The Darker Passions

  THE DARKER PASSIONS: DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE

  By Nancy Kilpatrick

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Copyright 2013 / Nancy Kilpatrick

  Cover Design By: David Dodd

  Partial cover image provided by:

  http://jssanda.deviantart.com/

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Nancy Kilpatrick is a writer and editor. She has published 18 novels, 1 non-fiction book, over 200 short stories, 5 collections of stories, and has edited 12 anthologies.

  She writes dark fantasy, horror, mysteries and erotic horror, under her own name, her nom de plume Amarantha Knight, and her newest pen name Desiree Knight (Amarantha's younger sister!)

  Nancy has been a Bram Stoker finalist three times, a finalist for the Aurora Award five times and, in addition to winning several short fiction contests, won the Arthur Ellis Award for best mystery.

  She lives with her calico cat Fedex in lovely Montreal. As with previous dwellings, this one features Gothic decor, which suits the sensibilities of both residents.

  When Nancy is not writing, she travels planet earth—the Great Curio Cabinet—in search of cemeteries, ossuaries, catacombs, mummies and Danse Macabre artwork.

  Book List

  Eternal City

  The Vampire Stories of Nancy Kilpatrick

  The Power of the Blood World:

  Child of the Night

  Near Death

  Reborn

  Bloodlover

  The Darker Passions Series (writing as Amarantha Knight):

  Dracula

  Frankenstein

  Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

  The Picture of Dorian Gray

  The Fall of the House of Usher

  Carmilla

  The Pit and the Pendulum

  DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS

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  Acknowledgements

  Love and thanks to my good friends, and my companion, Hugues Leblanc. And to Robert Louis Stevenson, who had the courage to give his nightmare breathing room on the page.

  N.K.

  CONTENTS

  DR. JEKYLL & MR HYDE

  A Preview of THE DARKER PASSIONS: DRACULA

  A Preview of CHILD OF THE NIGHT

  "I believe I've found the missing link between animal and civilized man. It is us."

  Konrad Lorenz

  (Zoologist)

  Chapter One

  The streets of London are shrouded in fog. The damp air obscures dark nooks and crannies between buildings, places where the underbelly of life contracts and expands, where desires abound and demand to be sated. This night is fit for neither man nor beast, and yet it suits me perfectly. I am both a man and a beast, dwelling within one ravenous body. My sensuous form understands intimately the law of nature which insists the natural man must be freed.

  As I wander the more shadowy streets of The Haymarket, my face masked, there are few people out strolling this night. Even many vendors have locked their shops early, as if they intuitively understand the darkness of this night when the moon has disappeared from view. These side streets are silent save for the far-away clop of horses hooves dragging heavy carriages over cobblestones. In the more immediate vicinity, the soles of my leather boots slap those same stones, so worn from the constant pounding of the masses.

  Ahead, under a gas lamp, I see a small form in a bustled dress. No lady she, still, this one will suit my purposes, of that I am quite certain. I approach her from behind; her blood red bustle with the matching feather in her hat is a sign on the streets—she will be happy to accommodate my specific appetites. She is no taller than five feet, yet her figure clearly is properly formed—large breasts, a small waist, full hips. Her hair, caught up beneath her pinned hat, is chestnut, I see, once I am close enough.

  She turns at my approach. A brown-eyed lady of the night, those eyes, imbedded in a heart-shaped face, look surprised and unnerved by the thin black leather moulded to the shape of my face. Her small fabric bag swings from her wrist. Her lips form a coquettish smile. "Evening, Sir," she says in that cockney accent that either charms or repels those of my class.

  I tip my top hat, press my cane firmly against the curb and lean upon it, into her, but say nothing. Her eyes begin to twinkle expectantly, seductively.

  "Fine night it is," she says. "Name's Marie." Her gloved hand reaches inside my open greatcoat. A startled look spreads across her face; she expected to find fabric, under which lies my eager manhood. But she is obviously adaptable. She strokes the martinet hanging at the front of my belt. Her covered fingertips move slowly up and over the large leather knot that acts as a handle, then down and around the braided sides, barely brushing the fabric of my trousers enroute. My cock responds immediately, as if it were he she stroked so, and not this pseudo erection. "A fine big head you've got there," she teases.

  I grab her wrist and pull her close to me. I force her palm down the full length of the martinet and the back of her hand against my phallus. "With a stinging tail at the other end," I assure her.

  For a moment her eyes look fearful, but then she becomes cagey and runs her tongue across her upper lip. Her scent is lavender, far too much of it, yet beneath that is a raw smell—the odor of her sex. My olfactory nerve has been made acute by my ingestion of chemicals obtained in the laboratory of a certain renowned physician, Dr. Henry Jekyll. And not only am I better able to distinguish her odors, but I am also finely tuned to her breathing, her heart beat even. This woman clearly wants what I have to offer.

  As I lead her to my carriage, waiting several blocks from here, she says, "Begging your pardon, sir, but whose company am I keeping tonight."

