By Invitation Only

Dear Readers,

I am very sorry for removing my story, An Ancient Art without warning, and for my long absence from the site. I removed it to try and get it published, but have been busy working on other projects and my boring every day job.

Thank you for your emails, comments and support. They have encouraged me to submit stories to publishers, three of which have been accepted. I have attempted to respond to your emails but I don't think my replies have been getting through.

Thank you again and please enjoy this short story,

Lucien.

*****

The song of men. Their gasping moans and throaty grunts echoing in the near darkness, melded together with the chorus of colliding and slapping naked flesh, composing the glorious music of depravity and a maelstrom of rampant passion. Heightening the sensation of wet heat enveloping my aching cock, I joined their choir.

Hands reached out from the shadows, caressing and tormenting me. Sweat slickened skin itched beneath my stiff clothes, the heat from the crush of bodies unbearably delicious. Mouths moved in, devouring mine, scraping clumsily against the mask half hiding my face, before moving to my jaw, ears and neck, the only naked skin besides my exposed cock. The suction tightened around me and I added to the chorus or depravity and ecstasy, grunting and singing my pleasure aloud.

Somewhere in the chaos, the smacking of flesh on flesh sounded sharply through deeply excited chastisements. "Naughty boy..." Smack! "...you naughty, bad boy..." Smack! Smack!

Half-hysterical laughter bubbled from my belly, but was stifled. Lips smothered and monopolised my mouth, tasting of alcohol diluted mint, opium smoke and of man, the glorious flavours of man. He wore expensive cologne, mingling with the musk of blood heated flesh, arousal pouring from his pores. He forced his tongue deep between my teeth, teasing me briefly before pulling away, leaving me bereft of his swollen lips and delving tongue. His forehead rested on mine and we exchanged every laboured breath.

"You're so close," he whispered, his breath hot and moist against my face, his words foreign in this den of debauchery, where man was reduced to beast, capable only of communicating through fucking and being fucked, of taking the weaker and mastering him with your cock. He kissed me again and said into my mouth, "Let go. Fill his throat with your seed."

My balls tightened. I gasped into his mouth. White hot oblivion blinded me with exquisite, tantalising release. I called out against the onslaught of unbearable bliss as I fucked the mouth encasing me. Gagging and choking sounded, but I didn't stop. I had no mercy. I fucked that accommodating mouth until it was overflowing with my spent cock juice.

"Beautiful," the man at my mouth said as I shuddered and kissed him once more, lapping breathlessly at his tongue.

"Inspector!"

My eyes flew open. I jumped in my seat, heart fluttering rapidly. Squinting, I realised my spectacles were balanced on my nose and world beyond my desk was a blur. I pulled them off and blinked my office into focus.

"Sorry for disturbing you, sir." It was young Constable Dale, red-faced and nervously wetting his lips. "Letter, sir."

Fear and panic worked to wilt my ardent stiffness. Glad for the solid desk concealing my treacherous lower regions, I softened my face and cleared my throat. "Thank you, lad." I offered my hand and Dale passed the letter over wordlessly. He departed with a swift nod.

I exhaled a long sigh, discreetly adjusting my flagging cock and turned my attention to the letter. I replaced my damned spectacles, feeling a little older each time I did. The paper was of fine quality and stamped with a red seal. I didn't recognise the heraldry. Male nobility, I surmised before breaking the wax. Reading the Mayfair address, I had guessed correctly.

To our honourable Inspector A. Greaver,

You are hereby invited to participate in an evening of splendour and magnificence at the hospitality of Lord Harroway, Earl Wilmorton.

This invitation has been extended to gentlemen with whom you share a similar interest and with whom you are previously acquainted, though you would likely not know it.

Please be advised that refusal will not be happily received and may hinder your future endeavours. His Lordship wishes to state he boasts a close friendship with your Superintendent, who will undoubtedly be interested to hear of your night time ventures into certain unsavoury establishments.

Lord Harroway will await your answer by way of attendance on Thursday 11th at eight o'clock.

Expectantly yours,

Mr G. Jamison,

Butler of the Wilmorton Estate.

Were I not a twelve year veteran of the London Metropolitan police force, the hand gripping the letter may have shook. Nothing but hard faced stoicism showed on the surface. Inside, my heart sought to break free from my ribcage. My breakfast churned, rising and scorching my throat.

