Date: Thu, 29 Dec 2016 18:03:36 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Temple Street: Temple Street 2

"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.

<eof>

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?