The Inferno Club, Part 3
Dec. 22nd, 2015 05:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swissmargWhen I returned, Holmes had dropped into his chair, where he plucked disconsolately at his violin and stared absently into the cheerful fire crackling in the grate. Without saying a word, I proceeded to lay my offerings out on the desk: six clamp forceps, a bag of spring-hinged clothes-pegs, and a thick white candle. Holmes had turned his head to watch me over the back of his chair, but I kept my eyes steadfastly on my cache, adjusting the position of each piece until they were all lined up in a perfectly straight row. I did not want to give away a bias or hint at a preference by placing one more prominently than another. My heart raced as I imagined the uses we might make of the various instruments.
Still avoiding any direct acknowledgment of Holmes, I went to the cabinet he had opened the night of our visit to the Inferno Club. I did not know what had happened to the collar after we left the club. Holmes had removed it from my neck while we were still in the seclusion of the quiet room Kitty Winter had led us to. I should have been glad to be rid of the thing, but it was not the joyous release I expected. Instead, it was a wistful sort of letting go, like laying down a trusty pistol when the fight was over, or leaving a good horse in its stable for the night after a long, hard ride. I understood that the collar's purpose had been served, and I did not desire to wear it openly around town. Yet I had already looked foward to the next time I might be allowed to wear it. Or hoped, rather, that there would be another opportunity.
I was about to see whether tonight was that opportunity.
The box which had originally contained it was in its place, but when I opened it, the collar was not there. I stirred the bracelets, spectacles, and other trinkets around in case it had slipped to the bottom, but I could not find it. It did not really matter, but it would have made certain explanations superfluous. Resigned to having to resort to a verbal opening gambit, I replaced the box and was about to close the cabinet when Holmes' voice came from behind me.
"The blue bag." His back was turned once again, but there was an air of alertness about him that had my own senses pricking up. "It's in the blue velvet bag," he repeated.
I swallowed over a dry throat. I supposed I should not be surprised that he would already have deduced what I was up to. My nervousness, which up to now had been confined to a few butterflies in my stomach, erupted in a prickle of sweat under my arms and a flush which I felt creeping up my ears.
I looked inside the cabinet again. The bag was soon found, with the black collar inside. I was about to attempt putting it on myself with trembling fingers when I recalled that Holmes had asked me both to put it on and take it off for him the first time, and that he had put it on and taken it off me as well. That might simply have been practical, but I considered that there might also be a more profound purpose.
I brought the collar to Holmes and stood before his chair, holding both hands before me with the collar draped across them.
He lifted his bright eyes to mine, glittering in the light of the fire that burned in the hearth at his feet. He still bore the traces of the violent encounter which had been intended to put a final end to his dealings with Baron Gruner: his cheek a livid purple, his ear stitched and scabbed, his lip still puffed up where his own tooth had pierced it. His body had been spared larger insult both by his thick overcoat and the fact that his cowardly attackers had focused the brunt of their efforts on his formidable skull. In itself that pattern was a sure signal that their intent had been murderous rather than warning in nature. It was only due to Holmes' prodigious skill with his fists and stick that he was sitting before me, battered but alive, rather than moldering with the rest of Gruner's victims.
My heart ached with the realization of the suddenness with which everything I held dear might be taken from me. Mary had withered slowly, but we had had time to mourn together. In life, she had been a steady, warm flame whereas Holmes was a flare, a flash of magnesium burning so bright it could blind, yet I could not look away. It was likely his end, when it came, would be as spectacular as his life. I knew that that I could not waste any more moments on thoughts of propriety, concerns of custom, or points of pride. Carpe diem, Horace had said. I hoped that now I had stretched forth my hand to do so, there would be another hand there to hold me fast.
Holmes rose slowly, leaving the violin to lie forgotten on his chair. His eyes never wavered from mine as he took the collar from me and wrapped it carefully around my neck, settling the buckle comfortably in the back as he had before. The scent and texture of the leather had a Pavlovian effect on me, and I could feel my blood shifting in my body in anticipation of what was to come. He caressed the collar the way he had my bandage, gently rubbing his thumb along the edge.
"I'm afraid I have little practice with this, Watson," he said. His voice was low and warm, but with an undercurrent of shyness that was most uncharacteristic. "The small amount I believe to know comes from some esoteric texts and scant few conversations with old practitioners."
"Shinwell Johnson?" I asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
"Does it matter? It is not he who stands before you now, but I."
I wanted to answer yes. I did not want that rogue to have any part of this. At the same time, I recognized that was an illogical, emotional response. The other alpha had never done anything wrong nor even really been unkind. In fact, he had kept his every word and - I strongly suspected - acted in coordination with Holmes all along. I had bristled at what I perceived to be an encroachment on my territory, although I had no claim to any territory at all. The source of Holmes' information was, in the end, immaterial. The only thing that mattered was what he did with it, and I had every confidence he would do some very good things.
"No. No, you are right, as always. Where you lead, I will follow," I vowed steadfastly, meaning it with all my heart.
Holmes closed his eyes, the line between his brows betraying the difficulty that statement posed for him. When he finally opened his eyes again and spoke, it was with a voice that was rough with emotion. "Watson, that you will let me do this for you."
