if they were irritations at all. Nothing mattered except for the curious hand pulsing my cock up and down, down and up. Completely unprofessional, or was it? Maybe this female was some crazy kind of sex therapist. Yeah, I liked that theory. Liked the way she really put som
e muscle into her grip as she worked me up and down. For a change of pace, this so-called nightmare was turning into a pretty sweet dream.
Maybe I didn't need to be in such a fucking tearing hurry to wake up after all.
“Wow, it keeps getting bigger. We're talking huge. I don't know, Dr. Darlene. It looks too big for the job, doesn't it? Here. Feel.”
Darlene's second, larger hand cupped itself cautiously over my swollen glans. Something jolted in my distended veins, making me ooze a thick glop of pre-cum into the palm of her hand.
“It's sticky too. Just like the records say. Big, fat, and sticky. This, my friends and colleagues, is a magnificent specimen of a male penis.” Lacey sounded proud, as if she'd pulled me out of thin air like a rabbit out of a hat. “As soon as we get him fully awake, we can impress upon him the importance of our mission.”
Wait, what? What mission?
Two female hands settled into a steady rhythm as they continued to yank my crank. There was something I needed to think about it, but maybe I'd do just as well to think about it later. Their skin was soft, but their grip was grabby and determined.
“This is a better result than I dared to hope for,” Lacey said. “He's rock hard and ready to go the minute he gets his eyes open.”
Well, that sounded promising. Taking a deep breath, I struggled again to force out some words through my post-coma fog. “Fuck, yeah, girls!” This time, at least some level of vocalization came out, although I still sounded slurry. Had I gone out drinking? I sure the fuck didn't remember drinking. The last thing I remembered was shuffling a stack of files back at my cube deep in the bowels of the Pentagon.
Slurred voice or no, the doubled-up handjob girls could probably figure out exactly what I was trying to say. The loop of pre-cum I spurted boldly in their direction would tell them that much.
Another deep breath, an even more masterful effort of will. This time, I blinked open my eyes at the same moment I sat up straight in the hospital bed.
The crowd of people in the room shocked me. There were way more than just the two handjob girls who were currently sharing my personal flagpole. Five or six others were pressed up close to the hospital bed for a front row view. More girls were crowded in behind them, to the point several of them were pushed out through the open door into the hall.
And every damn one of them was staring wide-eyed at my twenty-eight-year-old granite-hard cock.
And, excuse my lack of political correctness, but I'm going to have to call them girls when they're all slobbering over my exposed dick. These females were gorgeous, ranging in age from around nineteen to twenty-seven, although they came in your choice of colors and curves. They all looked like they were front-runners for Miss Princess of the Known Universe or some such, although it would be hard to pick just one to be the winner.
Despite the beeping equipment attached both to my arm and to the bed, not to mention the white uniforms they all wore, nobody involved looked in the least little bit like a member of a professional medical team. It didn't help that the white uniforms were just as scanty as they'd been in my imagination - porn-flick thigh-high skirts paired with strained button-popping low-cut blouses. If anybody in this room was aware of the invention of the brassiere, I sure didn't have any evidence of the fact.
A citrus-vanilla scent with a hint of something musky tickled my nose.
“What happened to me?” I asked. “Where am I? Am I dreaming?”
Dr. Darlene was the way I knew she would be, a tall brunette with basketball tits that seemed to be bursting out of her button-popping white blouse. Despite her porny attire, she had a great bedside manner, and I'm not just talking about her bright white smile. That hand of hers clamped around my upper shaft never, ever stopped moving.
“You'll be fine, Clayton. Don't be alarmed. Everything is fine. Your vital signs have checked out A-OK.”
Using my first name was what doctors did when they thought you might be confused. Well, I was certainly confused. “Was I in an accident? How exactly did I get here?”
“We can explain later. Right now, it's urgent that we make use of your...” She gripped my woody with her firmest squeeze yet. My balls hummed.
“Fuck, yes,” I said. “Later. I think better after my balls have been vacuumed anyway.”
She dropped my cock in order to roll up the already too-tight hem of her skirt. Her thighs were the color of French vanilla ice cream and twice as lickable. If this was a dream, let a man keep dreaming.
Something blurred. I blinked.
