The Darker Passions

by Nancy Kilpatrick

  Lanyon's face burns scarlet. "It-it was embarrassing, really. My mother was out that afternoon. The governess pulled my breeches down and gave me a sound birching out in the garden, near the gazebo, with a green willow switch, thrashing my bottom before the entire household staff." He sounds excited.

  "And did you enjoy it?"

  "Of course not."

  But his answer lacks conviction.

  "How did you react?"

  "I screamed."

  "And?"

  "And my mother's carriage arrived and that made the governess cease."

  "Tell me, Doctor Lanyon, would you say this birching caused you pain?"

  Here he hesitates, suddenly aware that either a yes or no answer will condemn him. He sighs, no doubt resigned to the truth.

  "In a sense yes, it was painful."

  "Are you telling me you found sitting difficult the following day?"

  "Oh no. She can't have given me more than half a dozen..."

  "I see." My tone is severe and I will listen to no more of his nonsense. "Your 'birching', as you call it, hardly qualifies as punishment. I'd term it light stimulation and nothing more."

  He flinches as if struck and his silence is petulant.

  "You are a fellow who has never felt the power of a man's strong hand controlling you. And how could you, stuck in a house with a mother who doted on you, calling you angel and such, allowing you to get away with far too much, no doubt. But luck is with you, Lanyon, for tonight your limited experience will be broadened considerably."

  His eyes travel to the martinet affixed to my belt. "Are you intent on using that on me?" he asks timidly, his voice full of hope.

  "Certainly not, Doctor. This is a special tool, and requires a special bottom. And for you another item is more appropriate, one you should have felt on your backside long ago. One you shall become acquainted with in short order."

  I move to the stand which holds the shaving mug, razor and strop. It is the old leather that I pick up. The strop is no more than two feet long and about three inches wide, but the hide is thick and heavy. It was tanned a pale brown but where the razor has been sharpened over the years, there the color has faded.

  "Isn't it curious," I say to Lanyon, "how when leather is flayed, the color fades and yet when human hide is flayed, color increases considerably?"

  Lanyon says nothing. His head is turned and he watches me with large eyes as I flip the strop back and forth in the air. I find the snapping sound pleasing. From the look on his face he finds it disconcerting.

  "How deaf is your housekeeper, Mr. Lanyon?"

  "She hears well enough."

  "I notice she employs a horn close up and even then has difficulty. From her room, to which she has no doubt retired, I would expect she can hear virtually nothing."

  "She can hear me call," he says desperately.

  "Can she? Perhaps we should test your statement of fact for accuracy, unless, of course, you prefer not to stand behind it."

  He swallows hard. "I shall."

  "Good, Doctor Lanyon, and I hope you are being truthful, because if a falsehood is detected, correction is in order, wouldn't you agree?"

  "I-I suppose so," he says hesitantly.

  I walk halfway up the table, perpendicular with his hips. His newly shaved ass, so white and naked-looking in its hairless state, seems to call out for attention. I run my hand over the skin, creating goose bumps on the cool flesh. His bottom is nearly virgin and the temptation to use the martinet is strong. But he has tasted of a birch once or twice, and a silly tap with a slipper, however infrequently and lightly, and, I suspect, the occasional illicit encounter of groping in a dark alley with nameless, faceless strangers. But more, he is callous emotionally, which I find disagreeable. I shall not lower my standards. The bottom I reward with a taste of my unique tool will be fully deserving of that honor.

  I raise the strop above my head and bring it down hard onto his bare flesh. Crack! Instantly he yells loudly, but I am more interested in his ass and the perfectly placed wide red streak spanning it. "Such a lonely stripe," I say, tracing it with my finger tip. "I believe I'll create another."

  The heavy strop lands again with a sharp crack, followed immediately by a loud yelp. I make him cry out once again with another sound strapping, this cry followed by a whimper.

  "Well, Doctor Lanyon, no woman of the house is coming to rescue you this time. Perhaps you would care to take a moment to contemplate your situation."

  I lay a hand above his ass cheeks; heat emanates from them. "And yet we have only just begun," I say to myself.