I laid my hand over his against my neck. "No, not for me; for both of us. You can wear this if you would rather, I simply did not know another way to offer than ..."
He smiled faintly. "We will see. We have started off like this, and it has been successful thus far. Now ..." Here he lowered his hand, and his somber demeanor was replaced by something much more like his usual cavalier confidence. "Show me what booty you have returned with from your voyages."
I accompanied him to the desk, where he inspected the things I had laid out. He touched his finger to the forceps and plucked one of the clothes-pegs out of the bag to test its spring. The candle was subjected to a more thorough examination, being sniffed and scraped, and finally tasted.
"Paraffin," he concluded after not too many seconds.
"I have been assured it melts at the lowest possible temperature and should be quite safe."
"I should like to test the others on myself first before using them on you, but for tonight I believe this should do," he said, curling his hand around the candle.
The suggestion of a future encounter before this one had even begun was enough to put a broad smile on my face, and I clapped him on the shoulder, feeling rather puffed up and not quite sure what to do next.
Luckily, Holmes was not so useless. He quickly mapped out the next few steps. The first one saw me running down to Mrs. Hudson, although not before tying a cravat over the collar to avoid any untoward questions. Of his landlady, I begged use of a large piece of American cloth with the excuse that Holmes was embarking on an experiment involving liquid wax, and did not wish to damage her floors. I further explained that she need not worry about any noises that might come from upstairs, and that we would not be requiring anything further that night. This all had the advantage of being more or less true, and if she was suspicious that Holmes should suddenly have become solicitous of her property after years of carelessly abusing it, she did not let on. The only small lie concerned the floor, as it was actually the bedsheets we wished to spare. However, it would have been a great deal more difficult to explain why the experiment needed to take place in Holmes' bed.
I met Holmes in his room, where he had already stripped the bed and removed his dressing gown and shirt in order to minimize any chance of flammable materials coming close to the flame. He had turned the lamp down as well, for atmospheric reasons rather than practical ones, I presumed. This left the room dim and shadowy, but well enough illuminated that we should not be concerned about accidentally knocking anything over.
I spread the impregnated cloth on the mattress and started to dispose of my own top layers. Holmes was at his dresser, poking around the bottles and tins he kept scattered across its surface.
"What are you doing?" I asked, more to fill the silence than because I had any suspicions.
"I am applying some of my special blend. I dare say it will make this all more pleasant for you," he answered rather quickly, holding up a flask with a vaporizer attached.
I was at his side in a trice, prising the bottle from his fingers. "Have I not made it clear I hate the stuff? Holmes, all of this..." I set the perfume down and tried to calm my breaths. It defied all logic and sense that he still had not understood. I took his hand in both of mine, but he only let it lie limply in my grasp, as if he were not certain whether to withdraw. I continued, once I was sure of what I wanted to say: "This does not spring from some vulgar desire of a lonely relict and widower. I do not want an omega to quench my thirsts. It is you. Only you." His hand twitched in mine. I pressed it firmly, and he now returned the gesture, clenching my fingers as in a vise.
"I am an alpha," he stated, as if to make sure I understood the term.
I chuckled. "As am I, and you do not appear unduly troubled by it."
"Quite the contrary." His answering smile was endearingly delighted, and I could not help my face broadening to reflect his.
"My sentiments precisely," I agreed, and we proceeded with our preparations with carefree hearts.
Once we had all of the equipment at hand, a pitcher of water at the ready, I lay down on the bed. Holmes bade me lie on my back, both because he deemed it would be an easier position for me to hold steady for many minutes, and because he wanted - needed, he said - to see my face.
"Magnificent," he murmured, taking in my weathered and well-used body. He sat beside me, shirtless and glorious, and ran his hands lightly over my shoulders and chest, eliciting goose pimples and a shiver that went much deeper than the surface.
I wanted to touch him too, to catch his hands and kiss them, span my hand around the thigh that bulged beside my hip, but I did not know if that was part of this game, if I was allowed to act or only to be acted upon. And so I did nothing, but endeavored to demonstrate through my body, eyes, and voice how I treasured his attentions.
"You are quite healed then?" he inquired, lifting my arm gently to check the skin underneath. It had been a week since our visit to the Inferno Club, which was more than sufficient time for the superficial scratches to disappear.
"I am a blank slate for you to paint once again," I quipped. I meant it half in jest and half in earnest. I did not expect to be left with any bruises or scrapes to hoard this time, but perhaps something of this night would remain imprinted on me in some way. My words seemed to resound with him as well, for his eyes turned dark and hungry, and his fingers traced mindless patterns on my skin, as if sketching out his masterpiece.
Once he had looked his fill and assured himself that his palette was whole and unbroken, he lit the candle. Together we watched the yellow flame spring to life in the dusky space, casting eerie shadows in the far corners but bathing the two of us in a little sphere of quiet intimacy. The soft wax began to glisten and shimmer as it fell victim to the heat. The candle was broad enough that its top served as a basin in which the wax gathered in a clear pool.