I'd thought I was already sitting up, but now I sat up again. My cock was pushing out the front of my black work slacks for at least a fucking mile. I could've poked somebody's eye out with that thing, but of course there was nobody else in the tiny, miserable cubicle where I was supposed to be reviewing a stack of paperwork for General Dyers.
Fucking hell. It had been a dream after all. I'd fallen asleep over a boring stack of bullshit paperwork.
And yet it seemed so real. My cock was still painfully erect. I shifted where I sat, wondering if I could slip away to the executive washroom to take care of business. That's my little joke. As a lowly civilian data analyst, I'm not entitled to a key to any executive washrooms.
The black phone on my desk shrilled. Only one person called me on that phone, so I couldn't refuse to pick it up.
“Good morning, General,” I said.
Chapter 2
General D. Chase Dyers, first name Daisy, although nobody in D.C. ever called her that, was a dangerous thirty-eight-year-old who had no known relationships. Her career had skyrocketed at the Pentagon ever since several of her male rivals had been quietly sidelined for fraternizing with attractive females.
You might suspect Dyers of doing some fraternizing with females herself because she had the high-cougar looks for it. Perfect power blonde hair. Perfect curves that probably owed something to a plastic surgeon in Brazil. Tits that were high and hard, even though she was pushing forty. A jawline that said she was the kind of lady who always planned on being on top.
It was fun to fantasize about fucking the boss, but she was untouchable. Hell, if she had any idea of the dirty thoughts playing across my mind, she'd probably bite my head off for dinner and wash it down with the proverbial glass of Chianti.
Down, boy.
Problem was, her whiskey-flavored voice sounded like pure sex. Even when she was yelling at me for my failure to do her job. Which was, alas, a frequent experience.
“Where's that fucking report on the Waraq drone disaster?”
“The, um, the conclusions are still inconclusive, General.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” She didn't suffer fools gladly, and she didn't have to. She was a two-star general in the got-damn Army of the United States of America, while I was the third hire assigned to this desk within the last six months. These days, the Department of Defense could be a real free-fire zone when it came to its civilian contractors.
I needed to stop thinking about my dick and start thinking about my job. Fuck it. I needed to get laid. Bad. My fucking job security depended on it.
“It, uh, it means what it sounds like, General.” I forced myself to speak calmly and slowly. In theory, if you speak more slowly, they'll slow down too. “Nobody's reached any conclusions. The final report hasn't come in.”
“I want some kind of fucking final report read, analyzed, and summarized into one paragraph I can submit to the Chiefs by the end of the day.” Yeah, so much for the theory. Dyers was talking faster and faster right over me. “You need to get a move on, Clayton. The Army isn't paying you to sit on your thumb and rotate. I hope I didn't make a mistake when I recommended you to Human Resources.”
“Yes, General. I've moved it to the top of the priority list right this minute.” If nothing else, I could make something up. Half of any data analysis job at the Pentagon involves making shit up to keep the brass happy.
“And I expect to see you in my office at eighteen hundred hours
sharp. We need to talk about your organizational skills.”
So much for my tiny hope of slipping out early to take care of my inconvenient hard-on. “Yes, General.”
The desk phone was the old-fashioned kind that beeped in my ear when she hung up on me. I held it for a minute longer, listening to the beep. Was that the sound that inspired the beeps I'd heard in my dirty dream?
Maybe. Probably.
I dropped the receiver back in its cradle, silencing the beep. Oddly, I seemed to silence every other sound too. No clunk of receiver settling back into place. No distant sound of D.C. traffic outside. No steady hum from the HVAC system.
I stared at the receiver, which was still dropping, down and down and down, through the cradle and now through the desk and then through the floor.
What the hell was the matter with me?
I looked around but I couldn't make sense of what I was seeing. Or, rather, what I was not seeing.
My cubicle was gone, and so were my clothes.
Chapter 3
The phone was gone, although I didn't see where it went. Somewhere far, far beneath me where the Earth used to be.
I was falling too in the same slow-motion - a realization that sparked me to cup the family jewels. An instinctive gesture, since I didn't appear to be in any immediate danger. We're not talking about being swept up into the sharknado.
I was simply falling through a blurred mist of nothingness.
No Pentagon around me or even beneath me.
No aerial view of greater DC and all its famous monuments.
Not even the distant blue marble of the planet Earth.
So here I was, falling through nothing and nowhere. Swirling in a downward spiral but never quite connecting with anything.