  Without further ado, I lay the strop on hard, again and again. His cries turn to screams, but the sounds only encourage me. His ass hops and twists and bobs, desperate to escape my stinging leather as its color darkens considerably. I will concentrate on reaching neglected areas later. For now it's broad strokes I want, and plenty of them. Doctor Lanyon will wear them like badges for many days to come.

  A good half hour passes, I merrily working on him, he inflaming my passion with his delightful song. His voice grows raw with screaming and eventually my arm does need a brief respite.

  I leave him sobbing, tied to the examination table, and retire to the drawing room. There are decanters aplenty and I help myself to one and pour a glass of hardy port.

  Refreshed, I return to the clinic with the glass and decanter. Immediately on my return Lanyon begs me, "Oh, Master Hyde, forgive my lie. I am not accustomed to dealing with so rigid a man."

  "Rigid? You have yet to know the extent of my rigidity, which by contrast shows you as a libertine."

  He begins crying again, pathetic sobs that not even a woman would give herself over to, at least those 'ladies' of my acquaintance like Marie who so enjoy such diversions. "You need toughening, Lanyon."

  "I do indeed, sir," he wails.

  "But before the night is over you shall have progressed one step along the way."

  I hear the grandfather clock in the other room chime out the hour. "There. No need to worry. It is only nine bells. And you've barely had a licking worth thinking twice about."

  A groan from his lips. "Master, please..."

  I slide my hand under his shaved genitals to confirm that his shaft is as hard as I anticipated and has not released its cargo.

  "I shall provide a temporarily palliative, or at least a distraction," I assure him.

  I free my member from its restraints and resume my position at the head of the table. Lanyon's head stretches back. He opens his mouth readily and sucks in my sturdy fellow. The lips surrounding me are warm and slippery and he is eager to please. I thrust towards his face and he groans. He is earnest but somewhat lacking in skill, yet I make do with this. For now. He struggles as I go in further, trying to relax his tense throat muscles to accommodate me. But I am enjoying myself. His near virginity pleases me and inspires me to go beyond my own limits. I am decided. I shall dedicate this night to Lanyon! By morning he shall know the true meaning of being mastered. And he shall never forget me.

  My thrusts increase as the familiar charge nears explosion. His tongue massages the head of my cock, licking at it, and then lies receptive as I drive home. My body becomes rigid. Hot cum bursts from me. I feel it pulsing into Lanyon's mouth and hear him swallowing all he can get, licking my cock clean of every drop.

  My fellow prefers the fresh air and I now leave him in his semi-firm state out in the open. I reach for the decanter and pour another glass of Lanyon's fine port and down it. As I walk around the room, his shaved crotch allows me to notice the thick liquid seeping from under him.

  "You have ejaculated!"

  He groans at being found out. "Master Hyde, forgive me. Do not leave!"

  "If I stay then I shall be forced to punish you severely for this misbehavior," I tell him. "Shall I punish you severely, Lanyon?"

  "Yes, Master. Anything, but only remain here with me."

  "Punishment and reward are so close, don't you agree, Doctor?"
r />   Lanyon, never a philosophic type, merely makes a small animal noise.

  I walk to his window and look through the lace curtains at the dark quiet street beyond. As I sip my wine, I imagine the virgin Ursula, niece of Mr. Utterson. Could she be the one I seek? The one who is innocent and pure, who has been guarded and protected so that her nature itself has not so much as imagined darkness. She will readily do my bidding, submitting to me completely. And she will taste my martinet which I have saved for her and her alone.

  But these are fantasies, mere speculations. I have yet to meet the girl. And Jekyll will likely meet her first. And I may not find her appealing.

  A goose in hand is worth a swan in the bush.

  I turn. Lanyon has been so patient, awaiting my further attentions. And, little known to him, tonight will contain all the attention he shall ever receive from me, for after the sun rises, I shall not see him in my capacity as Master again.

  "Forgive me, Doctor Lanyon, I have been neglecting you. And you have misbehaved once again, for is that not semen lying in a pool? And when you were specifically instructed not to ejaculate? Such misbehavior must be nipped in the bud. But then this is another example of the difference between the genders. A women, your mother perhaps, would be lenient and forgive what she might consider a minor indiscretion. But I am a man, the first real man you have known, no doubt, and exacting. At our present rate of progress, half an hour of the strop, followed by a half hour of refreshment for my labors, well, this gives us time for another eight sessions."