The first virgin drops he tested on the inside of his own arm before bending over my chest and carefully dribbling a thin stream of melted paraffin onto my sternum. The flash of heat was bright and instant, but did not last long.
"How is it?" Holmes asked, his gaze sweeping over my face, no doubt seeking any hint of undue discomfort or displeasure.
"Wondrous," I assured him, my breath quickening under the pool of rapidly cooling wax.
Satisfied, he began decorating my body in earnest. It seemed he took my initial quip to heart, for he labored as an artist at an easel, his mien a study in concentration as he considered where to place each stroke. Although I had eyes for none else but him, I could not anticipate where the next lash of heat would hit. Now my shoulder, now my stomach. A line drawn across my throat just above the collar, which had me gasping. I knew there was no danger, that the small amount of wax he deposited in each place was neither hot nor concentrated enough to burn my skin, yet my body fought to flinch away from every drop.
It was a different game than we had played with the chestnuts, yet at its most basic the same: it demanded the utmost in concentration and control from both of us, I on the physical plane and he on the mental. The pain was a constant flash point, both trial and tantalus. Like the sun, it was the thing which made me flinch and look away, yet drew me inexorably toward it in search of life and comfort. It was not a goal in itself, though. It was the path and gate which led me to the pleasure gardens of Xanadu, a place I could not nor did I want to wander alone but only in the company of my guide and captain. And it was my fondest hope that he find an equal amount of fulfillment there as I.
To judge by the enthusiasm which he devoted to his task, it looked as if he were enjoying the journey, at least.
He worked for several minutes in silence even as I became more frequently vocal, hissing and panting my responses to his ministrations. He sometimes paused for quite some time to allow a goodly amount of wax to gather in the concave top of the candle. This might then be spilled in a single splash on my stomach that seared like a direct hit from a geyser of lava, or distributed in several smaller doses describing a molten figure across my pectoral. The barrage on my senses became almost overwhelming, and I lost all sense of time and proportion.
Finally, in a moment of clarity, I discerned a pattern: he was concentrating his efforts on my upper chest, uninjured shoulder, and stomach, with occasional detours along my arms. He avoided altogether the shoulder through which the Jezail bullet had passed, as well as my nipples. I presumed he was trying to spare me undue pain, or was perhaps honestly fearful that the wax was too hot for the sensitive tissue. I did not think it would be, and I was curious in any case to find out how it would feel. I was wracking my fuzzy brain for the words to express my desire when Holmes' voice sounded close to me.
"Watson, look at me if you please."
I opened my eyes, unaware that they had fallen shut. Holmes hovered over me, the candle burnt down close to his hand. His mouth was parted slightly, his eyes alight with the flame of the candle flickering in them. I recognized the same expression of anticipation he had at the Inferno Club just before I called off the event. This time, I was not going to stop him, no matter what might happen.
He held the candle very close to my body and, as if he had divined my thoughts, slowly let several drops fall directly onto my nipple, his eyes flicking back and forth from my chest to my face. It felt as if a line of fire ran straight from there to the base of my prick. I could not hold back the guttural sound which burst forth from my throat.
Holmes smeared the still-soft wax around the nub, checking my reaction as he did.
"More," I said, clenching my jaw.
He complied. Again, the drops hit my nipple, encasing it in liquid heat. Again, that heat ran down some internal canal and landed in my rapidly inflating prick. Again, Holmes spread the wax liberally around the area to hasten its cooling. As it hardened, it pulled the skin tight, adding a new dimension of sensation to my already buzzing nerves.
I nodded. "More."
"Extraordinary," Holmes whispered, and dropped yet more hot wax on top of my throbbing nipple. This, too, was followed by a thorough massage that included an amount of squeezing and pinching which was quite unnecessary for the promotion of cooling.
Another growl escaped me. My entire body was taut, my fists clenched and my thighs hard as I struggled to neither squirm away nor lay hold of Holmes and pull him down to me.
"Holmes, please," I pleaded, not knowing what to ask for. I wanted him to continue, yet I wanted something else, too, something more.
"Is it enough?" He was teasing, but there was an intensity to his words that betrayed his own desire to push past the point we had reached last time. "Has your interest exceeded what you are comfortable displaying?" he parroted my own words back to me, scraping the wax off my nipple with his fingernails, only to coat it again once it was freed.
"Damn you," I growled, by which I meant: more!
He smirked and proceeded to attend to my other nipple in a similar manner. I was in an agony of ecstasy, my chest screaming for respite even as my prick demanded to be included.
"It's too bad I didn't choose the forceps," Holmes mused after the third or fourth dose of hot wax on that side. "You respond so prettily to being pinched." The last word was punctuated by a sharp twist between his thumb and forefinger.
The thought of him applying the surgical instruments to my tender chest provoked a carnal urge of such vehemence that my prick began to leak inside my drawers.
"They're still there," I reminded him, looking toward the door leading out to the sitting room and not caring how desperate or wanton I appeared.
"Another time," he said. I still had my head turned when he poured wax onto the first nipple again. I was not expecting it, and the sudden renewed shock on my cooled flesh made me cry out.
He tipped the candle again to direct a dollop right into the hollow of my navel. It felt as if the little tongue of heat were worming its way straight into my gut, spreading the warmth even further south until it would have been pointless to deny that I was rampant.
