The Tower
Copyright© 2025 by JP Bennet
Chapter 1
Action/Adventure Sex Story: Chapter 1 - London, 2027. A deadly pandemic has wiped out most of the population, leaving chaos in its wake. As law and order collapse, survivors form factions, each fighting for control. Dale, a former banker, fortifies the Tower of London, building a ruthless community to withstand the growing threats. Warning: racist characters. Avoid if that offends you. Violent but violence is for the most part not sexual
Caution: This Action/Adventure Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual NonConsensual Rape Slavery Fiction Post Apocalypse Group Sex Cream Pie Violence
London, 2027
Monday, October 11, 2027, Clerkenwell
Dale woke up at 7:00 A.M. to his alarm screeching like a banshee. By 7:30, he was in shirt and tie, clutching coffee while James hunched over his laptop and Alex scrolled his phone. The TV mumbled about riots and pandemics. Same shit, different day.
A news segment flickered about a new disease—HCV-25—cropping up in the Niger Delta. Dale smirked. “Another scare tactic. Bet they’ll lock us down by next month if they can.”
“Not again,” James groaned.
The reporter claimed it was nothing to worry about. Dale shrugged and pushed through the morning crowd, headed to his job at the American bank.
At his desk, an email from HR pinged.
New mentorship opportunities for diverse employees! Ensuring equal access to leadership pipelines and professional growth!
Across the floor, Ayo from Lagos was chatting with Lucy from HR. Dale caught the words “leadership potential.” Ayo had been here barely six months and was already rising. Dale clenched his jaw. He’d been waiting his turn for four years.
Later that night, he pushed through deadlifts at the gym. At least the weights didn’t care where you were from.
Tom took a breather. They’d been mates since uni. Tom had his own place in Camden. Dale was still flat-sharing.
Tom took a breather. “Look around, mate. Doesn’t even feel like our city anymore. We’re strangers here.”
Dale didn’t argue. London felt foreign now.
Tuesday, October 12, 2027, Clerkenwell
The next morning unfolded in autopilot: alarm, shower, mechanical breakfast. On his way to refill his water bottle, he nearly collided with Sharon from compliance, masked up like a CDC officer.
“What’s with that?” he asked, smirking.
She shrugged. “I’m cautious. Don’t want another COVID fiasco.”
“It won’t be that bad,” Dale said. “Media always hypes this stuff.”
Still, his phone buzzed with an alert: HCV-25 had spread to Brazil.
He stuffed the thought away. Another scare story. After work, he hit the gym—squat day with Tom.
That evening, he texted Emily to confirm their date. Three months in. Marylebone wasn’t far, but her job kept her busy. Three, maybe four nights a week together. Enough to feel like something. Not enough to feel secure.
Wednesday, October 13, 2027, Clerkenwell
Emily was buzzing with energy, talking rebrands and supply chain risks if the virus spread. Dale nodded, sipped his pint, let her voice wash over him.
Then he noticed them—three young Black guys near the bar. Not rowdy, not loud. Just watching. One nudged the other, nodding toward Emily. A grin. An up-and-down glance.
Dale’s grip tightened.
Emily didn’t notice. Or maybe she was used to it.
He pulled her a little closer, hand on the small of her back. A silent message.
She smiled up at him, oblivious.
They ended up back at her flat. When they had sex that night, Dale caught himself wondering if he truly loved her, or if it was the routine—a relationship that felt good but not heart-thumping. They still used condoms; they weren’t at the “trust each other’s STIs” stage yet. Meanwhile, Emily was half-focused on tomorrow’s presentation. Post-sex, they did a quick rinse in the shower and conked out.
Friday October 15, 2027, Clerkenwell
They were calling HCV-25 a pandemic, floating the idea of flight restrictions. Some wanted the borders closed yesterday; Starmer refused, not wanting to look “racist” by shutting down flights from Africa. Meanwhile, Whitehall was preparing for an emergency repatriation—couldn’t let “stranded Brits” stay abroad in the middle of an epidemic, apparently. Dale wondered if it qualified as being stranded abroad if a Nigerian was stranded in Nigeria, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t the one setting policy.
That evening, Dale met Emily and some of her friends for drinks. He took a minute to appreciate Emily’s long legs and calm confidence. She was a year older than him at 28 and kept in decent shape with regular runs.