Carefully turning the crisp paper, I checked the spilt seal again, the crest unmarred but for the broken line cutting it in half. Dale couldn't have read it. The compulsion to call him back and question him was overwhelming, but I stifled it, not wanting to draw attention. I held it to the light. Thankfully, the ink didn't show through the reverse.

I re-read it. Lord Harroway. Who the devil was he? How did he know? The cocksure bastard. Threatening a lawman. How dare he?

Anger blossomed, shadowing my fear. I had been careful. I was always careful. I had been wearing a fucking mask. It was one time, one fucking time going to an invert house rather than a quick, fierce fumble in a filthy darkened alleyway. I didn't fuck. I got sucked. I got my dick out and that's it. No one could have recognised me.

How dare he threaten me like a common catamite? What if I refused? Not go along with this farce. Did he have proof? He knew my superior. Would his word hold sway over mine?

I swallowed the bile in my throat and drummed my fingers on my desk, trying to think beyond the panic fogging my mind. This may have nothing to do with me being a... no, I wasn't a sodomite. I just liked having my dick sucked, I reassured myself.

***

Eight o'clock, on the streets of Mayfair. The air smelt fresher somehow, as though reserved for society folk alone.

I schooled my grim expression and made my way to the immaculate town house, almost identical to its neighbours. Nothing stood out, no clues to reveal its nefarious purpose. The windows of houses either side were dark, their curtains already drawn. The few people walking the street at this hour paid me little attention, the lit street lamps casting heavy shadows under the brims of men's hats and women's bonnets. I kept my own pulled low, my coat collar pulled high, against the cold, I told myself, not to disfigure my identity.

I took a deep breath and chided myself. You are an inspector of the Metropolitan police force, behave like it. I knocked briskly, hard enough to strengthen my mettle and resolve. The knock was answered almost immediately. No chance for second thoughts.

"Welcome, Inspector Greaver," bowed the smartly clad butler, the literate Mr. G. Jamison no doubt. The desire to choke the man where he stood felt very welcoming, but I quelled it. He beckoned me inside to which I complied with a stern nod.

I offered my overcoat and bowler to his waiting outstretched arms, which he took wordlessly. What else would the swine take from me? I guarded my pride and reputation closely, but his master had bared them so easily, with so few words.

"The other gentlemen are already in the dining room. If you would follow me."

I allowed myself to be lead into the opulent and splendorous dining room. The silver shone in slow dancing candlelight, polished and set at each placement with careful precision. The candles perfumed the room with hot wax. The crystal water goblets glistened, soft light reflecting around the table. The artwork decorating the walls, like the furniture and ornaments were the height of fashion and of course, the finest quality. Not one corner of the room was unadorned with some impressive piece of interest or other. It exuded wealth, but revealed nothing intimate of the man who had ordered me here.

Three men, clearly at ease with their extravagant surroundings, stood holding pre-dinner drinks. I was no doubt the least polished among the group of finely dressed gentlemen, and the most out of his depth.

"Ah, another come to join our bewildered ranks." It was the handsome fop who spoke. He was perhaps twenty, wearing the costume of a young toff. He stood uncomfortably close and was a clear foot taller than me. His breath hummed with the tang of alcohol. White wine and something else. I met his stance and took his extended hand. He clasped mine in a tight grip. "Lord Francis Saxson, pleasure to see a face with fewer cracks than the pavements of Limehouse."

Grumbles sounded from behind him. I held his arrogant gaze. He exuded charm afforded to the naturally beautiful. His hair was golden and parted neatly, with a light curl that added to his youthfulness. His eyes were sapphires, his costume costly. He knew he was beautiful.

"And you are?" he asked with an up and down glance at my best, but still humble civvies.

I thought to use an alias, but if one of these men was Harroway, the deception would prove futile. "Inspector Ambrose Greaver."

"Ah. A lawman." He released my hand with a tight smile. He swept a theatrical arm over the room. "Your arrival has thrown yet more shadow across our speculations for being summoned here."

I was not the only one in the dark. The letter had stated that all the guests would share prior acquaintance. I took in each man. I was surprised that, despite Saxson, I did recognise them.