I boldly ventured to look at Holmes' lap. The tentpole in his trousers was testimony enough.
"Watson..." There was a warning in his voice but desire as well. A warning against the dangers of such uncharted waters. A desire to explore new territories together. A caution against this new course, which led us afoul of the law. A longing for consummation of what was long confirmed.
There was but one possible reply: "Yes. Yes." A thousand times yes! I reached for my flies, pausing to see if he would stop me, but he did not.
"Go on," he said, his eyes wide and his chest rising and falling with his heavy breaths.
I quickly opened the placket and freed my cockstand. It throbbed and bounced in time with the pulsing in my veins. My only desire was one simple word: "More."
Holmes closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, giving up all pretense of remaining detached. He set the candle down on the small table beside the bed and twisted his body so that he could rest his elbows on either side of my head and scent me. His nose probed behind my ear, down my neck where he nudged and mouthed at the collar, and back up again, his hot breath sending shivers of need through my body. I could no longer restrain myself, and flung my arms around him, causing the hardened wax on my body to crack and fall in a rain of pellets onto the stiff cloth beneath me.
I murmured his name over and over, burrowing my nose into his hair and neck where I greedily sucked up the fragrant aroma of his musk. It was pure alpha, thick and dark, yet I marveled at how good and right he smelled, how perfectly suited his lean, alpha body was for my arms, how beautiful he was covered in sweat, half undressed, his hair falling into his eyes as he fairly rutted on top of me.
When my nose, my lungs, my very being were saturated in his essence, he finally, finally lifted his head to cover my mouth with his. The taste of him was ambrosia, the scent in my nostrils from his most intimate places become liquid and sweet, and I eagerly lapped and sucked at his mouth, his neck, wherever I could reach. The scent gland at the base of his neck was swollen and hot, ripe for a bond, but even through the heady cloud of lust that had overcome me, I knew I must not bite. There were no well documented cases of alpha-alpha bites resulting in a true bond, and many that ended with lymphatic poisoning. There was too great a risk, and in any event it was not something I would do without leave.
He was equally fascinated by my bonding ridge, sucking and licking at it as if he could draw its serum out through my skin. I thrilled in the sensation and laid my hand across the back of his head to press him more firmly against me, the other arm wrapped around his ribs in an iron grip. I half feared, half hoped to feel the pinch of his teeth but he was as circumspect as I, contenting himself with worrying at the skin until I knew I would sport a magnificent purple bruise for the next few days.
After that it was my mouth which again captured his attention, and I eagerly returned his interest, becoming bolder in my vocal approval and encouragement. This appeared to please him greatly, and he tangled his fingers in my hair to hold my head in place that he might drink his fill of the murmurs I exhaled into his waiting mouth. His alpha member was like a rod of iron across my groin, my own crushed against his hip bone as he ground into me. He slid one hand between our chests to abrade my nipple with the hard-edged bits of dried wax that clung there, rolling them around and digging them in, sending electric jolts through my chest and into my gut to amplify the pulsating beat in my loins.
His movements became more frantic and uncontrolled, his voice repeating my name interspersed with unwarranted praises ever more ragged. If I did nothing more, the dramatic conclusion of our interlude was mere moments away. Yet there was one more thing I shyly hoped that he would grant me.
"The candle," I said when he relinquished my lips for a moment to take a breath. "Use the candle on me again."
Holmes raised his head, and I dare say it was the first time I ever witnessed those clear grey eyes with a veil cast over them. He was one step removed, whether lost in his head or perhaps in his body I did not know, but it took a moment before he blinked and his wits returned to him. My heart beat strong and proud in that moment, and I vowed I would return him to this state as soon and often as practically feasible.
I glanced down and lifted my hips against his to make my meaning clear: I wanted the hot wax there, on my most tender and intimate part. I wanted to know that searing sting, to surmount that Everest of agony, and I believed Holmes would not need much persuasion to inflict the treatment.
I was correct in my surmise. "You are more devious than I imagined," he replied, his voice soft and edged with dark approval. He pressed one more deep kiss into the skin beneath my jaw before lifting himself to retrieve the candle. He tipped the excess over-heated paraffin that had accumulated into the candle saucer, then settled again on the bed beside me, on his knees this time and pressed hard against my hip.
He took a moment to survey the wreck he had made of me. The skin of my chest and stomach was red and patchy, scattered with the broken traces of our activity. Crumbs of wax hung tangled in the hairs on my chest and under my arms, where some stray rivulets had run down. My hair was untamed and ruffled from his hands and my own thrashings. Careful as Holmes had been in attaching it, the collar nevertheless had chafed and rubbed, and my neck felt hot and swollen. And there was my weeping cockstand, purpled and bulging, the ridged knot at the base already beginning to swell. It would not reach its full dimensions without contact with an omega's channel - my experiences with my beta spouse had taught me that - but that did not mean it was tame or unreactive.
