The Darker Passions

by Nancy Kilpatrick

  "Yes, well, two dogs, one old, one in her prime. What's the point?" Hastie asks.

  I retire to my chemistry cupboard and remove several vials, jars and boxes, which I carry to my work table. There I carefully measure the various common powders and salts into a large alembic while my friends look on, adding one other powder from a tan box, not so common an ingredient. Once the proper prescription is made, I add just enough water to dissolve the mixture. I place the beaker over the Bunson burner, which I light. The contents cook and distil, at first slowly, then to a boil, then a rolling boil. Vapors drift from the top of the beaker, filling the room with a tart scent, much like rhubarb. When the potion turns from white to black, I remove the beaker from the heat.

  "What exactly are you concocting?" Hastie asks.

  "In good time, my friend."

  I pour a bit of the black liquid into a saucer which I blow on to cool, then place it before the old hound. He sniffs suspiciously, but obviously something catches his fancy. He hauls himself up to a half-standing position and licks at first listlessly at the liquid. Soon he has gobbled all that was in the saucer.

  "Well, I'm glad you feed the poor thing," Hastie says, "and delighted your mixture has revived his appetite, but I fail to understand the significance. If you have been nourishing him on a special prescription, I see no evidence of it being unusually beneficial."

  "Patience, Hastie," I say.

  Horace's body goes through a frightful contortion, severe enough that both Lanyon and Utterson are on their feet, alarmed.

  I signal them to wait a moment before intervening.

  Horace by now is standing. It is as though he is transforming before our eyes. He appears larger, his coat more youthful, his eyes clear and intelligent. His ears twitch, his nostrils flair and he bares his teeth. Lanyon and Utterson look alarmed.

  "Do not worry," I say. "It is not a human being he is interested in."

  Mandy, preoccupied with some object she is using for a toy, is not aware of Horace and the change he has undergone.

  "Good God!" Hastie cries. Horace is now a young virile retriever, of the variety used as stud, with an enormous erection.

  In one leap he is off the table and mounting Mandy. He enters her immediately, thrusting into her at a furious pace.

  Within seconds he ejaculates.

  Mandy flops down onto the floor, looking both startled and pleased. She turns her head to lick Horace's face. That simple show of affection sets him off again and before we know it, his member is rock hard and Mandy is enjoying it anew.

  "Why, this is astonishing!" Utterson cries.

  "Diabolical!" Lanyon declares.

  Gabriel, unaware that he is stuffing another scone into his mouth, mumbles, "If I could but get my hands on your formula, this old dog would be delighted to show Mrs. Utterson a new trick or two."

  "He will continue," I confide, "until the drug wears off, in about twelve hours. It works as well on humans."

  "And how would you know this?" Hastie demands. I sense in his tone condemnation, which makes me guarded.

  "I meant to say I imagine it would," I answer cautiously.

  "And I would say this devil's elixir is best left to the imagination. After all, what good is a blend that can turn a man into a beast, capable of uncivilized acts."

  "Quite so," I say carefully.

  Hastie is more correct than he can know. Even now a part of me yearns to sip the dark liquid and unleash my hidden desires. Desires that Hyde acts out for me, only too well.

  "This is, of course, only an experiment," Lanyon says.

  "Of course." I tell him what he wants to hear, painfully realizing that I can confide no more in him.

  "Well, then, I believe I've seen enough." He picks up his hat and heads up the stairs. "Utterson, are you staying?"

  "No, no." Gabriel drags his eyes away from Mandy and Horace, still at their blissful pastime. He snatches one last scone from the plate on his way out. "Interesting demonstration, Henry."

  "Interesting but pointless," Hastie adds. "One would think a man possessing your medical knowledge would find far better ways to utilize his time and that knowledge."

  I sigh, and they are gone. I slump into a chair. A voice within, similar to Hyde's, berates me. Of course I should have known. Lanyon and I have always disagreed about my experiments. About many things. Why would I imagine this time would be different?

