"Temple Street" was the first story I ever wrote. I never thought of it as a series. A lot of folks apparently did, however, so I am coming back to it. I can't honestly tell you if I'll be able to milk more out of (pun intended) the original setup and characters, but I'll try. Thanks again for the positive response.
This chapter is mainly an attempt to rebuild certain features of the story to support further character, plot and sexual development. It will become a modern-myth-and-magic domination piece with heavy predator and blasphemy themes. If that is not your preferred flavour of smegma, please feel free to take Lord, Worm and Jeffrey and write your own porn (no license implied or given on any of the original content)
Please see original story for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Included dominant/submissive and occasionally coercive sex between men. Includes BLASPHEMY. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like but I will write you into the nasty bits of a future story if you flame me. Donate to Nifty TODAY at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
You need what you saw, don't you?" I'd not taken breath since the pounding on my door, and I goggled (sorry, no other word for it) at the godlike man inside my door. "You need a Lord, a God, a purpose in your life?"
I laid mute, immobile, no more capable of movement than a tree. Something inside me shattered, like the capsule containing the ammonia that awoke the swooning woman in Victorian stories. And my soul reacted. "How, um, how do I start, my Lord?"
***** Temple Street 2: Bookended by the Lord M/M (M); limited sex (mainly plot); brief BDSM; brief voyeurism; brief domination
His chuckle rumbled, resonant with that eerie and persistent backbeat. "Well, I have to say, that didn't take much. Come to me, Jeffrey, in the evening one week from yesterday. Come prepared, body and soul. If you are..." the basso growl was the voice from a primordial cave, "acceptable, you will get your name and you mission then.
"Oh, and you are not to skip work again. Your boss is indeed a fussbudget, but you and your God need the access Jack's company can give you. You will clean yourself and go into the office. Tell Jack that a neighbour has given you an organic remedy for influenza that 'put you right' -- use those words -- and that you are anxious to work on the Carter-Hughes fancy dress party. He will ask how you know of it. You will demure with a hint that you know some of the participants. He will not push."
My jaw might as well have been glued to my chest. I was frankly still in shock that Lord had appeared in my flat without explanation (or clothes!) and suddenly He knew not just my own name, but where I work and for whom! Lord called my boss a fussbudget, something that I knew I'd never said out loud. And He called him Jack. I am not aware of a single person in the Firm who knew either given names of M. J. Ogilvy. He was Mr. Ogilvy or Sir. Lord even knew of events (by client name) that aren't even openly in plan? What had I gotten into?
"You will start as soon as we are done. Be at the office by 11:30 so you can see Jack before he receives his luncheon. Now, come forward and receive your 'organic remedy'," He rumbled deep in His chest. The backbeat had never left the room (or perhaps my mind) and my eyes had never left the sleek, hairy giant, but my eyes fell south at His hint and I saw Lord's cock beat to that rhythm. "Come to your God and be healed, Jeffrey."
I knee-walked toward Him as Lord continued to lean against the doorjamb. By the time I reached His feet, His cock, my new God, had stiffened to lip level. I found my arms automatically clasping each other behind me and I leant forward to sniff the head of that massive and mesmerising rod. His scent ran roughshod through my head and I felt my own prick dripping even after blasting two (three?) loads against my wall in the last hour.
The subtle drumbeat thickened as I got my tongue beneath His foreskin and tasted the musk at the heart of my new religion. Saying it was intoxicating is akin to saying that a screaming, mind-blowing orgasm can be 'a bit nice'. If I'd had any thought of demurring at that point, it would have been washed clear by that amazing, irresistible aroma and taste. I wrapped my lips around the bulbous head and sucked like a hoover, desperate for something, anything that I could extract from my new God.
"Prepare yourself." I was shocked. There was no way that He could come that quickly. He didn't. His rock-hard grip held my head perfectly motionless as a strong and forceful spurt of pre-cum gushed into my waiting mouth. I'll admit it; I moaned in ecstasy and found myself near to yet another eruption myself at just the feel and taste of God's nectar. Lord pushed me back as I panted and tried to recapture the head of that amazing dick.
"No, Jeffrey; no. What your God has given you will tide you over to your own Sabbath. Monday next as the sun sets, come to me. Your sex is not to touch or be touched by another, and you yourself will not attempt to reach orgasm between now and then." I let forth a loud and shuddering groan at that news; desperate as I already was for release, the thought of holding back for near a week wrecked me. "Now ready yourself. You have your instructions, Jeffrey. Prove yourself this week."
