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
That night's dreams were, if anything, more lascivious than previously. The Beast of the Blood Music invaded every sequence and in each I was the supplicant giving myself to the insatiable need of my God through his servant the Lord. If He denied me, I died from weeping; if he glanced at me I swooned; when he took me, I came. Over and over and over again. Labour and Worm and Ruggers and the Strangled were augmented by a writhing dance by a man-tiger; by the evil laughter of a man with light-destroying black pits for eyes; by a slavering wolf that spoke with the voice of a Shakespearian actor; by a dark man who merged with shadows; by the tinkling, disdainful titter of the boy with shining eyes; by the scent of a sunbeam, the colour of thunder and the taste of memories.
***** Temple Street 3b: Urkkija is Born (part 2) By Bear Pup
M/M (M); voyeur; blasphemy; domination; intense and prolonged edging
I awoke to a condom and a bladder filled to bursting and made a mental note to up my water intake yet again. At least I wasn't glued to the sheets, but they were damp with sweat and in complete disarray. Apparently, my night-time adventures of the mind were matched with throes of the body, like a dog dream-chasing a hare.
I washed and dressed, obeying my self-vow to avoid the window across Temple Street. I think that I only succeeded because an accidental (I swear) glance showed the windows dark. I jimmied up and dressed, then braved the drizzle to the station. I grabbed Starbucks and a pastry before arriving quite early. It suddenly struck me that I had never seen the office without Ogilvy in attendance. No matter how early or late, his office was lit and inhabited. He was only absent for the occasional client meeting or for luncheon, usually at the trattoria a half-block down.
This morning, I was the second staff to arrive and Ogilvy caught my eye and motioned me to him. I settled my damp overcoat, case and brolly on my desk and joined him in his office. He motioned for me to seal the door, rare but not unheard of.
"We will actually not be meeting with the Cater-Hughes contact today. The clients have reviewed your plans and want the meeting in person. We'll be lunching at Smith & Wollensky so the clients can get an idea about the space and talk over the ideas. If you have anything on your diary between 11 and 3, move it, please." I turned to leave but he stopped me. "I need to give you some more info on the client." Ogilvy seemed uncomfortable. "As you know, this is an extremely discreet event with equally-private clients. They are, well, how do I approach this..."
"If I may set you at ease sir. I believe the clients to be a leading chef and his companion, an amazing dancer of impeccable heritage. I believe they are both discretely devoted to each other. I based some of my suggestions on that belief. Was I in error or is there more I need to know?"
I was getting a brand-new flavour of the bug-eyed-glare, something more like a bug-eyed amused appraisal. "You aren't half full of surprises, are you Waycombe? Your summary is spot on with a few notes. Not even I would call the young Master Courtenay's heritage 'impeccable'; I once met Gladys." I stood amazed. Not only was he discussing a client, but he was dangerously close to an actual smile. "Also, there are some dietary restrictions that you either intuited or chanced upon; a considerable portion of the fare will need to be meats and fish, especially carpaccio and tartar for the former and sashimi and ceviche for the latter. I have to ask, why did you include those very items in your menu plan? Care to enlighten me?"
I paused and decided on the truth, "Hugh Danger is a leader of the Primitive movement and I assumed, apparently correctly, that his tastes would match his cuisine. Also, I recognised a number of his guests as either fanatically-healthy or anti-meat from previous events, so the sashimi, ceviche and seafood pates seemed in order. Also, a leading dancer does not keep his or her figure on cheese balls and croquettes, sir. Beyond that, I have to admit, it was just instinct and a strong idea of a theme I thought they would enjoy, and one you have not previous presented."
Another almost-grin emerged and I got a nod from him. "Be ready at 11, Waycombe, and bring your top form. This luncheon might change your career, and no mistake."
He was right, but not in the way he thought.
I made a number of hasty calls to ensure that the client would be impressed. As is my wont, I am always either going to succeed or go down in enormous flames.