The man stood closest was an elderly man by the name of Charles Marriot, if I remembered correctly, a bank manager who had been victim to a pick-pocket a few months prior. Though frail in his advanced years, Marriot had managed to beat the boy mercilessly before summoning police to his aid.

The second I knew by reputation: Harry Killiham, ex-military man. Rumours had reached the station of his peeping-tom antics on foreign soil. His rank and wealth had ensured the swift dismissal of the accusations. Now retired, however, he had been caught several times repeating his old tricks, but always managed to scrub away the stain of indecency.

I knew them by no other association. Introductions were made nonetheless.

"How are you, Inspector?"

"Well enough," I answered Marriot. "And yourself?"

"Well also." He was a little man, rail thin with only thin wisps of white hair sprouting from his head, his frame stooping forward.

"Captain Killiham. Pleasure to meet you, Inspector." Killiham shook my hand crushingly, not out of contempt, just plain, surprising strength. A decent gut filled his suit, evidence that his retirement was reasonably comfortable. His hair was thick and iron grey, sporting thick mutton-chops and his skin leathery from his years at war in scorching climes. His face was set with a permanent grimace.

Our host, it appeared, was absent.

We were seated nonetheless. I was grateful to be sat opposite Saxson. He was pleasant to look at, but his overly familiar manner was dangerous. He sat smiling like a cat, sipping from his wine glass leisurely and deeply. His lips were beautiful, his clothes fitted to perfection.

"Is our dear Lord Harroway not joining us?" Saxson asked the room.

The two older men merely raised their eyebrows.

Jamison cleared his throat, almost making me jump. He had the servile knack of blending into the décor. "My Lord regrets that he has been momentarily detained, but wishes you to start without him. He hopes to be finished soon and to share an enjoyable evening with you all." He began circulating the table, topping up or refilling glasses, Saxson's in particular.

Saxson raised his golden eyebrows, accepting the drink without question. "What nerve. Inviting us all here under penalty of some unfathomable doom, then doesn't even bother to manage his affairs around the evening. It's unreasonable."

Killiham mumbled something about "rude young people today". Marriot gave a weak chuckle then busied himself with his drink.

Saxson looked expectantly in my direction. I lost his blue gaze by taking a sip of my own drink. The wine was pleasant with a hint of bitterness, though I was no judge. A good pint of house ale was my usual poison.

The first course was served, by Jamison, the only servant in residence it appeared. He performed every task with quiet perfection, serving plates and refilling glasses effortlessly.

I caught Saxson watching my appraisal of the butler. He was smiling, his eyebrows rising suggestively. I returned my attention to the food, which was obviously delicious, but it was ash in my mouth.

I took in each man. They all appeared composed. Had they also received a threatening letter? Was this all some ruse, a joke played on my behalf? Was there a Lord Harroway, or had these men created him as a ploy to lure me here? Killiham and Marriot didn't strike me as the type to play such games. Saxson's jovial attitude, however, suggested he found this whole situation humorous, but perhaps it was merely youthful overconfidence.

I did not give my suspicions voice, lest I somehow unwittingly condemn myself. I had no way of knowing what this evening would entail, or its purpose.

By the third course, Killiham was giving us all an abridged retelling of his time at war, sticking to the bravery and victories, rather than the loss of lives. He grew more animated and less grim with each drink, his cheeks aglow.

There was still no sign of our host when Jamison swept the plates away. No one raised any speculations for this meeting. The two older gents seemed happy to keep it that way. It was Saxson who spoke up first on the subject, though not directly.

"So Ambrose," he started. I tried not to outwardly bristle at the informality. "How long have you been policing?"

"Twelve years."

"I suppose you've overseen a variety of cases over the years." He circled the rim of his glass with his fingertip, wet with condensation.

"A fair few."

"I've always wondered at the course of action taken once a crime is committed. What is the first thing you do when a theft or murder or disappearance occurs?"

"It depends on the circumstances."

His smile widened revealing white teeth and feline mischief. I watched his lips spread and a hot jolt raced under my skin. "How about the disappearance of a man, say a lord, who before vanishing sent a letter to four gentlemen, all of whom in the normal course of their lives would never rub shoulders?"

Marriot cut in. "It is not decent to discuss our host when he is not present. Besides, he has not disappeared, he is detained. Isn't that right, Jamison?"

