Date: Mon, 2 Jan 2017 16:45:47 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Temple Street: Temple Street 3a

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

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter creates a situation where my one-off story,
Temple Street, could become a serial. As such, there is a ludicrous amount
of non-sexual plot to create the characters I need to move forward. Sexual
or at least sexy section will be called out by the ~here~ tag. If you want
just the sex, jump from tag to tag. Also, as I worked from voyeuristic
scene to the next (with all that annoying "plot" crap in between), it got
insanely long. I am thus publishing Chapter 3 in a few pieces. Hope you
enjoy!

*****

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.

***** Temple Street 3a: Urkkija is Born (part 1) By Bear Pup

M/M (M); voyeur; domination; blasphemy; intense and prolonged edging;
hypoxia; brief cbt

I woke the next morning to find the Temple dark across Temple Street. I was
sure I saw movement in what I thought of as the Chapel, but it was shadowed
and dim. My hard-on had not abated in the night and it refused to go down
enough to piss. I finally gave up, shaved and hit the shower, where the
warm trickle of water and splashing finally got the piss flowing, although
in a near-vertical arc. Even through the mundane ablutions of a shower and
the ritual of dressing, I didn't do more than soften slightly.

I began to worry, ala a drug advert, {insert gruff, baritone American voice
here} "Consult a physician If you have an erection lasting more than four
hours. Damage may be permanent." I didn't feel damaged, I felt bloody randy
as hell. It was Wednesday and I wasn't to cum until Monday.

Actually, he never promised I'd actually cum Monday, only that I wasn't
allowed to cum beforehand! A loud groan escaped me and I stripped off my
trousers and underpants. I added a heavy sport-jock I wore for ruggers
(those days long past) and the occasionally kick-round. On top of that came
some flannel boxers then my dark-blue slacks, slightly heavier than I'd
normally have chosen, but not odd enough (with the brisk spell) to draw
attention.

My near-to-whistling mood of the previous commute was replaced by a
creature that had not made his appearance since my teens. I sat on the Tube
(I normally grabbed strap as soon as "Mind the Gap" stopped echoing). It
put me at level to see every arse and every bulge. The Central Line ride of
15 minutes flew by as I catalogued my choices from the Meat Buffet. I had
tentatively chosen the Hunky Hungarian (my title; his arse seemed to jiggle
in time to the Rhythm of the Beast) when that dastardly robot woman
announced Bond Street Station and I reluctantly departed.

A quick dive into Kula supplied coffee (the elixir of life) and waffle for
morning, then a pecan pastry and something called a Halloumi with salad for
luncheon. I'd eaten it frequently for a year and still never bothered to
look up Halloumi. It was a sandwich of chicken and a spicy sausage
and... whatever Halloumi might be. I bounded up the steps, with all the
energy and none of the equanimity of the day before. Angelica gave me a sly
smile and dropped her gaze to my crotch, only to frown in
disappointment. Nothing showed (thank god) other than a clump of fabric. I
wondered, though; did I normally give her a show? I shook that off as I
entered my semi and dove into the Carter-Hughes file.

I had done tonnes of work the day before, and gotten the largest of the
obstacles out of the way. Today was details. Decor. This was normally the
hardest for me. I just didn't think in terms of "mood" and "tone" and
"feel". Today it was simple. I decided on two options, one for each
venue. For the Adelphi with its two-level terrace, a savannah for the lower
and a mountain forest for the upper terrace. I don't know or want to know
why stark and native themes leapt to mind; they just felt right. For the
Landmark, there was only one roof level. A tallgrass plain for the roof
(preserving views of the river and Tower of London) and a stygian
jungle-cave filled with dark mystery for the floor below. It seemed RIGHT.

I consumed the wonderful Halloumi sandwich and the pecan whatever-it-was
for lunch, and sent a pliable (in-love-with-anything-male) aide to the Lamb
and Flag for a concoction of bitter and coffee that they would NEVER admit
to selling but made for me. Thus fortified, I spent two hours refining and
composing the portfolio I'd present next day to Sir. When darkness fell, I
had what I considered a strong and persuasive case.

I reached home and realised that I had never really gone soft through the
day. I reached my flat and peeled off layers to find a mire of wet flannel
and a wet jock beneath. Luckily, the twin protection had prevented
catastrophe. No sooner had I thought of the reason for the precaution than
I leapt to the window and saw the Temple illumined with candlelight.  My
military-grade scope was in hand without conscious thought.