We watched together as he tipped the candle, spilling a stream of liquid wax onto my sack. My mouth fell open in a silent scream and I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing my hips to remain still lest I jostle Holmes and cause him to drop the candle. The ache was deep and long, and I thought perhaps we had found my limit. But then came Holmes' voice, forming words like "astounding", "brave", "magnificent". I opened my eyes to find his gaze locked on my face and knew I would go beyond any limit to replicate the expression I beheld there.
"More," I whispered.
His reply was an echo of my name, followed by the demanded portion. This time, however, the searing pain was succeeded by a cooling touch, spreading the paraffin into a thin layer that rapidly dissipated the heat. The technique had the additional excellent advantage of placing Holmes' fingers on my balls. Another round of wax was followed by another touch, this time just brushing the ring of my knot.
"Yes, that, more!" I was beyond decency.
Holmes did not mind. He became more bold with his strokes, travelling up my length and wrapping his waxy fingers around me, squeezing and jerking until I had to beg him to leave off.
From there he established a relentless routine. Each application of the flaming liquid was followed by a stroke or three, the torture prolonging the pleasure, following the same pattern as the pair with the violet ray had practiced at the club.
But whereas the omega then had counted out his sentence until his release, I did not. I could not. The rapid back-and-forth between agony and ecstasy, the stinging assaults trading off with the rough caresses, sent me into a tailspin of sensation that had me quite insensate. I felt the approach of the incumbent climax like an ocean swell, implacable and unyielding. I babbled something, perhaps a warning or a plea.
"Watson, yes," came the breathless reply, the hand on my prick unrelenting.
I gave up all resistance at his word, and my release came bursting forth, splattering my stomach with the thick gush of my seed. The first wave was followed by a second and a third, and then Holmes was upon me as if my scent were water and he a desert nomad. His kisses were barely more than frantic nips and panted gasps. He crouched over me, scrabbling at his trousers until he was able to get his hand inside.
"Holmes, let me, please," I begged, putting my hands on his hips, but he was too far gone to respond or perhaps even understand what I offered. Rather than force the matter or interrupt his progress, I settled for touching him wherever else I could: his face, his back, his chest. I deposited kisses of encouragement and praise on his head, words of gratitude and approbation on his ears as he worked his fist furiously inside his trousers.
Finally he lifted his massive cockstand out of his drawers and, with a deep groan, spilled over my stomach, splashing out a white rain that seemed as hot as the wax had been on my overstimulated skin.
We did not exchange many more words that night. They were not necessary. We had said what was in our hearts through our bodies and deeds. We cleaned up as well as we could with the basin and pitcher in Holmes' room, remade the bed, and lay together until shortly before dawn, when I reluctantly retreated to my room upstairs before the maid came in to stoke the fire.
~~.~~.~~
The rest of the tale occurred very much as outlined in print. When we discovered that Baron Gruner was planning to leave the country, I was sent in to distract him with a ruse while Holmes and Kitty Winter filched the damning book.
The Baron was as pleasing to behold and cunning to deal with as his reputation proclaimed. That scent and demeanor which made him irresistible to omegas I found merely foul and repulsive. I was meant to play a fawning collector of Chinese pottery, but I was so angered by the memory of what he had done to Miss Winter and the lurid secret of what happened to his wife, that I made an utter hash of my part. He saw through me right away, of course, although I believe that would have held true no matter how artful my deception. His was indeed a mind for the ages, like Moriarty, and like the same, it was his overzealous faith in his own superiority, and the need to prove it, which led to his downfall. If Baron Gruner had been a little stupider or less bent on silencing his opponents, he would still have his sight today, and Kitty Winter would not be sitting in Brixton on charges of vitriol-throwing. She is satisfied with her sentence, though, and has told me she would sit a hundred times as long and more for one more chance to exact her revenge on the man who ruined her and countless other omegas.
Either way, the notorious diary was sufficient in the end to convince Violet de Merville to abandon her suitor. Baron Gruner's book was truly a malleus maleficarum. He kept a meticulous journal of all the tortures he had enacted on hapless omegas across the globe. I had but a brief glimpse of the compendium before Sir James arrived to retrieve the evidence and bring it to the Baron's fiancée, yet I am still haunted by the piteous men and women who adorned its pages. Their faces were contorted in pain, fear, and despair, whilst their bodies were subjected to the most horrific and sickening acts. In more than one image, the Baron's initials were visible carved, burnt, or etched into his victims' skin. I did not doubt that Kitty Winter bore similar marks somewhere on her maltreated body, unless they had been obliterated by the vehemence with which he had repeatedly enacted his treatments on her.
It was a caution to both Holmes and me of how tender emotions may be perverted, and I thought perhaps to see in it a clue to Holmes' reticence in the area where the emotional and the physical overlap. I do not believe he ever fell into the clutches of a monster the likes of Gruner: I have seen the glory of his unclothed form, and it does not bear the marks of any abuse other than that which he has inflicted on himself. But there are other kinds of cruelty that may leave scars of a different kind. Like their physical counterparts, they can never be removed, but they may be soothed and softened with a steady balm of kindness and tender attention. It is that which I strive to give my one true and honest friend, my life's companion, through the dedication of my body and my will to him, and his in turn to me.