I felt a hand on my cheek and closed my eyes in rapture at His touch. I felt Him turn and suddenly I was alone in my flat. The air reeked of sex and tension; my cock rained a steady drizzle of dogwater and the beat of the blood music still echoed within me. I took a number of deep and shaky breaths before cleaning the wall, floor my equipment and myself. I hadn't actually had the flu this morning, but the 'organic remedy' He provided put me in a better mood and in better physical shape than I'd felt in years. I had to actually catch myself to avoid whistling (whistling!) on my way to the Tube at Bethnal Green.
The five-minute walk was really delightful. I'm not sure why; by the time I'd left the sunshine that had woken me was gone and it was pissing down with a nasty little brisk breeze. I always got a chuckle at my Tube ride; I worked on James street in Marylebone, and the Underground station closest was Bond Street Station. Feeling like an international man of mystery, I went to James via Bond. Okay, so it probably not funny to anyone else, but I always grinned.
Surrounded by take-aways, sushi-bars and small restaurants, the premises of Ogilvy Planning, Ltd, was utterly invisible behind the glass spinning door that led to the building lobby. I stopped at the Lamb & Flag for a h'pint and a bag of crisps, enough to fortify me for the day ahead without needing a full lunch, then walked up to the office. Angelica was at the front and looked at me, surprised.
"Well, don't you look chipper for a lad who was near to dead a few hours ago?" I could hear the smirk but just smiled back. "I have a really amazing neighbour, Ange; flat with flu one minute and right as rain after his mysterious pick-me-up!" I left her looking a bit bemused and swept on into the Pit, the centre area filled with close-packed desk pods and surrounded by enclosed or semi-enclosed offices. Mine was one of the latter and I dropped my case and brolly before quickly walking to Mr. Ogilvy's (Jack's?!?) office at the rear.
The boss was of an age that could have been anything from 55 to 90. He was one of those old-school aristocratic types who went from middle age to stuffy in the space of a week and never changed between then and the grave. He was rather tall (taller than me at least) with a fringe of immaculately mowed dandelion fluff surrounding his squinched, sucking-a-lime face. There was a rumour that he'd once smiled, but it allegedly happened before most of us were born. He shifted his bespectacled gaze to me and frowned more deeply.
"You're sick. Why are you here." The 'why' in the latter not making it a question in any way.
"Sorry, sir. I have a really nice neighbour who gave me some secret organic remedy for influenza that put me right," using Lord's phrasing, "and I'm was really looking forward to working up the logistics for the Carter-Hughes affair."
"Organic remedy, eh? They are most certainly the best." He scanned my appearance up and down. "Put you right it did, it seems. You look better than I do." Huh, I thought, that doesn't take much. "And what makes you think we have an event with the name you mentioned?" I was getting both eyebrows on that question.
"A fancy-dress party, isn't it? Not really sure, now you mention it. Heard of it from a friend." Ogilvy got a speculative, head-cocked look then turned to his right, lifting a clipped file, "you may be just the chap for it, actually. 66 people, fancy-dress as you know. Terrace specified but not which one. Needs to be in the City itself. Need a private and secure drop-off and entrance. Our most-discreet staff, no one who's been with us less than a year. Men of course." I could tell that he was peering closely for any hint or reaction. I gave none. Men 'of course', eh? "Not terribly long notice, only 8 weeks. And we need to have someplace in mind for those who want something special for costumes. Sketch something up and have it to me by, well, Thursday shall we say? Have Angelica book 30 minutes on my diary for that afternoon. That will be all, Waycombe."
Suitably dismissed, I returned to my semi-enclosed office (I felt so special, not only three walls and ceiling, but the edge of an actual window!) to peruse the mystery file. In addition to the details "Jack" had just imparted, I found some background. This was the fifth event for which we'd planned on behalf of the Carter-Hughes'. Odd, I thought, that I'd never even hear the name. Curiouser and curiouser; all four previous had been handled by Sir himself, not a single other lead planner or coordinator was mentioned.
He'd also gone to some lengths to compartmentalise the sub-planning. It turned out that I had actually done the transport for one; if recalled, the event had only been referred to by the address. Audrey (in the next semi to the right) had done security-and-staging for another and I noted other co-workers in similar capacities. None had worked more than a single piece of a single event. That fact in itself shows some masterful planning on "Jack's" part.