~here~ Lord stood in profile to me before a man I'd not seen before. He was
older, less-solid but utterly entranced. Lord danced, preventing the
supplicant from capturing God, the head of Lord's cock, in his lips. The
older man lunged and wove, but never managed to wrap his lips round the
prize.  I watched as Lord's dance drove, and was driven, by the Blood
Music. Suddenly Lord stopped and the man lunged onto the mesmerising prick,
taking his (MY) God deep. Lord grabbed the back of the man head and thrust
inexorably deep into the man's gullet.

The man wanted and needed that cock, but I could tell it hurt enormously to
take it. His body went rigid and shook with effort. By the time Lord and
lodged God ball-deep in the man's throat, the guy was obviously already
desperate for air that could not get round the thick invader. Lord's head
was back and I watched the supplicant's throat gag and choke and twist in a
desperate need to escape, to relax, to breathe! Lord's iron grip held the
man secure, God deep enough into the man's oesophagus that it gave the man
the appearance of two Adam's apples, God bulging obscenely below the man's
original one.

The worshipper's red countenance was purpling. Lord was not moving a
muscle, simply locking the head and throat in place as a vessel for God's
enjoyment. I knew that the man's increasingly-frantic thrashes and
constrictions were having an effect, though, as I saw Lord's thighs begin
to quiver. I felt the Beast Music swell to a crescendo and imagined (I had
not set the mic, learning from the previous evening) Lord's howl as his
neck muscles flew into stark relief and his forearms and claves got the
sharp definition as an intense orgasm tetanised His muscles.

I had heard that restriction of air flow and sexual excitement could
produce one of the most intense orgasms known to man.  A celebrity or two
had died experimenting with the idea.  I think that is what I saw before me
as the supplicant's deep-purple and obvious oxygen-starved face went rigid
and I saw his cum ejecting in a near-continuous arc, almost like he was
pissing cum.  God had finished bestowing His blessing straight down the
worshipper's throat and Lord pulled back. The man collapsed, still spewing
his own essence into the pool he'd created. His gasping, desperate breaths
also managing to hoover up some of the mess he'd dumped onto the stone
floor.

I'd thought ahead and wrapped my spare hand well behind my back because I
knew that, left unattended, it would unquestionably find it way to my
cock. Even with that precaution, the intense, erotic scene and the
ever-present Blood Music was making me insane. I looked down and found an
actual puddle of dogwater collected beneath me and knew that the slightest
breeze would cause me to sin against Lord's and God's instructions.

Without a touch, without even a grope or tug, I was near to cumming. I
couldn't take this. My mind was reeling and my body was absolutely
desperate for release. It was Wednesday, meaning that I had another --
BLEEDING CHRIST! -- five days before even the *possibility* of release. I
hadn't eaten but didn't care. I laid rigidly on the bed, on my back, not
even pulling over the sheet for fear that even the silky cotton would tip
me into orgasm.

I dreamed of the man whipped to orgasm with the cloth that left red marks
and shining streaks. Of Worm, now Adsensus, taking the monster cock that
was my new God in a single entry and cumming from no other stimulation. Of
looking to Lord's coal-glowing eyes as God plundered my throat and
exploding into orgasm as my vision faded to black, just from the knowledge
that I had succeeded in pleasing God.

Odd flashes interspersed: a tiger in the body of a man rutting into the
flabby, oxygen-starved man I'd seen tonight. A youth in public school drag
(for Yanks, a private school uniform of short trousers, white shirt and
dark jacket and tie) with eyes that glowed pure, blinding white and a leer
that reeked of sexual dominance. The muscle-bound rugby type from
yesterday, couched behind a whip-thin man of middle years who smiled
maniacally even though he was painfully bound whilst ruggers-guy pulled and
yanked on agonisingly-stretched balls. Always the dream returned to me
personally servicing God as Lord loomed above me. My throat, my hands, my
ass, my clenched thighs, all in use for the sole purpose of satisfying God,
my whole consciousness bend on nothing else but that service.

I woke, having pulled the covered over me in the chill of the night-time. I
painfully peeled back the sheets. I had leaked non-stop through the night
and much had dried, gluing my pubes in a painful mass that ripped hairs
when I moved. The hairs on my thighs and under my arse (fuck's sake, I
might as well have pissed the bed it was so wet) received similar treatment
before I was freed. Luckily, the Temple was again dark this morning; I
doubt I could have survived a live retelling of one of my dream sequences.