We have continued to explore our mutual interest, with the Inferno Club and its members playing a not insignificant role as inspiration and reference, which is why I have agreed to pen this account. It is my hope that through it, more seekers and questioners will find the courage to rattle their own cage and open their eyes, hearts and minds to themselves and others.
Still, when all is said and done, Holmes and I prefer the privacy of our own rooms, shut away from the world and out of the reach of its staid strictures. The challenge is always part of it, the edge of danger dancing with us, but equally so the affirmation of our connection, the acceptance of those parts of us we may have difficulty understanding ourselves, and which the world rejects utterly. Here, between us, in our touches and shared breaths, in our pinches and cries, our bites and slaps and kisses, there is no cruelty or selfishness, but only love and devotion. For then, for now, and for always.
FIN
Still avoiding any direct acknowledgment of Holmes, I went to the cabinet he had opened the night of our visit to the Inferno Club. I did not know what had happened to the collar after we left the club. Holmes had removed it from my neck while we were still in the seclusion of the quiet room Kitty Winter had led us to. I should have been glad to be rid of the thing, but it was not the joyous release I expected. Instead, it was a wistful sort of letting go, like laying down a trusty pistol when the fight was over, or leaving a good horse in its stable for the night after a long, hard ride. I understood that the collar's purpose had been served, and I did not desire to wear it openly around town. Yet I had already looked foward to the next time I might be allowed to wear it. Or hoped, rather, that there would be another opportunity.
I was about to see whether tonight was that opportunity.
The box which had originally contained it was in its place, but when I opened it, the collar was not there. I stirred the bracelets, spectacles, and other trinkets around in case it had slipped to the bottom, but I could not find it. It did not really matter, but it would have made certain explanations superfluous. Resigned to having to resort to a verbal opening gambit, I replaced the box and was about to close the cabinet when Holmes' voice came from behind me.
"The blue bag." His back was turned once again, but there was an air of alertness about him that had my own senses pricking up. "It's in the blue velvet bag," he repeated.
I swallowed over a dry throat. I supposed I should not be surprised that he would already have deduced what I was up to. My nervousness, which up to now had been confined to a few butterflies in my stomach, erupted in a prickle of sweat under my arms and a flush which I felt creeping up my ears.
I looked inside the cabinet again. The bag was soon found, with the black collar inside. I was about to attempt putting it on myself with trembling fingers when I recalled that Holmes had asked me both to put it on and take it off for him the first time, and that he had put it on and taken it off me as well. That might simply have been practical, but I considered that there might also be a more profound purpose.
I brought the collar to Holmes and stood before his chair, holding both hands before me with the collar draped across them.
He lifted his bright eyes to mine, glittering in the light of the fire that burned in the hearth at his feet. He still bore the traces of the violent encounter which had been intended to put a final end to his dealings with Baron Gruner: his cheek a livid purple, his ear stitched and scabbed, his lip still puffed up where his own tooth had pierced it. His body had been spared larger insult both by his thick overcoat and the fact that his cowardly attackers had focused the brunt of their efforts on his formidable skull. In itself that pattern was a sure signal that their intent had been murderous rather than warning in nature. It was only due to Holmes' prodigious skill with his fists and stick that he was sitting before me, battered but alive, rather than moldering with the rest of Gruner's victims.
My heart ached with the realization of the suddenness with which everything I held dear might be taken from me. Mary had withered slowly, but we had had time to mourn together. In life, she had been a steady, warm flame whereas Holmes was a flare, a flash of magnesium burning so bright it could blind, yet I could not look away. It was likely his end, when it came, would be as spectacular as his life. I knew that that I could not waste any more moments on thoughts of propriety, concerns of custom, or points of pride. Carpe diem, Horace had said. I hoped that now I had stretched forth my hand to do so, there would be another hand there to hold me fast.
Holmes rose slowly, leaving the violin to lie forgotten on his chair. His eyes never wavered from mine as he took the collar from me and wrapped it carefully around my neck, settling the buckle comfortably in the back as he had before. The scent and texture of the leather had a Pavlovian effect on me, and I could feel my blood shifting in my body in anticipation of what was to come. He caressed the collar the way he had my bandage, gently rubbing his thumb along the edge.
"I'm afraid I have little practice with this, Watson," he said. His voice was low and warm, but with an undercurrent of shyness that was most uncharacteristic. "The small amount I believe to know comes from some esoteric texts and scant few conversations with old practitioners."
"Shinwell Johnson?" I asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
"Does it matter? It is not he who stands before you now, but I."
I wanted to answer yes. I did not want that rogue to have any part of this. At the same time, I recognized that was an illogical, emotional response. The other alpha had never done anything wrong nor even really been unkind. In fact, he had kept his every word and - I strongly suspected - acted in coordination with Holmes all along. I had bristled at what I perceived to be an encroachment on my territory, although I had no claim to any territory at all. The source of Holmes' information was, in the end, immaterial. The only thing that mattered was what he did with it, and I had every confidence he would do some very good things.
"No. No, you are right, as always. Where you lead, I will follow," I vowed steadfastly, meaning it with all my heart.
Holmes closed his eyes, the line between his brows betraying the difficulty that statement posed for him. When he finally opened his eyes again and spoke, it was with a voice that was rough with emotion. "Watson, that you will let me do this for you."