  "You are honored to be in the company of a gentleman known as Mr. Hyde."

  Her smile turns knowing; my name has become legend.

  "As the night controls the city further and the fog sears London," I tell her, "there shall be ample time during the dangerous hours for you to learn of my ways. And once you do you shall henceforth call me Master Hyde. Even now, at this early hour, it would please me to hear that name upon your sweet lips."

  She smiles up at me, a direct gaze, lustful, wicked, taunting. "Mr. Hyde," she says, defying me already.

  I say nothing more, merely help her into the carriage, then instruct my driver to take her to the address he knows.

  I close the door.

  "What? You're not coming with me?"

  "You will enter the door the driver points out to you, walk up the steps to the top floor and into the laboratory. Take off your clothes and lie across the dissection table, face down, arms and legs spread. You will find leather straps there and I expect you to affix them to your ankles and your left wrist."

  "Well, how long am I supposed to wait there like that, gov'nor?"

  I lean close to her. She feels my hot breath on her face. A quiver of excitement passes over her features. I stuff a five pound note down her suit jacket, into the cleavage of her ample breasts and speak very softly so that only she can hear, "Until your Master tells you that you may do other
wise."

  To the driver I yell, "Away!"

  He speeds off into the night.

  I take the opportunity to visit Maw's, a chemist in the area from whom Dr. Jekyll frequently purchases ingredients for his experiments. I have no such experiments in mind, though, at least none of the type Jekyll would endorse. I select a jar of an oriental salve composed of a dozen ingredients, at least one of which includes the oils from a hairy spider used in itching powder. I also stop at a cobbler and purchase several straps, of the variety used to tether horses. They are sturdy rawhide, half an inch thick, perfect for my purposes.

  "Will you be needing any other supplies tonight, sir," the cobbler asks me, for Jason is a good and knowledgeable craftsman and I have purchased items from him before. I have also authenticated some of my rarer finds, including the martinet, the leather of which is still virgin, at least as far as my usage is concerned.

  "Not tonight, although I have a design in mind which I would like to discuss. A type of tawse, but longer than those in common use, with perhaps five fingers instead of the usual three."

  "Very good, sir," he says. "I shall draw up several designs. I can have those ready by tomorrow evening and the tawse itself in your hand and ready for duty in a month's time."

  "A fortnight should do better."

  "Of course," he says, eager to please. "And shall I send the invoice for these items off to Dr. Jekyll, as usual?"

  "Most definitely do."

  I stroll the streets a bit longer, only to increase my own hunger, and hers. But finally I hail a cab and instruct the driver to take me to ___________ Lane, a narrow alley of half-hidden doorways, barred casements and entrances below ground level.

  I enter the familiar black door at the end of the block.

  There are no windows here, barred or otherwise, and the door itself could easily be missed as it blends so well with the walls. The door is unlocked, as I left it. Once inside, in the pitch blackness of the small hallway, I use my iron key to turn the metal tongue into place, securing the interior from unwanted intrusions.

  Another advantage of Dr. Jekyll's pallatives is a keen sense of sight. I can see as well in the dark as I imagine a cat can. Quickly I find my way up the narrow stone steps, four floors, and at last reach the laboratory.

  This theater where so many good works have been performed to aid mankind shall again be used for the benefit of a particular person who waits impatiently splayed across the dissection table, her cunny no doubt hot and throbbing in anticipation of my entrance.

  The medical theater itself, part of the laboratory, is in a pit, as it were, and I gaze down on Marie's hour glass form, so anxiously awaiting my arrival. Her long dark hair has been loosened and is strewn across her shoulders. Evidently she has not heard me enter; in addition to possessing the vision of a feline I also possess its stealth.

  I light a fat beeswax candle. The illumination is minimal. Her eyes must be closed because her head does not turn. As I near that oh-so-voluptuous form, her slim back and waist, her plump ass cheeks so relaxed, propped high by the leather cushion affixed to the center of the table, the crack between those cheeks leads my eyes to such a succulent mound that I cannot contain myself. I raise the candle several feet above her fleshy bottom and tilt my arm. Hot wax dribbles across those round little cheeks. They tense immediately. She howls, thrusting that bottom higher into the air as if begging for more. I can do nothing but comply with my lady's unspoken request. More hot wax drips down onto her creamy skin. She struggles against her self-inflicted bonds, flailing about, moaning in painful ecstasy, her one free hand making no effort whatsoever to free her other bound one.

  Once more with the wax and then I've had my fill of that game. I move to the center of the table and remove my black leather gloves. Under my great coat I wear an entire suit of leather, but not a suit easily recognizable by the fashion standards of the day. My pants are snug, the type worn in France, which permits all who care to look the opportunity to assess the size of my attributes. At the moment the crotch of those same pants bulges. I also wear a vest made of leather but no shirt beneath it.

  My sweet Marie watches me hang up my outer garments and unlock the cabinet at the head of the table. Her eyes are a blend of dread and anticipation, but mixed in as well is a not-so-subtle undertone that bespeaks her expectation of disappointment. I intend to annihilate that expectation.