  It is my desperate need to confide in someone, anyone, the terrible change that occurs within my body and soul on a daily basis. Changes which my black potent instigates and which I am helpless to resist. For when the darkness of night arrives, I am compelled to become another, darker version of myself.

  "Oh, Jekyll?"

  I look up. Utterson stands at the top of the theater. "I nearly forgot. Meg is having a soiree on Saturday evening. She requests your presence. A niece from her first marriage is arriving from the North to spend the year while her parents travel abroad. You will come, won't you? Meg would be so disappointed."

  I want nothing less than to spend a boring evening with the chatty Meg Utterson and her no-doubt ugly niece 'from the North'. And yet Utterson is an old and dear friend. And in truth, he did not berate me for my demonstration. He seemed rather fascinated. It would not do to let my gloom seep into the lives of my friends.

  "Yes, tell Meg I'd be pleased to attend."

  "About eight, then. And Henry, don't drink any of that potion before coming," he laughs. "Ursula is still a virgin."

  Why do I imagine Hyde's voice laughing with glee?

  Chapter Three

  The moment the sun sets my hands are at work, forcing Jekyll to blend his compound. His protests ring in my ears, growing louder by the minute, but I ignore them. The daylight hours are his, the night time mine. He can no more deny me than I can obliterate him.

  Once I've drunk the ebony liquid down, familiar symptoms overwhelm us both. His heart pumps louder and faster until it reaches my own pace. His energy increases and I am revived. I am tall, strong, powerful, in a way that Jekyll is not, as befits the Master of the World of Night. Jekyll's voice recedes to a dull whisper.

  I dress in the uniform of the shadows, the black leather a second skin, feral, more mine than this pale hide that encloses my bone and muscle. I pull the mask over my forehead and down to my lower cheeks, leaving only my nostrils, mouth and chin exposed. Once I have fastened the martinet to my belt, I am off, leaving not by the pristine white marbled front door that leads onto the wide busy street, but by the rear exit, as is my custom, into a world of forbidden pleasures.

  The alleyway is darker than usual tonight, as the new moon is obscured by a cloud cover. There is but one gas lamp, and this at the end of the laneway. I love the darkness and as I walk I hear scuttling, and from the buildings themselves moans of secret pleasures. No one can see me as I hurry along, which is all part of my plan. I have a reputation to maintain. Rumor has it that I am a type of phantom, lingering in the shadows, appearing only to those whose darker nature has surfaced. I am known to frequent dreams of both men and women and, if they are lucky, when they are filled with longing, I appear to them in reality. It is not a disadvantage to have such a reputation proceed one.

  Tonight I head for a specific address. As I near, Jekyll's whispers turn frantic. But he had his chance. Now it is my turn.

  I knock on the door and an old housekeeper lets me in.

  She uses a horn, the narrow end pressed to her ear, and yet it is obvious that the woman is impossibly hard-of-hearing.

  "Mr. Ride, you say?" she asks, squinting.

  I do not bother correcting her. "You will announce me immediately."

  She bids me take a seat near the entrance, but I remain standing, watching her trundle off. Within moments a slim tense man makes an appearance.

  "What then, is it a medical emergency?"

  "Not in the least, Doctor Lanyon. An emergency of a different sort."

  "Why are you wearing a mask? Are you deformed?" he as
ks suspiciously, although I can tell he's intrigued.

  "I will discuss the matter in private."

  He sighs, yet his curiosity and relentless quest for prestige in his field cause him to imagine I suffer some exotic malformation which he can investigate and write a paper on. "Very well, come to my examination room."

  I follow to a large space with a padded examination table—very modern indeed, being the focus. The walls are lined with medical texts and instruments for poking and prodding. There is also a walnut desk and chair. Beyond I see another chamber, a toilet no doubt.

  Doctor Lanyon turns, impatient, and says in a tight voice,

  "Sir, remove your mask."

  My response is to step up to the good doctor, grab his balls and squeeze them.

  The look on his face is shock. Jekyll's voice is out of control, yet still easily ignored.