Ogilvy had ordered a black car who picked us up promptly at 11:00 and dropped us at Adelphi Terrace around 15 minutes later. Smith & Wollensky was a power-lunch and power-dinner option for many (mainly American financiers) , but on this day and this early it was easy to secure a great table (helped in part by the happy accident that my school chum, Edward Muriel "Turtle" St John) was acting as host. A quick chat with Turtle got me a very speculative look from Ogilvy. I also noticed or imagined an appraising look from Sir at Turtle's "shell" (he'll happily tell you that his nickname was due to his shy nature, not that he ever had one. In fact, it came from the twin, perfectly tortoise-round cheeks of his arse; he'd originally been Two Turtles and Turtle ended up being easier to shout and explain to adults).
I got us a table that was on level with the lower section of the Adelphi roof with a clear view of the slightly-higher riverfront section. The Carter-Hughes party arrived and I was inwardly cowed to see both Carter Lloyd Courtenay and Hugh Danger. They were a study in both comparison and contrast. The famed chef was massive, well over two metres and easily 130 kilos and none of it fat. He was big and gruff, with stylishly-shaggy blond-to-brown mane resting on massive shoulders. He had a thick, muscular build and a confident, agile stride in spite of his bulk. His companion was smaller, maybe 175 cm tall and weighing at most 60 kilo, with milky skin and short hair ranging from tawny to dark. He was lithe and toned as one would expect from a premier danceur, and he more flowed and walked.
They paused to smile and chat with Turtle. The continental check-peck was totally in keeping, but I was a bit shocked to get a glimpse of Master Courtenay's sleek hand skim Turtles quite-prominent shell. In. Ter. Ess. Ting.
Turtle showed them to our table. I got a briefly-shocked and worried look from Ogilvy when I told the waiter that the order was already placed so menus would be unnecessary. My boss's normal British Unflappability was back before either of the guests noticed. Both looked at me with interest. Hugh Danger's look, head cocked to the side and eyes somewhat slitted might even have been described as predatory, whilst his companion's was openly intrigued.
Ogilvy opened with the obligatory chat about the health of mutual friends and similar. The couple was polite and reserved, as one might expect in a Victorian drawing room. The drinks arrived with a small-plate course. Both eyed the tall, elegant wine-glasses with a hint of suspicion until I said, "White grape juice for the Master Courtenay and red for the chef, correct?" I'd surprised them both. You gotta love a world where every celebrity profile, no matter how obscure, was accessible to a talented web stalker like me. Fussbudget was visibly pleased and I got a sly smile and a respectful nod, respectively, from the two clients.
I pointed to the small plates. "I took the liberty of having the chef mock up some of the items that I suggest for your event. Of course, the actual food will be presented in titbit-size, either on skewers or toast-points for the convenience of your guests. Also, since it's fancy dress, the suggestions are long on clean food and short of things that might be difficult for Queen Anne or a Green Parrot to comfortably consume.
Both were smiling now. The chef took a bite into the carpaccio with a slight frown. "I'm sorry, Mr Danger, but I was unable to get a chef with suitable Primitive talents for this afternoon, but I think you may be acquainted with a chef named Carlos DaSilva? Current sous under Michael Green?"
"Know of him?" The man's voice was deep, husky, warm. "Yes, I was his sous chef at Beluga when he was mastering the grill. You have him committed? Good choice. Very good indeed. He'd never inflict this treatment on unsuspecting beef. Nice idea, however."
"Master Courtenay..."
The client interrupted me with surprisingly deep, velvety voice that still had a ring of delicacy and taste. "Obviously, the Carter-Hughes ploy failed, and I hate being called Master anything, " he said with a sly smile to his partner. "Please call me Carter and call my {significant pause} friend Hugh, although he always purrs at 'Chef'."
"Thank you, Carter. Please call me Cory or Waycombe at your preference. Please try the prawn." I'd frankly stolen this from a Japanese chef-battle programme; a split prawn acid-cooked in lime and siracha with a lemongrass sauce.
The young dancer's eyes popped with the heat and he coughed. "Superb. Unexpected, but really spot on. Have one Ho... Hugh." I had no doubt that the elided word was either Honey or Hon and smiled inwardly.