  Within the cabinet hangs an array of the tools of my trade, a trade of which, again, the serious Henry Jekyll does not approve. But Dr. Jekyll is not here tonight. I am.

  "Now Marie," I say sternly, "you were instructed to call me Master Hyde and deliberately disobeyed. For that you shall, of course, be punished, although I justify my actions to no one. Do you see the need for punishment?"

  "Oh yes!" she replies rather too quickly.

  "Yes what?"

  "Yes, Master." Again, far too fast for my liking.

  "Master what?"

  "Yes, Master Hyde." She is smiling, her eyes glowing, taunting. This one begs a great deal of correction.

  I step up to the dissection table and use a sharp scalpel to peel the circles of wax from her trembling bottom. Beneath are round pink markings, spotting her like a leopard.

  "Tell me, Marie, have you been whipped before?"

  "Yes, often." A pause. "Master Hyde."

  "I take it this is your preferred form of discipline?"

  "It is, Master Hyde."

  "And what of your preferred implement?"

  "The cat, Master Hyde. Applied firmly and evenly."

  Firmly and evenly. And with no surprises. Would that there were a woman in all of London who had not drunk so long and hard at the tannery that something might come as a surprise. Even an inspiration. But what I seek is a virgin, I suppose, one who has neither tasted leather nor become immune to its subtle merits. I sigh deeply. In my own way I am becoming as jaded as Jekyll is naive of the darker persuasions.

  "Perhaps that odd thing dangling from your belt," she suggests, staring at the braided leather.

  "Ah, the martinet. A whip developed by the French military disciplinarian General Jean Martinet during the seventeenth century."

  She appears bored by this simply history. I run my hand down the whip, which resembles a plaited two foot bullwhip, made entirely of one piece of leather, dyed black. The fine hyde is knotted at the top and narrows at the bottom to a harsh hardened tail. This whip is an antique, purchased by me, against Jekyll's wishes, when we visited France. The leather has been well cared for over the years and I have continued the custom of oiling it regularly. It is a rare implement, to be employed on willing and uncommon flesh only. A virgin whip on virgin flesh. This hide lying before me will not do.

  I return to my tool closet and pass over the six-tailed cat and instead remove the flogger with nine. The split leather whip is one of the shortest I possess and easily wielded. Sweet Marie's sweet bottom which no doubt has sung a thousand tunes to such accompaniments will this night sing a chorus in nine parts. I make doubly certain of that by applying the Oriental salve first to her waiting flesh.

  "That's Mr. Maw's blend," she says knowingly, sucking in air as the thick cream causes her cheeks to prickle and itch. The gluteus maximus tenses. The skin takes on a pink glow and tiny bumps rise on the surface.

  No surprises for this woman who has tasted all. Well, perhaps this night will inspire a different tune, once my nine tails have set the tempo.

  "I'm going to whip you, Marie, and when I am finished you will thank me."

  Marie smiles at me again, then says in a bored tone, "As it pleases you, my lord." Her manner does not please me at all.

  I swing the cat and bring it down hard. The whip swishes through the air and a fraction of a second later each of the nine tails strikes the skin of her right cheek, leaving a flurry of short pink lines. She barely flinches. I give her a taste of the whip again, this time on the left. Nothing. I know now that I deal with skin as thick as the hide I wear on the soles o
f my boots, as invulnerable. Almost to confirm this, Marie turns and glares at me with a look of disdain which says that the rumors about me were clearly fabrications. A normal man would whither beneath such a glance. But I am Hyde, and if I cannot bring this woman to fulfillment, I may as well live a watered-down life like that of my nemesis Henry Jekyll.

  Thinking of Jekyll inspires me. I whip her bottom with the cat, laying it on again and again as I would onto Jekyll's constipated ass, were I so lucky as to be able to whip it thusly. Thin red lines begin to cross the milky skin. Marie squirms a bit but barely flinches. I flail her until the red turns scarlet and little ridges form along the lines. Now that my energy has renewed, I am in full swing, as it were, flogging joyfully and energetically, at an inhuman speed, my cock nudging the leather constraining it.

  Marie has gone from a whimper to a full cry and yet I feel she is nowhere near that edge which women crave so. I pause to slip my fingers inside her. The inner flesh of her cunt is moist and warm but not what it should be. Her bottom hole is tight and dry. She is like a fowl partly cook, and one must not consume such a bird until it is well roasted. I am more determined than ever to bring her to a proper temperature.

  With renewed vigor, I hop upon the table. The cat now takes on a new role and sweet little Marie does, in fact, begin a new song, one I sense she has not sung previously. I use the nine tales to lick the opening between her legs. With her bottom raised so prettily, that moist delicate area is exposed for a good licking and I do not disappoint her. I hear the sounds she utters shifting. Marie is surprised. Her tone alternates between agony, surprise and a deliciously erotic moan. "Yes, Master Hyde!" she cries, and I realize I have found a way to heat her to a rolling boil.