They had met on Tinder and immediately hit off. The sex was generally good, and she was clever and driven which he admired. Her friends were a mixed bunch that he mostly wasn’t that interested in, though he was good at not showing it.
Her best friend, Allegra, was one of Emily’s uni friends. She was petite—maybe five foot two—with chin-length light brown hair, a tight skirt hugging an undeniably firm, shapely ass. Rumour had it she’d studied something about the history of religion, then landed in marketing. Emily once said Allegra came from money in Milan, but you wouldn’t guess it from her easy-going banter and quick wit.
Dale couldn’t help daydreaming: If I’d met her first...? He caught himself imagining her small, warm body pressed against his—then mentally kicked himself. Emily deserved better, even if the thought lingered. That mental image sent a hot tingle through him. She caught him staring once or twice. Instead of blushing or looking away, she held his gaze just long enough to make him wonder what she’d noticed—then smirked faintly and turned back to the conversation. Italians could be huge flirts—or maybe she was just being friendly. Either way, it rattled him.
The group chatted about the looming pandemic, tossing around rumours.
Emily joked that they’d all end up locked inside for months.
“If it comes to that,” Allegra said, swirling her drink, “I’ll stockpile food and let the neighbours starve. Less competition.”
She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Dale wasn’t sure if she was joking—but somehow it made him like her more.
Dale snorted, bitterly cynical. ‘Typical government—open borders, raise taxes, ignore locals.’ “You think the government will actually shut the borders?” someone asked.
Allegra scoffed. “They’ll try too late. They always do. If I were running things, I’d have grounded every flight out of Africa a week ago. And locked London down with soldiers.”
A few more drinks later, Dale and Emily peeled off from the group. Allegra gave them both a polite, efficient hug. Her perfume—warm, spiced, expensive—lingered faintly as she slid into a waiting taxi without another word. Dale tried not to stare at her backside as she climbed in. He failed. Emily elbowed him, half amused, half exasperated.
By the time he and Emily got back to her place, he was half drunk and more worked up than usual. They tumbled onto her bed. Emily was still talking about her job or something, but Dale’s mind lingered on Allegra’s compact frame. He slipped in behind Emily, who pressed her hips backward, moaning softly. But every so often, he imagined it was Allegra’s petite body in his hands, Allegra’s breathy gasps in his ear.
He thrust harder than usual, trying to bury the fantasy, but part of him clung to the image until he finally came. Emily didn’t seem to notice. They collapsed onto the sheets, breathing hard. As she drifted off, Dale’s thoughts once again spun to Allegra’s teasing grin and the silhouette of her tight skirt. Tomorrow, he told himself, he’d focus on real life—but in that moment, he couldn’t shake the pulse of raw attraction that flickered any time he thought of Allegra
Saturday, October 16, 2027, Marylebone
They grabbed a greasy Wetherspoons breakfast, then parted ways. Emily went shopping with friends; Dale planned to meet Tom at the gym again. Tom, who was gay, ranted about how the gay scene felt superficial—everything was about having the right body. Plus, he hated the flamboyant activism he felt turned regular Brits against them.
They decided to have a guys’ night, texting some other friends to meet near Leicester Square. Six of them hit Imperial China for dinner, then drifted around Soho, landing in Waxy’s. Crammed with tourists, it was deafening.
Dale got tipsy enough to end up on the dance floor, groping and snogging a fit Indian girl. His groin burned, urging him to go further. Sense prevailed. He wasn’t about to blow things with Emily over a random fling. They still swapped numbers, though. He only got her name then, Sneha. In the back of his mind, he liked having a backup plan in case Emily didn’t work out.
Sunday, October 17, 2027, Clerkenwell
Dale slept in, ate a banana, then went for a run along the river. He made it nearly to Canary Wharf before turning around. The throngs of camera-happy tourists on the South Bank made the trek back almost unbearable.
That afternoon, he and James wandered into the Griffin, an old-school strip pub. For a pound per round of dancing, you got a pretty bare-bones show. The highlight was some Eastern European girl who moved like a failed ballerina, all precise moves and pointed toes. Two black dancers came on after; he barely paid attention. Not his type.
Feeling cheap and bored, they downed the last of their pints and stepped out onto the street, the cool evening air hitting them after the warmth of the pub.
That’s when Dale saw them.