"Excellent counterpoint, and hard to mess up. You stole this from Morimoto, didn't you?" I blushed and he laughed, nearly a growl. "The mediocre imitate; the great simply steal. You are well-prepared indeed. So tell me why we are dining at an American Chain {distain dripped from each of those words} restaurant miles outside the City Walls?" Ogilvy obviously had decided I could have all the rope I needed to hang myself after the presumption of the drinks and menu.
"I prepared plans for two sites for your consideration. I have an unfinished building a stone's throw from the Tower and directly on the river for your consideration. It is industrial (thus a blank canvas), but your guests would have to use either stairs or an lift to move from one vignette to the other. I built that idea as a tallgrass plains decor in the open air so as not to detract from the views, and a cave slash dark jungle on the next-lower floor. There is no prepared arrival deck, so we would build that out as part of the plans, and the costs would be higher due to the barren state of that site.
"I am glad we are here for luncheon so you can evaluate an option that does not, I fully admit, conform to your instructions. The advantage here is the utterly-private nature of the arrival platform which you just experienced, above street level on a terrace that goes nowhere else. A lift can take your guests directly to that {I pointed} vestibule on the roof terrace. It will be done out as a savannah, complete with tufted sod underfoot. The slightly raised area {I pointed again} is only four steps up and would make an ideal Mountain Forest or Mountain Meadow; my suggestion would be former as it would allow us to discreetly screen that ugly pile of a building next door.
"Security, catering, bars, staff and other considerations are identical. I thought that DJ Dee Jai's mix of Bollywood, Dance and Backbeat," Carter perked up considerably, "would be a good match for music, and I have a costume and set designer named Galliard who would be delighted..."
"Galliard? The young gun who jumped ship from the Young Vic for some cutting-edge thing? Well done, you! He would certainly bring some flare to the party!" Carter again, much more enthusiastic than the reserved masculine power of his partner.
"Thank you, Cory. We've both read the brief (though you've dropped a few splendid names today)," purred Hugh. I got a scorching glare for Ogilvy, assuming I'd overdone it and perhaps endangered his relationship with the lucrative Carter-Hughes client. That fear vanished as Hugh continued. "The plan is superb, almost as good as what we've come to expect from Ja... Mr Ogilvy here." Oh, ho! Another in the "Jack" circle of friends. How... intriguing. "No, the plan is solid. Ignore the original instructions and tell me what we get here that we don't get at a -- what was it? -- stone's throw from the Tower of London? Your instincts {there was an odd heaviness to that word for the chef} seem to be spot on. Which one and why?"
I paused and sipped my own glass of grape juice just as the waiter appeared with entree portions of three dishes to be shared about. One was tenderloin tips hard-seared but near-raw with a tzatziki-based sticky white glaze. The next was a Tunisian-spiced platter of root vegetables, suitable as a side or a Vegan entree. Third looked to be oysters on the half-shell but were actually chicken (the back has two particular pieces called the 'oysters') sous vide in a seasoned duck fat and served with a clear but briny sauce. All three received sounds of approval from the clients and my own boss, and several long, searching glances from the chef.
As the eating slackened, I resumed, "This site was the first to come to mind when looking for a place your guests would be both comfortable and entertained. The locale near the Tower's main advantage is the unlimited access we have and the ability to take our time; construction is stalled for the foreseeable future. Without knowing your reason for preferring the City Proper, I'd say it was close with a slight nod to this space."
The two lovers looked at each other, clearly speaking in a private language of eyebrows, smiles, frowns and glances. Finally, the chef turned to me, voice a deep rumble, "The rest of your plans have been uncannily-suited to what we want for this event. We have reasons for preferring the City Proper, but they can be overcome. Please note that there will be a minor change to guest list, though."
One waiter cleared and another delivered the "afters", four cheesecake lollipop-truffles coated in salted caramel, and four spiced-brownie "bar bells" (a rolled brownie spiked with pepper-jelly on each end of a skewer, dusted in black walnuts). All were enjoyed.