I decided new precautions were warranted for the day. After bathroom
requirements, I fitted myself with a Frenchie (smooth condom) beneath the
jock-and-boxer combination and stashed a couple of extra in my
backpack. This sensual smoothness that moved against my prick would have
exacerbated my randy state if there had been any more room at the top of
the horniness scale; there wasn't. I was on a sexual high that I'd never
even heard or read of, a constant state of being on heat. Exiting Bond
Street Station and the "plastic" world of the West One Shoppes, I took a
couple-block detour to Gino's for a Full English (the breakfast upon which
was built an Empire - eggs, bacon, sausage, grilled tomato, beans and toast
with a pint of stout) before getting into the office with a few minutes to
spare.

I re-read the Carter-Hughes file, polishing some of the details and running
it through the Ogilvy Planning Checklist for events of its type, then went
back to one of the other half-dozen events for which I was lead planner. I
talked around the wall to Audrey to confirm some security details she was
handling for wedding of Earl of Lindsey's eldest son, William (Billy)
Lindesay-Bethune, Viscount of Garnock, to his startlingly-pretty
bride. Tatiana Telemach-Poniatowski great-great-something-or-other of
Stanislaw II of Poland (popularly known as King Stan, the last monarch of
that country and architect of the Polish Enlightenment). Typical of many
ancient aristocratic families, she was distantly related to just about
every royal house in Europe on her father's side, and (also like so many
aristocrats) got her stunning looks from the long line of beautiful
commoners her ancestors had married.

Ogilvy Planning, Ltd, existed solely on the ancestral connexions, talent
and discretion of Ogilvy's father and himself. The current Ogilvy didn't
have the amazing looks so common in more-popular aristocratic families for
the very reason that Tatiana did; Ogilvys had consistently married well
into other family lineages who, whilst rarely royal, were always
notable. Spouses were chosen for background, never beauty.

The elder Ogilvy had started the Firm on the backs of marriages of his
many, many influential school- and university-friends. He'd had a flair for
both organisation and originality that was the hallmark of 60s British
Society. Their networks and the attendees of those weddings, along with a
proven record of discretion and trust (even under the brutal siege common
with modern paparazzi), made Ogilvy Planning invaluable to a small but
utterly-loyal niche. He regularly declined exorbitantly-lucrative events
from the merely-famous or merely-rich; I assumed the Carter-Hughes affaires
had qualified on the basis of the young Mr Courtenay's (admittedly
bar-sinister) descent from an Earl of the Realm.

I tended to get weddings due to the complexity of guest lists and seating
arrangements. One little-known fact of aristocratic life is the
often-centuries-long feuds between families and especially branches within
a given family. It was a special study of mine and I was remarkably adept
at sussing out enmities from the impenetrably-subtle entries in peerage and
press sources. That skill had earned me first a desk then a semi-enclosed
office at the Firm.

The Viscount of Garnock was no exception, but they'd chosen a "private"
wedding (only 100 select guests) and an "open" (non-seated) reception for
the rest of the family and friends. That meant very little shuffling, as
they had self-winnowed the list to eliminate the most-troublesome limbs of
the family trees. One fun note was that both the bride and groom were close
personal friends of Romanoff heirs, *rival* Romanoff heirs. So I have a
bridesmaid, friend of the groom, and a groomsman, lifelong friend of the
bride, who could not at any cost be seated or photographed within several
leagues of each other. Things like that made what could have been a tedious
job both fun and amusing.

I downed my bitter-and-coffee concoction just before the meeting with
Himself and, as required by polite society (of which we pretended to be
members), knocked discreetly at his door precisely as the office clock
chimed 3:00. He bade me enter and moved to his conference table. We spent
some minutes spreading out the various parts into a Tarot-like pattern his
Father had set and which worked incredibly well. These meetings were always
challenging. Ogilvy really was unmatched in his abilities, and the
slightest misstep got pursed lips (bad) an eyebrow-pop (very bad) or what
we privately called the bug-eyed-glare (Very Bad Indeed).

He peppered me with questions, many of them both subtle and insightful, and
I answered quickly. I found myself delivering my responses to the subtle
beat of the blood music, parrying each thrust with smooth, cogent answers
that normally eluded me when confronted by Mr Fussbudget in his most
terrible avatar, Ogilvy the Inquisitor. He found several places where I
could improve the plan, and some observations prompted me to change not
what he was discussing, but some other detail far removed. That seemed to
both annoy and impress him. By the end of the meeting, I tallied my score
as 4 for 1 with zero declared (interoffice slang for four pursed lips and
one cocked-eyebrow and, stunningly, zero bug-eyes) a personal best. Staying
under double-digits in the purse-and-eyebrow was inordinately rare;
achieving that without a single bug-eye was remarkable.