  Lanyon begins to sputter, "What...what do you think?..."

  I squeeze harder and shove my face into his. "You have a straight razor and a strop, do you not?"

  "Well...yes-yes, of course..."

  "Bring them! And a mug and brush. And be quick about it!"

  "This is highly irregular..."

  Another squeeze, accompanied by a twist brings a howl from his lips and a look in his pale blue eyes which assures me he has elected to be obedient.

  I release him. His narrow face is flushed and his eyes excited, and yet he is dreadfully embarrassed. "You're Hyde," he says, astonished. "I have heard of you." His expression tells me he never expected the stories to be true. He cannot not suppress the delight he feels at the idea that before him stands a living myth. One that can plumb his secret desires.

  "Doctor, you will get what I desire immediately or your testicles will suffer the consequences."

  Fear fills his face. He becomes meek, subservient, qualities Jekyll always suspected lurked beneath the surface of Lanyon's tense veneer.

  He enters the anteroom and returns almost at once with the items I've demanded.

  "Remove your clothing," I say crisply.

  He hesitates but a moment, then begins removing his vest and shirt—he is wearing no jacket—then his boots, socks and trousers. His chest is muscular for a slender man, and hairy, his stomach also hairy, and flat, his waist trim. He now wears only white undergarments, long, the type more practical than fashionable. "Those too," I tell him firmly.

  Embarrassment floods his face and turns it crimson again. His eyes plead: do not make me do this thing. "Sir, I cannot."

  I strike him smartly across the face to establish my authority. "Do as you are told!"

  "And if I do not?" he asks boldly, rubbing the burning cheek, but his eyes assure me of his decision.

  "Then I shall abandon you this minute. Forever. And you shall die without tasting the exquisite fruit you so desire."

  The thought shocks him anew. Quickly he slides the undergarments down his slim hips and thighs and soon stands naked before me, his member small and limp.

  "Onto the table," I command.

  He lies down immediately on his back, fighting within himself to accept the unfamiliar roll of being the recipient of a service, rather than the performer of one. And on his own examination table! I feel a certain irony is present in this room.

  I locate leather restraints in his medical cabinet and secure them to his wrists, binding each to the underframe of the table. His legs I spread wide and bind at the ankles and thighs. In another drawer I find a doweling with wide flat ends, used as a spreader during surgery. This I place between his thighs, opening his crack so that I may clearly see what I am dealing with.

  All of this excites him greatly. His cock points up now instead of down, and his balls appear higher and tighter, exposing more of the crack.

  While he watches me intently, stretching his neck up and around to follow all that I do, I whip up a mug of shaving cream and begin stropping the straight razor, checking periodically against my thumb until the blade has attained the sharpness I desire.

  I bring my equipment to the stand beside the examination table.

  Lanyon's face reflects terrified anticipation. "What... what are you up to?"

  "It's obvious, isn't it doctor? I'm going to shave you."

  I lather the brush and soap the coarse black hairs on his chest and stomach. Lanyon looks on as if he would like to direct my movements but he will have no control tonight, not if I can help it, and I believe he senses this.

  I lean across his body, the martinet presses against his hip, the razor hovers above his abdomen. I lower the razor slowly. Lanyon sucks in air and holds his breath. The metal contacts his skin and his chest muscles trembles.

  "Perhaps, doctor, it would be best to get a grip on your emotions, as you are so fond of doing. That will reduce the chance of an accident, as I am sure you are aware."

  I drag the sharp blade down across his stomach to his naval and beyond, catching hairs in its path, then wipe the dark hairs and the soap onto a towel. Lanyon lies back, struggling to control his terror. A dozen scrapes and his chest and stomach are clean. It is time to move lower.

  As I soap his groin, he pleads with me, "Mister Hyde..."

  "Master Hyde to you."

  "Master, then, if you insist. You must not do this! I am a physician, after all, and..."

  "What you are is a pompous ass," I tell him. "But I rather imagine your ass will be less pompous and you will know humility before this night is through. Now, you may cease your utterings or I shall cease them for you."