"Other than the guest list, then, we are in your hands. Mr. Ogilvy, thank you for a most... instructional luncheon. Cory, please keep the 'Tower' space in hand. We have another event under consideration. If their delays continue, it might be ideal. Gentlemen?"
We rose as one and the clients left the restaurant. Ogilvy turned to me.
"I need to know and I need to know immediately. DO you know them? Do you know OF them? How and why? DID you know them before? If so, I need to know how and I need to know NOW."
I was completely thrown by his intensity and unusually-brusque wording. "No! No, sir. I had never met them and knew nothing about them other than what I dug up online. I really don't have any 'inside' info. If I've offended you or them in some way, sir..."
He cut me off. "No. No, nothing of the kind. There are certain confidences I keep remarkably close. I will have to explain your (as he rightly put it) uncanny instincts, but if you are telling the truth and had no other non-public sources of info, I am satisfied. But please know this. If you are lying to me, if you or someone you know is intimately familiar with their private lives, my business and your future are at stake, and I don't mean your job. Do you have anything you wish to tell me?"
I considered for a moment, 'Well, Mr Fussbudget, a semi-divine sexual masterpiece moulded a man into utter submission across the way as I watched, then (in the nuddy) teleported across to my flat in Temple Street, told me your name was Jack and that I needed to find my way into the Carter-Hughes account, then fed me pre-cum that lit me on fire and I've been hearing the beat of blood music ever since.'
"No, sir. I worked out what I've found so far from inferences in the public profiles and articles. If there is more to the Carter-Hughes' than I already know and I need to protect that, you can count on me to keep the confidence. I will also never tell anyone what I've put together or how. I swear."
"Well said, Waycombe, well said. I'll take the car back. You head home. You've done a mighty day's work. Take a half-day and enjoy your youth."
Of all the things said that luncheon, that floored me. To the best of my knowledge, no person had ever been given a half-day without involving a birth or death (the latter being their own). I watched him tell one lady to please return after the service to bury her own mother!
So, a Friday afternoon at leisure in the City of London! Oh, the possibilities! I obviously went straight back to my flat after a quick raid on the greengrocer, bakery and butcher. I grabbed a book and a glass of wine, and settled in for a long afternoon watching the drizzle drip down the windowpanes. I was certainly NOT going to be peeping across Temple Street today!
I made it fifteen minutes before gathering my sight and edging aside the scrim. The Temple was not dark and I could see the flickering light of candles augmenting the dreary London daylight. Lord was not to be seen, but a supplicant was. He sat cross-legged half-away from the window. He had some sort of bowl in his lap and a few implements to his sides. I could see his neck and back bunch as he ground something in the bowl.
The man was painfully thin with a waist that would be the envy of a Victorian bride, but he had the whipcord muscles that some such people (like distance-walkers) can develop. That and his near-shaved head (he had an odd, moss-thick stripe of tight-curled mohawk in an indeterminate brown/grey) made estimating his age impossible. Lord stalked into the part I could see and handed the sitting man a small bundle, then ran His hand across the head in a proprietary and affectionate manner and left again.
The blood music was soft and slow, pounding to the rhythm of the pestle crushing something in the bowl. After a time, the man removed the pestle, now coated in a thick, resinous liquid, and turned to the bundle. I watched as he unwrapped what looked to be some odd-shaped roots, some large pods and some reddish-green leaves. He deftly peeled the roots, keeping the skins to one side in a neat pile. On a board attached to the side of the wooden bowl, the man I'd provisionally nicknamed Pounder julienned the peeled root and scraped them into the bowl itself.
Pounder then deftly slit the pods and extracted a few large, shrivelled and evil-looking beans. These were pressed in what amusingly appeared to be a common garlic press; the oily nastiness expressed dripped into the bowl. Pounder exerted a tremendous amount of force; I could see the muscles clench in arm, shoulder, back and jaw. Finished, he meticulously cleaned the press, setting the dross neatly with the peels and pods.