That meeting and the alterations to the notes wrapped my day. Ogilvy had
made some suggestions as to sub-planners and "assume[d] I understood the
need for ultimate discretion and compartmentalisation." No, I really
didn't, but I'd be buggered if I let him know that. He said that I would be
party to his meeting with the Carter-Hughes contact for the location
decision to happen the next day, he hoped. I stacked the items and made a
few notes on interconnect points that would allow compartmentalisation
without jeopardising the overall plan, then headed home.

I'd changed jimmies in the W/C at the Lamb and Flag at luncheon. It had
looked like a small water balloon. As I stripped at the flat, the
afternoon's was only marginally less-full. I nearly came as I pulled it
off, my glans was that sensitive. I stood gripping the taps until the
feeling passed. Returning to the main room, I glanced at the Temple. It was
lit, but seemed empty and quiet. The blood music that continued to throb in
my veins was subdued, so I figured that it was safe for me to actually cook
tonight. Frankly, it is rarely "safe" for me to cook; I am an abysmal
bachelor. I did a quick fry-up of some sausages with the leftover fried
potatoes from a previous take-away and added a salad also left over from
earlier in the week. Filling and edible are the only positive adjectives
available. As I finished, I felt the Beast Music throb deeply and leapt
across the room.

~here~
 Sight in one hand and the other firmly behind my back, I saw Lord draw a
man into the frame by force of will. The man's eyes were glued to the twin
orbs of Lord's incomparable arse. Lord stopped in the same position he'd
held the first time I saw him when he captured, captivated and claimed
Worm, now named Adsensus. His gestures suggested that Lord was performing a
ritual similar to that Adsensus endured, and the new guy bore a superficial
resemblance to Adsensus as he knelt before Lord.

Long, lithe muscles twitched beneath smooth, clear, lightly-tanned
skin. The boy (more sense than age; he was certainly in his
mid-to-late-twenties) obvious worked at least some outdoors, as his arms
were darker than his chest, and that tan died suddenly at the waist,
replaced with the milk-pale British tone to the ankles. Unlike Worm,
though, the new supplicant had his hair, Irish-red and manscaped. I could
see the tidy patch above an average but (uncommon for most working-class
British boys) cut, showing a tight and dark circumcision scar. His
roughly-attractive face was utterly entranced, eyes rarely leaving Lord's
except when (apparently) instructed. His head-hair was cut stylishly-short,
what I came to call Olympic Swimmer Chic, buzzed on the sides but mounded
slightly on top. It was uniquely suited to his tightly-curled Gaelic locks.

I could see his body begin to breath and move with the blood-beat I felt
inside myself. Obviously, Lord had a wide range of methods for ensnaring
the senses of his acolytes. Before Worm became Adsensus, Lord was
brutally-physical, controlling the mind through the body before Him. With
this guy (mentally tagged as Labour) the reverse was certainly true. Barked
commands, long stares and subtle gestures bent Labour to his will. He
writhed in pleasure when Lord mimed stroking the boy's dripping cock; he
moaned visibly when Lord's hands seemed to caress the boy's buttocks from a
yard away. When Lord had the twinky hunk sweaty and panting, He reached
forward as if to grasp the boy's throat and raised His arm slowly.

The man came up from his kneeling position in a manner I'd never seen
outside a Cirque du Soleil show. Using (apparently) balance and strength
alone, the boy rose as if on strings, weight borne entirely by the tops of
his feet until he reached a height where he gave a small jump and landed
standing on his soles. By that point, Lord had turned, one hand down and
behind him as he moved. The boy seemed like he was being dragged along by
an invisible leash encircling his manly bits.

I shifted as Lord moved into the bedroom and the worshipper stood with a
look of desperation on his face. Lord laid down face first on the
tightly-stretched sheet of the bed and either barked or gestured a
command. Labour dropped immediately to his knees and began to lick Lord's
body with the strokes you would see in a grooming cat or a child with a
dripping Good Humour coronet, desperately trying to consume the creamy
concoction before it melted entirely.

Starting with the soles of the feet, Labour laved each surface in an odd
symmetry with the way Adsensus had anointed that same structurally-perfect
body with the elixir the first night I'd looked across Temple Street. Lord
spread his legs further as Labour reached his fork, and I could see the
moaning desperation with which the boy attacked the crack of that amazing
arse. Lord, otherwise so impassive, was certainly enjoying the
treatment. Various muscles tightened and throbbed as Labour tongued and
touched each new part of his crevice.