  "Eight? You must be joking?" The number seems to boggle his mind.

  "Perhaps you cannot contemplate the intensity of an eight- part licking. But I believe you underestimate yourself. Be that as it may, eight you shall have. And, if I am wrong, well, then you will be right and may live with the satisfaction of that plus the welts I intent to raise."

  "And either way you shall have strapped me severely," he says, a small challenge in his voice.

  "Yes, I suppose that's so. But, Doctor Lanyon, I sense you are trying to stay me from my course with yet more impertinence, or is your intent to guide my hand to your sorely needed chastisement?"

  I pick up the razor strop and take a position near his other hip. It is still too early to concentrate on fine details.

  And I so love the wild, haphazard strokes that come from different directions, falling helter skelter, taking both of us by surprise for entirely different reasons.

  The strop above my head, I whip him fiercely, the blows raining down. His jiggling flesh turns from medium red to dark red very quickly. His voice seems to have revived.

  "We began this round late. I shall whale you for a good forty five," I tell him between blows, just to let him know I mean business.

  But Lanyon cannot hear me. His cock is too busy releasing more of his juices. "More disobedience," I sigh, watching the first welts rising on his flesh. They shall be joined by others until his backside is a sea of weals as red as port and the name Master Hyde is imbedded in his memory forever.

  Chapter Four

  "Ursula, my dear, this will be your room." My Aunt Meg hugs me to her ample bosom and pats my bottom. "Your Uncle Gabriel and I are delighted to have you stay with us."

  "It's wonderful to be here, Aunt Meg," but in my heart I feel I would rather be elsewhere. The Uttersons are not actually related to me, except through marriage. Meg's first husband was my mother's brother. My Uncle Jack died after five years of connubial bliss when the freighter he traveled aboard sank. Although Meg soon remarried, she had attached herself to my family and she is not a woman who lets go easily, although she is nice enough.

  "Ursula, I'm so very glad your mother permitted you to stay with us. Why, whatever would you have done by yourself for an entire year in that lonely old house in Yorkshire?"

  "Well, I suppose I would have had to manage." Meg, being an extreme extrovert, cannot imagine a quiet and peaceful life in the country. In fact, already the London air, so clogged with smoke from the factories and the raw smells and frightfully loud noises has me on edge.

  "Well, we might both be relieved that your mother had the sense to send you into a firmly loving household."

  Sense? Mother was worn down by Meg. I'd begged to be permitted to remain at home with the housekeeper and gardener, but my parents would not hear of it. 'At your age?' father said. 'I'm eighteen, you know, and perfectly capable of looking after myself. Don't you trust me?' I replied. Father would have none of it. 'Harumph!' he said, then, 'it's not you we distrust but the young cocks of the walk in these parts. No, Miss, you will stay with your Aunt Meg and Uncle Gabriel, or with your Aunt Lucy, make your choice. And I will hear no more about it!'

  Father can be stubborn and neither of the choices I was presented with pleased me. My maiden Aunt Lucy, whom I've never met but have heard stories about, lives in Germany. She keeps a strict household. It is rumored she carries a cane, but not for walking purposes. I feel I've made the best of the situation by coming to London.

  Meg helps me unpack, although I'd prefer to be alone and get my bearings. She holds up one dress after another, trying very hard to find something pleasant to say about each of my simple frocks, yet I know she judges them drab by city standards.

  "We'll go shopping this afternoon," she finally says, and to end it I tell her I'd like nothing better.

  Finally she leaves me be for a few moments to see about tea. Being here is exciting, though. I've only been to London once before, and then I was too young to remember much. There are places I wish to visit, like Madam Tussaud's Waxworks Museum, that if my parents only knew, they would have shipped me off to the Black Forest in short order!

  Meg pops her head in. "Well, my dear, the morning tea is about to be served and your Uncle Gabriel will be joining us. Oh, but he's so eager to see you again."

  "And I him."

  "You know, he's gone to a bit of trouble for you."

  "How's that, Aunt Meg?"

  "Well, we've scheduled a party for this evening to welcome you to the city..."