Last were the leaves. Pounder held the first up. I could seed his lips moving -- a prayer? a chant? -- before he reached to his other side and took a blood-red candle. He lovingly stroked the leaf just above the tip of the flame. I could see steam pouring up as all trace of green disappeared. When the leaf was an even-deeper crimson than the candle, Pounder dropped into the bowl and repeated the process with the other two leaves.
Pounder lifted the bowl to his eye-height, held out from his body, then lowered his head. Lord came back into view and asked the man a series of questions. Apparently satisfied, I watched as Lord stroked the God that stuck out from His crotch and I could see the glow of His eyes reflected off the bald head of Pounder. Slowly, a stream of pre-cum began to dripped into the bowl. As it fell, it seemed to smoke and the blood music in my ears throbbed with each drop. After a few minutes, Lord wiped God off on Pounder's mohawk-patch and walked away.
Pounder pulled the bowl back to his lap and raised his head. I could somehow sense a murderous loathing rising from him and longed to rush across Temple Street to protect Lord, but Pounder simply resumed his pestle action. The blood music returned to a calm and subtle beat along with the rise and fall of the grinding pestle. I watched another ten minutes and then returned to my chaise to ponder.
Who was Pounder? What was he creating? Was this the elixir that Worm had anointed Lord with that first fateful morning? Was it a tonic, a cure, a potion, poison or drug? Each idea seemed less likely than the last. I stewed for about 30 minutes before returning to the window. Pounder was now carefully collecting all of the utensils he'd used, returning them to what looked like a case you'd have for an old heirloom silver-service; a velvet-lined niche awaited each object, including the garden-variety garlic press. He left the case open, then addressed the scraps.
I watched as he produced a square of brilliant crimson cloth, about the size of a man's handkerchief. He delicately and with immense care arranged each piece of dross in a pattern that apparently was quite important to him. He then crossed the corners, did the same the other direction, tightened the packet and produced another cloth, this one in a startling shade of electric blue. He enfolded the first into the second in a far-more-intricate pattern; tighter, smoother, more compact. Lastly was a cloth so white it gleamed. It had to be silk; nothing else could have that lustre. The blue disappeared into a complex series of folds and counter-folds until a small, nearly-flat square of white was all that remained.
Lord reappeared and conversed with Pounder, then took careful inventory of the velvet-lined case. He snapped it shut and latched it. The exterior spoke of immense age and strength, a mediaeval strong-box, perhaps, finding a new and modern life? He then accepted the white packet, held it to his forehead for a moment, then returned it to Pounder with instructions.
~here~ Pounder turned for the first time to fully face me and I gasped. His dick was enclosed in an iron contraption that prevented erection. From the look of it, he'd been caged for far, far longer than one could imaging. The lustful, murderous loathing for Lord was at least partially explained. Lord left my view and I could see Pounder weep silently as he dressed in street clothes, the type of thing you would expect of either a poor backup musician or an accountant desperate to pretend some vestige of his youth remained. Pounder left in the direction of the flat's door and the room went dark. Lord had apparently snuffed the candles that had flickered from the wall sconces.
He did not reappear, so I retreated again to my neglected book and glass of wine. I tried to read, failed and tried again. What was Pounder's transgression to deserve such a fate? Then the realisation struck me, what if my near-orgasm the other night sealed me into the same fate. What if, what, what if I NEVER got to cum again? The blood music answered; by serving my God through Lord, his vessel, I was doing something more important than my own measly gratification. I have to admit, the blood music had a tough sell on that one, but I calmed a bit. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the Beast of the Blood Music roared.
The rhythm began to pound and I leapt to the window. Lord was in the bedroom. He had a small decanter, maybe four ounces, filled with what looked to be a red liquid or paste. The blood music's beat became needy, insistent, thirsty, demanding. Lord laid back on the tight white sheet and held the vial aloft. I could see him chanting something over and over. The blood music became almost frantic as I watched Lord tip the decanter so that its contents could drop straight into his gaping maw.