It was now Tuesday afternoon and Ogilvy wanted results by Thursday. That would be a tall order indeed. It normally took me that long just to complete one facet of an overall plan for a lead client. I felt the beat of the blood music, waxing and waning throughout the day. It should have distracted me, but it only served to intensify my focus. Names, places and ideas popped forward with hardly a thought, and I found myself burning through my checklists.
Carter-Hughes. Nothing in my Peerage sources, so not old-school aristocrats. Nothing specific in any Who's Who (or, if they knew English, Who's Whom). Let's look at the guest list. Authors. A few chefs and artistes. Several not-quite-superrich. Overall, a set of what I call the 'B List'. They are all 'B'eautiful people, but none rate their own horde of paparazzi. Instead, they are the ones who always seemed to be in the Headline photo just behind the target; two A-List celebs kissed and several B-Listers appeared on either side.
Interesting. At least five of the "couples" contained one or more people rumoured to be gay, and a half-dozen ladies noted were widely assumed to be "beards". Fascinating. Hmm. Carter-Hughes. Maybe if I split that up? Maybe this was the first generation of a Sir Hyphen-Hyphen? Carter and Hughes. Nothing popped up. How about Carter and Hugh? Chefs are on the list. AH HA! Hugh Danger. Celebrity chef. Pioneer of the new "Primitive" movement. Oh-so-delicately linked to Carter Lloyd Courtenay, distaff son of the 17th Earl of Devon in his elder years upon (if you listen to such muckraking rumours) a former "actress" named Gladys of Garrick who rose to prominence the Garrick Theatre (a vaudeville venue tween-wars and a 'kept woman' thereafter). Carter was the premier danseur of the Ballet Anglaise. Hugh and Carter. Carter-Hughes. I smiled.
Curiosity aside, I needed a secure terrace with various level and private entrances. Inside The City itself (for those outside London Metro, that means within the old walls of the City of London, a tiny area slightly more than a mile square).
A friend worked in the (sadly successful) American franchise Smith & Wollensky in Adelphi Terrace above Savoy Place. I knew the building had a rooftop terrace, completely unimproved and barren, but accessible. Adelphi Terrace was a "raised" street ramped to the first floor (2nd for Americans). A bit of snooping showed that it would work exquisitely as a secure entrance, with elevators just inside the door directly to the (unimproved) terrace. It was a delightful walk through the VE Gardens from the Victoria Embankment Station and a block from Charing Cross, covering Rail and Underground for those who don't want to use private cars. DAMN! Perfect, but a mile outside the City Proper. Worth noting if the client might be open. Lovely space.
At a random thought driven by the backbeat, I called a friend at Barratt. They developed a lot of high-end flats and buildings in The City; most with shocking prices. Claude answered and I told him the kind of space I was looking for, under cover of a "photo shoot". He said there was nothing, then came to a full stop.
"Actually, Cory, we are building a new block called Landmark Place. Superstructure and mechanicals in place, but no walls up yet. Ran into a bother with some new Council bureaucrats. Work stopped for at least three months. That lot would rather a semi-constructed eyesore a block off the Tower of London for years than have the wrong colour paint on a set of flats." I commiserated.
"So, Cory, what are your chaps looking for? I'll need three weeks to set up water and power, realise, but could a bare industrial space work?" I allowed as it might and got details of the rooftop terrace. Secured arrival? Possible; any industrial space without walls could be arranged for secure drop/pick. Metres from the Tower tube station and maybe three blocks from Fenchurch for Rail. Not horrible at all.
Okay, that gives me location and transport; an expensive and rough primary and a slightly-out-of-bounds secondary. Lots of work for security and staging on the Landmark Place, but just plug in the normal screening-and-security precautions at the entrance to Adelphi as the backup option.
66 guests, so 7 (to be safe) waiters -- the carriers for platters of food and drink. Two bartenders with setups. One, no, two expediters (monitor, distribute and arrange food for the waiters). Four busboys. That's 15 staff. Yeah, we can get that number of experienced workers if I fix things with Audrey to swap some more-seasoned for cheaper members of the team (easily done; she has an unrequited crush on me that I have no compunction exploiting). Staff: DONE!
Fancy dress tailor. The Firm had a stable of them at various levels. I went back to the guest list and realised that they simply wouldn't do. This crowd would not be interested in Napoleon, Cleopatra and Lancelot. They would want not only bespoke tailoring but utterly-original designs as well. The blood music again swelled and throbbed.