"As you say, sir," Jamison answered as he attempted to top up my glass. I lifted my hand in rejection and he moved off. I hadn't drunk that much, but my brain already felt fuzzy at the edges. Perhaps it was the expensive wine, or my growing intolerance for the topic of conversation.

Saxson opened his perfect mouth to no doubt argue back, but stopped when a knock came at the dining room door.

Jamison didn't move to answer it, merely addressed us. "My Lord thanks you for attending this small gathering, but unfortunately he is unavoidably detained and will not be joining you."

"What is the meaning of this?" Saxson exclaimed too loudly for the occasion and company, but I understood his outrage, though it surprised me. Until this point I was convinced he was our mysterious host in disguise.

"He sends his apologises, but hopes you will remain to enjoy his hospitality."

"This is preposterous." It was Killiham, throwing his napkin onto his plate. The bizarreness of the evening and quantity of wine he'd consumed was wearing at his gentlemanly veneer.

"Gentlemen, please," Marriot protested. "You shouldn't insult our host. I'm sure there is a perfectly reasonably explanation."

Saxson stood and made for the door. He swayed a little. He was deeper in his cups than any of us. He collided with a chair and stumbled, his face blushing violently. "He dares to threaten me. To hell with him and his threats. I'm leaving."

Jamison patiently held up his hand to intervene. "If you would please remain, sir."

Saxson breathed out a steady sigh through flaring nostrils, but didn't move another unsteady inch.

"My Lord has organised a special entertainment as penance for his absence." He turned and opened the dining room door.

There was nothing to prepare me for what appeared on the other side. A young man, his head, which was shorn close to the scalp, bowed. He wore a full length black cloak that covered him entirely. He stepped forward. His peeking feet were naked. He raised his head, his eyes downcast. From his pale rose lips jutted a sealed letter. The same crest was stamped into the wax.

Jamison took the proffered letter. The boy didn't move as Jamison read it. Without batting an eye he announced to the room, "Please enjoy yourselves gentlemen."

"What the devil," Marriot said as the boy's naked arm reached from under the cloak and pulled loose the rope cord around his neck. The cloak fluttered to the ground.

It had been so very long since I had last witnessed the beauty of another naked man. The breath caught in my throat, contradicting sharply with the rapid quickening of my pulse. Muscles tensed, but my brain collapsed like a balloon pricked by a needle.

Here, where it was considered rude to remove one's suit jacket in polite company, the boy's nakedness appeared exotic, almost ethereal. His body was lithe but surprisingly mature. His slender throat, firm chest and stomach, surprisingly hairy groin, heavy balls and slowly filling cock, rising before our eyes, had my fingers twitching, longing to touch, to test if he was real.

Shock took its sweet time in joining logic and reason, erupting into outrage. "What is the meaning of this?" I demanded, my voice lacking any intended strength.

The lad took a bold step forward then fell gracefully to his knees before Saxson. Saxson took a small, wobbly step closer, his breath laboured and an appraising hum poured from his lips. "This is more like it."

I moved to intervene, but my legs wouldn't carry me. I collapsed into the nearest chair. What the devil? All the blood drained from my body to gather and pulse through my stiffening cock. I whimper escaped me, but there was no blood left to flush my embarrassed face.

Saxson stroked the boy's shorn hair as though he were a kitten. The boy purred and leant into the touch.

"A satisfying compensation, don't you agree, gentlemen?" Saxson asked the room.

My tongue was thick in my mouth. It was, to my amazement, Marriot who answered him, his voice taking on a deep timbre, "Yes. More than satisfactory."

Killiham remained silent, his frown returned, but did not object. His hand slid to his groin, however, adjusting his bulging cock beneath.

"What say you, Inspector?" Saxson asked, turning slowly, that beautiful mouth of his twisting into a wicked grin. He continued to pet the boy.

I gaped wordlessly. There were no words. My outrage was dwindling, and my damned arousal agonising. This display, the men willing to accept it, it should have roiled me, but I sat dumbly, soaked in an alcohol induced fog, and something else, something heating my blood and coaxing my desires.

"Come here, my darling," Saxson said, offering his hand to the boy. "Let's see if you can convince him."

The boy rose gracefully. Saxson pushed him to climb atop my lap. He slipped a little. I caught him instinctively, grabbing his thigh and shoulder. The weight of him in my arms was heavenly and terrifying, but I didn't let go.