I watched in horror as a blood-red slurry fell in globs into Lord's mouth, each would be swallowed, and each swallow drove the music deeper and stronger. Perhaps eight repulsive wads of slimy muck went from the decanter to the waiting lips. As the last one was consumed, Lord shakily set the decanter on the table. I could see the wobbly, unsteady way that the decanter almost but not quite slipped over onto the floor. When it was settled, Lord lay back in what appeared to be utter exhaustion; the setting aside of the decanter seemed to have cost him dearly.
With a suddenness that sent me reeling back from the window, Lord's limbs locked and his back arched, as if in the final, opisthotonal spasm of tetanus. His toes curled and I felt certain that he howled in pain. I was back to the window in moments. The spasm passed, then struck again, and again, and again, each time as inconceivably painful as the last. The eighth and final contraction literally threw Lord off onto the stone floor where he lay gasping for breath and appearing to weep. He rested there for several minutes before I saw him stumble to his feet and turn toward the front of the flat. The wall in front of him glowed in a reflection of the eyes that burned in his skull. We near ran to the front door and a hopelessly-thin and small young man was dragged straight through the nave and into the sanctum.
I saw him better when he was flung onto the bed. He had blonde hair under his arms, but his crotch (and everything else below the chest) was shaved smooth. He was the milky-pale, rosy-cheeked youth of English poetry come to life. He had to be sat least 19 or 20, but not much more; art and artifice can fend off Father Time only so long, and this boy was in the first blush of manhood. He faced Lord with a mixture of rapture, terror, lust and resignation.
With what looked to be a roar, Lord took the lad's ankles and flipped and twisted the boy in a single motion. He landed chest down on the bed, Lord bending the lad's knees down alongside the mattress whilst still gripping the ankles and wrenching them to the side. The boy's eyes went to the window, fixed to a point just a bit to the right of my scope's location. He threw his head back and I refocused on Lord. What I saw daunted me. God, Lord's massive erection, was larger than I had ever seen. It pulsed in blood-red beat, matched by the music in my own head.
It did not look human; it looked demonic and Lord's coal-glowing eyes reinforced the perception. With a howl, Lord plunged between the boy's buttocks and the lad's head snapped back in his own scream. Eyes wide and streaming tears, the boy fought to control his body as Lord savaged it. Even through the intense and unbearable pain, though, I could see the lust and satisfaction on the lad's countenance. I watched in mixed horror and delight at the willing rape I was witnessing. It went on and on. And on. I know that the boy orgasmed several times; you could see it in his face and I watched his body writhe in pleasure.
Lord, however, either had no orgasm or pounded through it. I had watched this sexual athlete with a half-dozen others, but his control was either superhuman or the sludge he'd consumed prevent his climax. Either way, he fucked Lad (my self-name for him) in every position I'd ever known and a few I think he invented, never slackening his pace in time to the blood music, never shallowing his thrusts. Finally, after well over an hour, physical exhaustion took hold and he slowed, then stopped, then toppled in a heap on the bed beside the ravaged boy.
With a tenderness that I found incomprehensible after such a brutal (if willing) assault, Lad gently positioned the vanquished Lord in the bed and wiped the sweat and juices from his body and the shaft of the still-rampant God. Lad kissed the head of God, then laid a delicate kiss on each of the closed eyes of the now-unconscious Lord before covering Him with a sheet and retiring to the rear when I knew a bath laid in that block of flats.
I saw him briefly when he'd finished his ablutions. He stopped to check in Lord and ran a loving caress across his cheek before leaving the flat altogether. This time, my curiosity could not be assuaged. I focused my military-grade sight on the entrance to the building and zoomed in. Lad emerged and proceeded directly ahead of him where a car waited.