I vaguely recalled a friend-of-a-friend who'd recently left as costumer at the Young Vic to do something racy as the primary Designer for a show at King's Head. If I recalled, that had just opened leaving him as loose ends. Now what was his improbable name? Something Elizabethan to do with silly dances? Lavolta? No... Galliard, that was it. Apparently to hide his equally-improbable real name, Geraldo Minnelli, my internal rolodex spit out. A call to Betsy got me "Minnie's" mobile. I laid the mystery and daring on thick for the lisping queen (seriously, he called himself Galliard). Speaking in the cadence of the blood music, I asked if he might deign to accept any "special commissions" from the secretive and unnamed clients. He leapt at the chance; I could hear the droll splatter when I told him the passphrase they'd use would be "looking for something primitive."
We would need music incomparable. The backbeat from Lord left no other option in my mind. DJ Dee Jai is trending with his mix of Bollywood and Dance tunes. Food? I took a deep dive into Danger's new restaurant and three of his chief copycats. Almost too easy. The sous chef at one of them was a guy I'd maybe-dated (he dated me but I never dated him) named Carlo. Power-bottom with a love of licking, well, everything. I smiled as I called him up and asked about a catering gig that would likely include a mix of "primitive", vegetarian and traditional-healthy options, all on skewers of course. He asked if I might consider doing some "skewering"; I laughed and hinted it might be arranged. He was hooked.
I called Angelica and set of time for Thursday with the Boss. It was full dark so I headed back to my flat, half-complete and head stuffed with ideas for staging and decor. I went through the flat-unlocking ritual (easily Gregorian in complexity) and stepped in. I noticed lights on in what I now thought of as the Temple Street Temple across the road and pulled out my sight.
Lord had a late-twenties man, lean but built and lightly furred. Maybe not a rugby forward, but could have done. The supplicant had his back to me, elbows tied with a ribbon or sash behind him, stretching his chest and compressing the slabs of muscles on his back. The blood music that had been haunting me all day surged, as did my dick. Lord stepped into the frame. I saw he had a length of the same cloth that bound his worshipper.
Lord allowed the cloth to whip forward, like a towel in the football locker, to land with a wince-inducing blow on the back of the man kneeling in front of him. As he drew back the cloth, the man's skin shone powerfully and a brilliant red mark was left as Lord gently pulled the cloth across the shoulders. A trail of lesser-red remained after the cloth had been withdrawn. I noticed that this was not the first of the marks. The man's back was pocked with diamond-shaped, glowing marks and subtle trails of shining red. I reached for my laser mic whilst frantically unbuttoning my pants.
Suddenly Lord's eyes flashed toward mine. I saw them as glowing coals across the dimly-lit street, as if they had actual beams connecting us both. Without breaking that contact, Lord shook his head once, all the way from one extreme to the other and returned to a face-on glare. I dropped the mic and stood transfixed. Sudden guilt washed over me. I had promised: "Your sex is not to touch or be touched by another, and you yourself will not attempt to reach orgasm between now and then."
The intensity of my lust boiled against my need to go further, to become more. I whimpered but left my cock untouched. I watched as Lord laid two more strokes across the man's back then a sudden, lightning-fast underhand snap sent the kneeling man's muscles into a body-wide spasm. His head was thrown back in what appeared to be a howl of ecstasy I suddenly realised that I could see his cum arcing so high it was visible over his shoulders, jetted up, out and over to splash, apparently, at Lord's feet.
I moaned in need and frustration. My dick and balls were afire, sending desperate signals that they needed the brain to let the cum NOW! I was almost weeping as I denied those signals, dragged myself into my bed and fell into a fitful and dream-wracked sleep. It is not hard to guess the nature of the dream. Lord and Rugby and Worm wrestled, sinuous and sensual as snakes. Red marks and trails of glistening, glowing essence pulsed in time to the blood music. Rugby came, Worm submitted, Lord howled in ecstasy. All the while God, the dick attached to Lord, throbbed and leaked. I awoke frustrated and shaking, every fibre of my being demanding an immediate release. I actually cried as I went through my morning ablutions, ignoring my dick as it throbbed the ever-present backbeat of the Holy Beast.
Author's note: This story exists because some people who read the original wanted it to become a series. If you like it and where it might be going, tell me. Also, the Kink List of some respondents has already shaped this tale. If it horned you up but failed to push all your buttons, tell me. Your suggestion might be the one that makes this hotter, better and stronger. I am especially interested in the view of subs out there. What do YOU think Lord should have done to Worm? What should He do to Jeffrey? What should He make them and others do to each other?