As I saw the boy turn into a rooting pig, I knew that he'd reached and was
deeply cleaning Lord's most-private orifice. Lord's head started to loll
from side to side in obvious bliss. Labour stayed there until hypoxia
forced his retreat. Lord again returned to his previously-impassive state
as the boy used long and loving strokes of his tongue along the spine and
back of the stunning physique. When he reached the hairline, Lord spoke or
gestured again and the boy jumped from the bed, standing at rapt attention
as Lord slowly stood and returned to the bed in a supine position.

Lord extended one arm and hand and the boy spent minutes on each digit,
then the palm and the wrist. He licked his way to the shoulder then dropped
to the pit. Again, Lord's implacable countenance broke into lust as the boy
attacked the armpit like a trotter in search of a truffle. Lord's head
whipped from side to side, pausing only when Labour switched from left to
right pit. He spent an equally-long time there to Lord's evident
delight. Our mutual God jutted from Lord's groin and throbbed with the
blood music as the boy cleaned and serviced his master.

When he finished with the arms, he went to the feet. Amusingly, Lord seemed
actually ticklish, especially between the toes. The boy licked north,
wrenching himself away with obvious effort to overcome his raging lust as
he neared God. Both he and He were panting as Labour started at the
indentation below Lord's chin and began to wash the upper chest. When he
reached the first nipple, Lord's back arched. Labour was obviously both
motivated and extraordinarily skilled. Lord was finding it impossible to
repress his body' responses.

Finished with one, Labour moved to the other with similar results. The
Music of the Beast was growing in both intensity and pace. The boy
alternated, one nipple to the other, as the beat built and built. When it
reached a peak, the boy returned to the centre of the chest and licked his
way down the treasure trail to the belly button. He spent a lot of time
there, and it was obviously appreciated. Lord barked some sharp and
insistent command.

Labour's back and chest were dripping with sweat from his exertions and his
lips and tongue were pouty and red with overuse, but he gazed with
unabashed adoration into Lord's eyes. A conversation of sorts ensued. Lord
would ask and Labour would answer and (quite obviously) plead. Lord would
ask and the boy would breathlessly beg for some boon, only to be
denied. The questions, begging and blood music increased to an unbearable
intensity. Lord's eyes had become glowing coals again and their light was
reflected in the desperate hunger of the worshipper.

Suddenly, Lord broke the tension and Labour cried out in exultation before
falling onto the God that reared up from Lord's crotch. I expected a
prolonged licking session but was stunned to immobility as the boy's own
body weight and momentum drove God directly into his throat in a single
lunge. Labour then began long-throating that massive tool, coming up to
tongue the head before diving back to the hilt. Over and over and
over. Bloody hell! How could ANYONE do that? More to the point, how much
could anyone, even Lord, take of such treatment?

Moments turned to minutes, hours, days, weeks of ecstatic fellatio before
Lord grabbed Labour by his swimmer's hair and dragged him protestingly
off. The boy's lust-crazed eyes could not even focus until Lord slapped him
smartly, but not viciously, across the jowls. Labour shook his head and
stared back onto the glowing eyes before releasing a long, shuddering,
exultant breath. He threw a leg over Lord and drew God to his
ass-lips. With a quick thrust down, he impaled himself on the head of the
dick only. The glans was obviously lodged between the two rings of ass
muscle but the pain was overwhelming. I could almost hear the cries of pain
and saw the tears streak the cheeks of the young man, but I could also see
him work the muscles of his stomach in time with those of his sphincter.

He was literally masturbating God with the lips of his ass. Painful?
Unquestionably. Unpleasant? Unquestionably *not*. Labour's prick was hard
enough to scratch diamonds as he writhed and twisted on the enormous spear
just barely lodged in his ass. Lord suddenly reached out and grabbed the
boy's nuts in one hand and prick in the other and TWISTED, hard and long.

Labour's body arched as every muscle in his back clenched like a man in the
throes of death from strychnine. Cum erupted in a torrent, not jets arcing
across the room, but a flood of pulsing lava that poured around Lord's
fist. There was no question that God was bestowing his ultimate blessing up
the boy's ass at the same time. The entire room across Temple Street seemed
to throb and warp with the crescendo of blood music that filled their and
my world.

I fell to my back and swore to myself that I wouldn't look again. My prick
was so hard, so desperate, so demanding right now that don't know I ever
felt the like. I found my way to the icebox and got a handful of ice
shards. I just barely managed not to scream as I applied the ice to my
crotch. I half-expected steam to exploded like a cartoon character dropped
from a furnace into a snowbank. I never went soft, never even semi-soft,
but the immediate screaming thirst to cum NOW abated enough for me to don
another condom for the night. I laid panting and groaning until Morpheus
took me.

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.

<eof>