I laid my hand over his against my neck. "No, not for me; for both of us. You can wear this if you would rather, I simply did not know another way to offer than ..."
He smiled faintly. "We will see. We have started off like this, and it has been successful thus far. Now ..." Here he lowered his hand, and his somber demeanor was replaced by something much more like his usual cavalier confidence. "Show me what booty you have returned with from your voyages."
I accompanied him to the desk, where he inspected the things I had laid out. He touched his finger to the forceps and plucked one of the clothes-pegs out of the bag to test its spring. The candle was subjected to a more thorough examination, being sniffed and scraped, and finally tasted.
"Paraffin," he concluded after not too many seconds.
"I have been assured it melts at the lowest possible temperature and should be quite safe."
"I should like to test the others on myself first before using them on you, but for tonight I believe this should do," he said, curling his hand around the candle.
The suggestion of a future encounter before this one had even begun was enough to put a broad smile on my face, and I clapped him on the shoulder, feeling rather puffed up and not quite sure what to do next.
Luckily, Holmes was not so useless. He quickly mapped out the next few steps. The first one saw me running down to Mrs. Hudson, although not before tying a cravat over the collar to avoid any untoward questions. Of his landlady, I begged use of a large piece of American cloth with the excuse that Holmes was embarking on an experiment involving liquid wax, and did not wish to damage her floors. I further explained that she need not worry about any noises that might come from upstairs, and that we would not be requiring anything further that night. This all had the advantage of being more or less true, and if she was suspicious that Holmes should suddenly have become solicitous of her property after years of carelessly abusing it, she did not let on. The only small lie concerned the floor, as it was actually the bedsheets we wished to spare. However, it would have been a great deal more difficult to explain why the experiment needed to take place in Holmes' bed.
I met Holmes in his room, where he had already stripped the bed and removed his dressing gown and shirt in order to minimize any chance of flammable materials coming close to the flame. He had turned the lamp down as well, for atmospheric reasons rather than practical ones, I presumed. This left the room dim and shadowy, but well enough illuminated that we should not be concerned about accidentally knocking anything over.
I spread the impregnated cloth on the mattress and started to dispose of my own top layers. Holmes was at his dresser, poking around the bottles and tins he kept scattered across its surface.
"What are you doing?" I asked, more to fill the silence than because I had any suspicions.
"I am applying some of my special blend. I dare say it will make this all more pleasant for you," he answered rather quickly, holding up a flask with a vaporizer attached.
I was at his side in a trice, prising the bottle from his fingers. "Have I not made it clear I hate the stuff? Holmes, all of this..." I set the perfume down and tried to calm my breaths. It defied all logic and sense that he still had not understood. I took his hand in both of mine, but he only let it lie limply in my grasp, as if he were not certain whether to withdraw. I continued, once I was sure of what I wanted to say: "This does not spring from some vulgar desire of a lonely relict and widower. I do not want an omega to quench my thirsts. It is you. Only you." His hand twitched in mine. I pressed it firmly, and he now returned the gesture, clenching my fingers as in a vise.
"I am an alpha," he stated, as if to make sure I understood the term.
I chuckled. "As am I, and you do not appear unduly troubled by it."
"Quite the contrary." His answering smile was endearingly delighted, and I could not help my face broadening to reflect his.
"My sentiments precisely," I agreed, and we proceeded with our preparations with carefree hearts.
Once we had all of the equipment at hand, a pitcher of water at the ready, I lay down on the bed. Holmes bade me lie on my back, both because he deemed it would be an easier position for me to hold steady for many minutes, and because he wanted - needed, he said - to see my face.
"Magnificent," he murmured, taking in my weathered and well-used body. He sat beside me, shirtless and glorious, and ran his hands lightly over my shoulders and chest, eliciting goose pimples and a shiver that went much deeper than the surface.
I wanted to touch him too, to catch his hands and kiss them, span my hand around the thigh that bulged beside my hip, but I did not know if that was part of this game, if I was allowed to act or only to be acted upon. And so I did nothing, but endeavored to demonstrate through my body, eyes, and voice how I treasured his attentions.
"You are quite healed then?" he inquired, lifting my arm gently to check the skin underneath. It had been a week since our visit to the Inferno Club, which was more than sufficient time for the superficial scratches to disappear.
"I am a blank slate for you to paint once again," I quipped. I meant it half in jest and half in earnest. I did not expect to be left with any bruises or scrapes to hoard this time, but perhaps something of this night would remain imprinted on me in some way. My words seemed to resound with him as well, for his eyes turned dark and hungry, and his fingers traced mindless patterns on my skin, as if sketching out his masterpiece.
Once he had looked his fill and assured himself that his palette was whole and unbroken, he lit the candle. Together we watched the yellow flame spring to life in the dusky space, casting eerie shadows in the far corners but bathing the two of us in a little sphere of quiet intimacy. The soft wax began to glisten and shimmer as it fell victim to the heat. The candle was broad enough that its top served as a basin in which the wax gathered in a clear pool.