  "Oh, please, you needn't go to any bother on my account..."

  "Ursula, it's no bother. Besides, there are several men

  Gabriel and I want to introduce you to."

  Oh no! I begin to panic. It's not that I dislike men. On the contrary, I find them fascinating creatures. Perhaps too much so. Since I reached the age of puberty it has been as though I've walked around wearing a strong perfume that men find enticing. I seem to attract them like flies to sugar. Many girls would envy me, but I find this attention unnerving and hardly know what to do with all this male attention, so I go to great lengths to avoid them. Other than marriage—a natural deterrent—it seems the easiest way. I feel a bit faint and sit.

  "My dear girl, is something the matter?"

  "It's nothing, Aunt Meg. A bout of light-headedness. It will pass."

  "Well, I shall send for Doctor Jekyll immediately."

  "No, don't do that! I'm fine, really."

  "Let me get my smelling salts."

  "Perhaps I'm hungry. I haven't eaten since supper last night."

  "Well, of course that must be it. What a silly girl you are! Didn't you think you might need a bite during such a long train ride? Come, I'll have the girl serve the tea on the spot."

  I've not seen Uncle Gabriel since childhood, when he married Aunt Meg. I remember him as a fat, jovial man who bounced me on his knee and fed me sugar candies by the pocketful. Mother was annoyed and frequently I ended up with a dreadful stomach ache. As I recall, he was always eating. Apparently he has not changed much.

  Uncle puts down his tea cake and kisses my mouth with crump-sprinkled lips. "Ursula, you've grown!"

  As have you, I almost blurt out. "You're looking prosperous, Uncle."

  He laughs heartily and I genuinely like the man.

  Aunt Meg pours the tea from her silver tea service into beautiful cups, mine with forget-me-nots painted on the china.

  In truth I am a tad hung
ry and devour both a cucumber sandwich and a crumpet as if I hadn't eaten in a week.

  "Has your Aunt mentioned the party?"

  "Yes, Uncle, she has. As I told her, you must not go to any trouble on my behalf. I don't want to be a burden. In fact, I'd prefer..."

  "Nonsense. Among others, I'd like you to meet my close friends Hastie Lanyon and Henry Jekyll, both doctors." He leans towards me and winks. "Both bachelors."

  I feel my face flush and bow my head to sip tea.

  "Tell us, Ursula," Meg says, "is there a particular young man in your life?"

  I nearly choke on the Jasmine. Not proper tea conversation at all, at least in Newcastle. "No, there is not."

  "And why is that?"

  I fidget under their direct gazes, wondering how in the world I can get out of answering such questions. "I-I suppose I just haven't met the right one yet."

  "She's shy," Meg tells Gabriel, as if I am a child and they might talk about me in my presence.

  "Well, then, I'd say it's a stroke of good luck that she's with us. London is full of men, my dear, and surely one will take you in hand."

  I set my cup down. "Aunt Meg and Uncle Gabriel, I don't mean to be impertinent, but I do feel that this is my business and mine alone."

  "Well, what is her problem?" Gabriel asks Meg, again as if I've said nothing. "She's young, attractive, I suppose she can be charming when she wants to be."

  "Oh, Gabriel, Ursula is shy, that's all. She's a simple country girl and likely there are few enough fellows in the woods who would know how to properly enflame the passion of so fragile a flower."

  Now my face is blazing. "If you'll excuse me," I say, "I feel a need to lie down. The long trip, you know." Before either of them can say anything more, I hurry out the door and up the stairs to my room.

  Once there I throw myself onto my bed face down. My breathing is rapid, my heart beating wildly. I feel extremely warm and have a great urge to strip off all my clothes. All of this, I feel certain, are the symptoms of embarrassment. How will I ever endure a year in such a crass household?

  There is a knock on the door. I say nothing but Meg enters anyway. Immediately she sits on the bed next to me. She strokes my hair. "There there, dear, don't mind us. We're a bit eccentric, I suppose, living here without children, in the world's most sophisticated city, where one tends to be rather forthright at times and all too indirect at others. Of course you're not used to it, but you'll grow accustomed to our ways. My, but you're warm! And your hair is damp."