Car? CAR? The word was utterly inadequate for what sat idling at the curb side. It had the unmistakable lines of a tween-wars Bugatti, and appeared to be Royale, no less. Several miles of smooth hood bordered to each side by a graceful, Art Nouveau sweep of fenders made up the front two-thirds of the machine. The driver's compartment was protected from the continued drizzle by a tonneau, whilst the compartment into which Lad climbed was hard-roofed and sat virtually atop the rear wheels, with nothing behind but a covered spare tyre. If it was the model I believed it to be, there were only six in the world, and all of them in museums. If it was a replica, it was a masterpiece; if it was not, it was a priceless automotive relic.
It struck me suddenly that Lord was in no position to give Lad any instructions and the revelation hit me hard: Lord set the Sabbath of his acolytes by day of the week and time. That meant that Lad, the owner or benefactor of that amazing Bugatti, joyously submitted himself to Lord's brutal rape each week. I wondered if Pounder perhaps didn't make the concoction each week and thus Lad might only face that fate each month or even less often. Regardless, the fact that he survived the first, and returned for a second, left me breathless.
And leaking like a sieve. The condom I'd use at the start of the day looked like an IV bag, filled to stiffness with a welter of dogwater. I replaced my sight in its charger and sat on my heels for a few minutes to regain some level of composure. I at least got the point where I could remove the condom and replace it with an instant orgasm, and then sat in thought as the sky dimmed outside. I watched several times over the next few hours as darkness feel and deepened (at least as much as you could use the term 'darkness' for over-lit London), but there was no activity across Temple Street.
I had supped and was ready for bed when I saw movement in the Temple. It was nearing 10:00. Lord prowled the floor, maniacally pacing the entire flat. The blood music was a soft and echoing presence, subdued as if lying in wait. He would stop occasionally and speak or chant, then resume. He suddenly froze, then left my frame of vision. He returned followed by another acolyte, this one a slightly-larger version of Lad. Not a hair marred his body other than a natural-blond sculpted patch in the shape of an upside-down heart directly above the swelling of his dick. He was also nervous as fuck.
Lord gestured him into a kneeling position, but stood close, invading any sense of personal space that might have comforted the man who shook like a leaf. Lord asked a question and the man dropped his head as he answered. Lord gave him a stinging, open-palm slap. I mourned the fact that Lord had forbade me from using the laser mic; I yearned to know what had been asked, what had been answered. The young man was softly weeping and shaky, but he had evidently been trained. He lunged forth and kissed the red palm that had just struck the blow, then returned to his position, quivering with a mixture of awe, fear and need.
Quiver, a perfect name. He was one giant flutter of nerves. Lord asked him another question and Quiver stared into His eyes and answered. Lord was impassive and asked another. Quiver seemed to gain confidence with his ability to give the answer Lord wanted to a second question. The third, though, and Quiver shrank into himself. He still locked his eyes on Lord, but stuttered a response. Lord reared back and I was expecting him to rain blows on the man who had obviously transgressed in a major, perhaps unforgivable way. Instead, Lord's hand flashed as quick as a snake to gain a brutal hold on Quiver's left nipple.
The effect was instantaneous and startling. Quiver arched in agony, drawing up from his knees. His face was a picture of intense pain, but he bore an incongruous smile. The big surprise was lower. As soon as Lord paw attached itself to that nipple, Quiver's cock leapt to an aching engorgement. He feared and craved the pain that Lord was inflicting.
Lord dragged the man by his mangled tit. The pair disappeared briefly as they moved to the sanctum. Still using the nipple as a cruel leash, Lord sat on the bed and force the transgressor to lay across His lap. Never releasing His grip, Lord began to rain brutal slaps on the supplicant's upturned arse. The blood music surged and throbbed to Lord's spanking tempo. Quiver rocked back and forth with the force of the blows, each one torturing his nipple even more as his body was wrenched one way or the other. His head was thrown back in the aspect of a scream, but his tongue lolled and droll dripped from his chin.
The bright red glow that Quiver's arse began to take on contrasted wonderfully with the milky skin and pale complexion. Lord paused a moment, reached between Quiver's legs and returned, his palm now wet with Quiver's own dogwater. The next few slaps were brutal, and the slimy hand must have made the pain immeasurably worse. Suddenly, Quiver arched further, arse shooting upwards toward Lord's slaps. His face, chest and back suddenly shone as red as his arse and I could see Quiver's cum splashing on the stone floor.