Across the road, near the entrance of a late-night takeaway, a white girl stood stiffly, clutching her phone, clearly uncomfortable.
Two Pakistani lads, both in puffer jackets, stood close, grinning, whispering to each other, their bodies angled inward, cutting off her exit.
She shifted, trying to move past them, but one of them mirrored her step, blocking her path.
Dale felt his stomach tighten.
The girl gave a forced laugh, the kind people do when they don’t want to escalate things.
“C’mon, we’re just talking,” one of them said, his voice low, coaxing.
Dale gritted his teeth.
They weren’t touching her. They weren’t being loud. But they weren’t letting her leave.
James saw it too. “Christ,” he muttered.
Dale exhaled sharply. Every instinct told him to step in.
But what then?
Two of them. No way to tell if they had knives.
And even if he got involved, what was he supposed to do?
The girl tried again, stepping sideways.
This time, the shorter one grabbed her wrist—lightly, like he was making a joke of it.
“Stay a bit, yeah? You’re too pretty to walk home alone.”
She yanked away, her smile gone. “I have a boyfriend,” she snapped.
The taller one laughed. “Nah, he ain’t here though, is he?”
Dale stared, pulse hammering.
He could feel his own frustration boiling over.
The girl looked around, clearly hoping someone—anyone—would step in.
Dale took a half step forward.
Before he could do anything, another group of people walked by—a couple of big guys, rugby lads, maybe—laughing about something unrelated.
The two Pakistanis saw them, hesitated—then backed off.
“Whatever,” the shorter one muttered, giving the girl one last look.
They turned and sauntered off, disappearing around the corner.
The girl exhaled sharply, rubbing her wrist, before walking off quickly in the opposite direction.
Dale let out the breath he’d been holding.
James shook his head. “Fucking joke, mate.”
Dale didn’t reply.
Because he knew the truth.
If those rugby lads hadn’t walked by, nothing would’ve stopped them.
And people like Dale?
They weren’t allowed to do anything.
The newscast that night blared more about HCV-25, speculating that flight bans might drop as early as tomorrow.
Monday, October 18, 2027, Clerkenwell
Dale’s life hadn’t shifted yet, just more ominous headlines about HCV-25. He started the day with squats at the gym, powered through a dull workday, and ignored a follow-up text from Sneha. Emily was stuck working late.
Tuesday, October 19, 2027, Clerkenwell
By morning, the pandemic talk had grown louder. The government activated its old COVID-era protocols—social distancing, masks, remote work guidelines. Some people Dale knew were already staying home. The vibe was tense.
“We need more supplies,” James said over a half-eaten slice of toast. “Never hurts to stock up.”
“No one wants to fight over bog roll again,” Dale agreed.
The big supermarkets were jammed, but local shops had enough. They crammed the kitchen with tins, rice, and, yes, far too much toilet paper.
Emily dropped by that evening, anxiety in her eyes.
“You think this is serious?”
Dale tried to shrug it off. “Couple weeks of lockdown, max. The government can’t be that incompetent, right?”
Emily had to head home early so she could get to work more easily in the morning. Sex was rushed Emily climaxed quickly, distracted. Dale couldn’t finish, frustration lingering long after she left.
Wednesday, October 20, 2027, Clerkenwell
Commuters were vanishing. Even Dale’s office, which practically forced you to show your face, had entire vacant floors. Sharon had switched to remote work. During a lunch break squat session, Dale and Tom talked about life if a new pandemic really hit. At that point, there were reported clusters on every continent, though Britain was still officially at “a handful of cases.”
Thursday, October 21, 2027, Clerkenwell
Come Thursday, the news took an ominous turn. Two confirmed cases of HCV-25 in Scotland, and a worrying cluster in London. That was enough for the government to hit the “panic” button. They unleashed a wave of regulations—mandatory remote work, citywide travel restrictions, obligatory quarantine for anyone entering the country. Even non-essential travel inside London was banned, though plenty of people were still flouting the rules.
The bigger concern was West Africa, where the death toll from HCV-25 had started piling up. Footage showed overwhelmed clinics and mass graves. On the BBC, a grim-faced correspondent explained that HCV-25 was believed to be some nightmarish hybrid, a freak recombination of a virulent flu strain and a hardy fungus. It had the transmissibility of a virus, but the nasty resilience of fungal spores—meaning it could latch onto surfaces and linger in the air longer than anyone wanted to believe.