  He looks appropriately contrite and closes his lips.

  Once his genitals are soaped, I strop the blade of the razor again to renew the edge, doing this beside his head, letting him drink in the sounds. Lanyon trembles uncontrollably. Tears leak from the sides of his eyes and yet here is a cock that is steadily firming.

  "You have only to say the word, Doctor, and I shall be gone."

  But he says nothing.

  I shave down towards the base of his shaft, now semi-hard, catching all the hairs in my path. While in the general area, I remove the hairs on the insides of his thighs as well. A strong smell comes from him, the sweat of a man's sex and fear. It is erotic and highly charged and I find myself responding—my cock swells against the leather that restrains it.

  The angle is not good to shave his testicles and I stuff a pillow under his bottom, lifting his cock and balls higher. I move the lamp closer and resoap and restrop, the sound of metal against leather promising slaps. "Now we come to the family jewels," I say.

  His trembling attains a full quake which he can no longer control. He weeps openly, tears gushing from his eyes. His cock is fully furled and his testicles tight enough to withstand the steel.

  I lift the right ball and slide the blade up from underneath, cutting the wiry hairs at skin level. A low moan comes from Lanyon. Each scrape of the razor brings greater cries from the man. His balls are hot, his cock above them throbbing, the vein dark and prominent. I work on the other testicle in the same manner, using my hands to pull the skin as taut as possible. I sense the doctor about to give himself over to the stimulation. I pause. "Dr. Lanyon, you would be ill advised to release your tension in the manner that has impressed itself into your mind as a reasonable route. In other words, be forewarned: no ejaculations shall be permitted until my say so and the moment you disobey you shall be lying here with cum on your stomach but alone. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes. Yes, Master Hyde."

  I know that the restraint I demand requires a nearly inhuman effort but Lanyon is accustomed to excessive self-control and manages satisfactorily. When he is as well shaved as this position permits, I unfasten the restraints and have him turn over, then tie him down again and use the spreader.

  His ass, too, is covered with dark hairs. I lather him well, down the crack especially, the brush tickling his asshole.

  Then I sharpen my blade. With faster strokes I remove all the hairs over his taut, quivering cheeks and cut away from his anus outward a
nd up from the underside of the balls, which before I could not reach.

  As I finish, I inspect my handiwork, toweling off his bottom and filling a bowl with water to wash up. His ass is as exposed as a baby's tender bottom and I know the skin there has not felt much air and light across it for many years.

  I move to the head of the examination table. Lanyon, head bent back, stares at my crotch and the bulging cock awaiting him. "Not just yet, Doctor. First you must reach a different frame of mind. One more open to possibilities, although I have no objection to a foretaste of what will follow."

  I liberate my member from the leather holding him back. Lanyon's eyes bulge at the length and thickness. I guide my cock to his lips. Immediately his tongue darts out and licks the head and kisses it in a worshipful manner. He is eager to take all of me into his mouth and I cannot say the idea is unappealing. But I want Doctor Lanyon far more submissive. His is an ego that requires extreme measures to reign in.

  "Have you been whipped?" I ask him.

  Reluctantly his lips release the head of my throbbing cock so that he may answer. "Never!"

  "Not in childhood?"

  "There was no need. I was a model child, mature for my age, naturally aligned with rules and regulations."

  "So, you obeyed all rules and were exemplary in your conduct. You were never punished, then?"

  He hesitates. "Perhaps once."

  "Perhaps? You don't know?"

  "My father was in India, on Her Majesty's Service. I do not recall on his visits home that he ever raised a hand to me. My mother, of course, did not, although the housekeeper swatted my bottom with a slipper on occasion. When mother found out, the woman was fired immediately. I was an angel, mother said. She had no need to chastise me."

  He hesitates again.

  "Go on," I encourage.

  "Now that I think of it, the governess gave herself leave to have at me twice, once, I recall, when I borrowed her shears and accidently dropped them into the commode."

  "Accidently?"

  He says nothing.

  "Tell me about it. The punishment."