The blood music surged in intensity but neither it nor Lord varied in pace, slaps continuing to rain on Quiver's arse. I knew from experience (don't ask; that's another story) that Quiver's arse was now the most sensitive thing on Earth. Post-orgasm, the nerves were in a state of extreme excitement. Add the blistering they'd already endured and, well, Lord's continued thrashing must have been exquisite agony for the man. He continued to push upwards to meet each of Lord's strokes, though, and only a handful of minutes later I could see Quiver cry out and reach a second orgasm.
Lord pushed the naked man onto the cold stones into the puddle of Quiver's own ejaculate. Quiver still lived up to his name as aftershocks of his two orgasms quaked through his body. He had gone soft, however, which appeared to be Lord's intention.
There are some, and Quiver is obvious of the type, for whom vicious punishment was the objective; a reward instead of a deterrent. Lord certainly knew this. Whilst Quiver continued his port-orgasmic recovery, Lord fitted him with a cock cage similar to the one encasing Pounder, but this one of clear plastic. Shock and horror lit Quiver's countenance as he realised what had happened just as the lock clicked into place. I watched as he begged and pleaded with Lord. Obviously, this was a punishment he'd previous known and feared.
Lord laughed.
He then reached down and trapped the less-abused nipple and brought Quiver back to his knee. There was no mistaking that, without the erotic nature he'd enjoyed earlier, the thought of a continued spanking was going to be actual torture for the transgressor. As Lord's paw returned to the rhythmic blows, I could see Quiver screaming his vow to obey and never transgress again, promising (I'm sure) everything he had to end the spanking. Lord taunted him, probably with his evident relish of the earlier spank and the fact that the supplicant had (I'm guessing) transgressed in the hope of that very punishment.
Quiver shook his head or nodded at times, crying openly as his bright-red arse-cheeks began to glisten. Lord finally desisted after one, final, full-arm-swing slap that drove Quiver forward off Lord's lap. As Quiver recovered again, Lord lifted him effortlessly onto the foot of the bed, in profile to me. He walked to the table and dipped his fingers in a waiting bowl and began to coat God with some oily substance.
When Lord stepped back between his legs, Quiver suddenly realised that his punishment was not complete. Lord raised Quiver's legs, exposing that beautifully-red arse, and fitted God to the man ass-lips. Quiver howled, but Lord said something that probably meant, "You brought this on yourself," and pressed forward into Quiver's asshole.
God was a tremendously-large cock and even a well-prepared and willing hole would be sorely stretched. This was clearly a penalty fuck, but it was just as obvious that Lord had no intention of damaging anything other than Quiver's pride and presumption. He slowly laid that rod into Quiver's ass, occasionally stopping to stroke the painfully-red arse-cheeks to take the man's mind off one pain by rekindling him of another.
Eventually, Lord had worked every thick inch of God into Quiver's asshole and proceeded a long, steady fuck to the beat of the blood music. Quiver took it, perhaps even enjoying it, though with caged cock there was no way for me to tell. His head flung from side to side and spittle drooling on the bed could be indicative of agony, ecstasy or both. Lord eventually climaxed and forced Quiver to lick him clean before sending him on his way.
I calmed my own shuddering breaths. The intensity of what I'd witnessed over the last near-week were taking their toll and I was on the constant knife's edge of a forbidden orgasm. Watching the punishment for transgression, though, steeled my resolve to make it to Monday eve "undefiled". The idea that Lord might not allow me to cum even then, though, was too horrible to contemplate.
I fell into yet another deep, dream-filled slumber. This was the worst to date. The images of intense and brutally-sensual sex were still there, only more varied and more prolonged. The difference was that I, in this dream, was forced to witness all of them with my cock locked in a painful, rasping, pinching cage. I awoke gasping. The condom I'd donned before bed had ruptured as I tossed and turned, so I again awoke in a stick swamp of dogwater, some dried and some fresh.