Back at the flat, the tension felt heavier than usual. Dale’s place was cramped with him, James, and Alex all trying to work remotely in that small living space. At least Dale had a desk in his room, so he didn’t have to listen to James muttering curses at bug-ridden code or Alex rattling on about architectural specs.
Around 7:00 P.M., Emily called, sounding breathless and anxious.
“Do you think we should stockpile more essentials?” she asked. Dale could practically hear her pacing.
“We’ll be fine, Em,” he reassured her. “I’ve got enough tinned beans and bog roll to last us till the next millennium. If it all blows over, at worst the food bank gets a windfall.”
She hesitated. “Any chance you could come over? I hate being holed up alone.”
Dale glanced at the TV, a health official insisting no one leave their homes. But honestly, rules or no rules, he wanted out of the flat.
“Is that smart?” he asked. “We don’t want to make each other sick, if one of us is carrying it.”
Emily countered, “We’ve probably both been exposed. And if the cops stop you, say you live here. Or just bike over. The Tube’s a disease trap anyway.”
He didn’t argue. He threw a few supplies in his backpack—some extra tins, maybe a pack of condoms he grabbed from his dresser—and hopped on one of those Boris bikes, weaving through eerily quiet streets. The once-crowded roads and sidewalks were nearly deserted, the occasional passing car or siren the only sign of life.
At Emily’s Marylebone flat, they made a lazy dinner of pasta from her dwindling groceries, then flopped onto the couch. The lockdown vibe clung to them like a damp blanket, making the place feel smaller than it was. Emily snuggled against him, though he could tell her mind was elsewhere—maybe on the nightmare headlines, or how quickly this new virus was spreading.
Dale found his thoughts drifting, too. If this got worse, would he end up quarantined here with Emily for months? He remembered the long COVID lockdown he’d spent at his parents’ place—comfortable enough, but lonely in all the ways that mattered. At least now he had Emily. They hadn’t been together that long, but she was a damn sight better than solitary confinement, physically and otherwise.
His mind wandered to the conversation they’d had a few weeks ago about being exclusive. In truth, he’d already scaled back his side flings, even if he sometimes teased the line—like that night with Sneha. It wasn’t that he hated the idea of commitment; it was more that he got bored fast. Emily was ambitious, a trait he respected. She had this ankle tattoo he found a bit tacky, and she’d hinted at getting another. That rankled him more than he’d admit. But hey, maybe none of that mattered if the world was ending.
Emily seemed to echo his train of thought. “So, do you think we’ll end up locked in together, you and me?” She had a hint of mischief in her voice. He grinned. “Could do a lot worse.”
She smirked, swung her leg over his lap, and kissed him deeply. Dale felt a pleasant rush, the gloom of the day momentarily drowned out by lust. He stood, careful not to crack their heads on the low ceiling. They kept kissing, Emily grinding against him as he pressed her against the couch.
“‘Wait,’ she breathed, pulling her jeans off slowly. Dale quickly fumbled with his belt, urgency building, needing to feel something other than dread. Freed from clothing, she sauntered to the bedroom, tossing a pack of condoms onto the bed. Dale followed, giving her bum a playful slap.
On the bed, he resumed kissing her, one hand moving between her thighs. She grabbed his wrist, pushing his fingers under her underwear. She was already warm and responsive. Dale moved deliberately, enjoying her reaction, losing himself momentarily in the rare intimacy amidst chaos. He kissed down her neck, watching her body arch.
She bucked suddenly, releasing a sharp cry, trembling with a small orgasm.
“That’s enough,” she gasped, half-laughing. “I need you inside me.”
He rolled on a condom and slid into her with a few strong thrusts, letting out a low groan. She was still sensitive from her orgasm, nails digging into his arms. He steadied himself, then started a slower, deeper rhythm. With the condom, he could go a while, and he aimed to make sure she got her share of pleasure. When he finally finished, they collapsed against each other, breathless and sweating in the dim bedroom light.
They drifted off, exhaustion taking over. Outside, the city might have been on the brink of another hellish lockdown, but for the moment, in that bed, Dale found a warped kind of peace. He wasn’t sure what was next—maybe the virus would blow over, maybe it would tear the city apart. Either way, at least he wasn’t facing it alone.
Friday, October 22, 2027, Marylebone
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