The first virgin drops he tested on the inside of his own arm before bending over my chest and carefully dribbling a thin stream of melted paraffin onto my sternum. The flash of heat was bright and instant, but did not last long.
"How is it?" Holmes asked, his gaze sweeping over my face, no doubt seeking any hint of undue discomfort or displeasure.
"Wondrous," I assured him, my breath quickening under the pool of rapidly cooling wax.
Satisfied, he began decorating my body in earnest. It seemed he took my initial quip to heart, for he labored as an artist at an easel, his mien a study in concentration as he considered where to place each stroke. Although I had eyes for none else but him, I could not anticipate where the next lash of heat would hit. Now my shoulder, now my stomach. A line drawn across my throat just above the collar, which had me gasping. I knew there was no danger, that the small amount of wax he deposited in each place was neither hot nor concentrated enough to burn my skin, yet my body fought to flinch away from every drop.
It was a different game than we had played with the chestnuts, yet at its most basic the same: it demanded the utmost in concentration and control from both of us, I on the physical plane and he on the mental. The pain was a constant flash point, both trial and tantalus. Like the sun, it was the thing which made me flinch and look away, yet drew me inexorably toward it in search of life and comfort. It was not a goal in itself, though. It was the path and gate which led me to the pleasure gardens of Xanadu, a place I could not nor did I want to wander alone but only in the company of my guide and captain. And it was my fondest hope that he find an equal amount of fulfillment there as I.
To judge by the enthusiasm which he devoted to his task, it looked as if he were enjoying the journey, at least.
He worked for several minutes in silence even as I became more frequently vocal, hissing and panting my responses to his ministrations. He sometimes paused for quite some time to allow a goodly amount of wax to gather in the concave top of the candle. This might then be spilled in a single splash on my stomach that seared like a direct hit from a geyser of lava, or distributed in several smaller doses describing a molten figure across my pectoral. The barrage on my senses became almost overwhelming, and I lost all sense of time and proportion.
Finally, in a moment of clarity, I discerned a pattern: he was concentrating his efforts on my upper chest, uninjured shoulder, and stomach, with occasional detours along my arms. He avoided altogether the shoulder through which the Jezail bullet had passed, as well as my nipples. I presumed he was trying to spare me undue pain, or was perhaps honestly fearful that the wax was too hot for the sensitive tissue. I did not think it would be, and I was curious in any case to find out how it would feel. I was wracking my fuzzy brain for the words to express my desire when Holmes' voice sounded close to me.
"Watson, look at me if you please."
I opened my eyes, unaware that they had fallen shut. Holmes hovered over me, the candle burnt down close to his hand. His mouth was parted slightly, his eyes alight with the flame of the candle flickering in them. I recognized the same expression of anticipation he had at the Inferno Club just before I called off the event. This time, I was not going to stop him, no matter what might happen.
He held the candle very close to my body and, as if he had divined my thoughts, slowly let several drops fall directly onto my nipple, his eyes flicking back and forth from my chest to my face. It felt as if a line of fire ran straight from there to the base of my prick. I could not hold back the guttural sound which burst forth from my throat.
Holmes smeared the still-soft wax around the nub, checking my reaction as he did.
"More," I said, clenching my jaw.
He complied. Again, the drops hit my nipple, encasing it in liquid heat. Again, that heat ran down some internal canal and landed in my rapidly inflating prick. Again, Holmes spread the wax liberally around the area to hasten its cooling. As it hardened, it pulled the skin tight, adding a new dimension of sensation to my already buzzing nerves.
I nodded. "More."
"Extraordinary," Holmes whispered, and dropped yet more hot wax on top of my throbbing nipple. This, too, was followed by a thorough massage that included an amount of squeezing and pinching which was quite unnecessary for the promotion of cooling.
Another growl escaped me. My entire body was taut, my fists clenched and my thighs hard as I struggled to neither squirm away nor lay hold of Holmes and pull him down to me.
"Holmes, please," I pleaded, not knowing what to ask for. I wanted him to continue, yet I wanted something else, too, something more.
"Is it enough?" He was teasing, but there was an intensity to his words that betrayed his own desire to push past the point we had reached last time. "Has your interest exceeded what you are comfortable displaying?" he parroted my own words back to me, scraping the wax off my nipple with his fingernails, only to coat it again once it was freed.
"Damn you," I growled, by which I meant: more!
He smirked and proceeded to attend to my other nipple in a similar manner. I was in an agony of ecstasy, my chest screaming for respite even as my prick demanded to be included.
"It's too bad I didn't choose the forceps," Holmes mused after the third or fourth dose of hot wax on that side. "You respond so prettily to being pinched." The last word was punctuated by a sharp twist between his thumb and forefinger.
The thought of him applying the surgical instruments to my tender chest provoked a carnal urge of such vehemence that my prick began to leak inside my drawers.
"They're still there," I reminded him, looking toward the door leading out to the sitting room and not caring how desperate or wanton I appeared.
"Another time," he said. I still had my head turned when he poured wax onto the first nipple again. I was not expecting it, and the sudden renewed shock on my cooled flesh made me cry out.
He tipped the candle again to direct a dollop right into the hollow of my navel. It felt as if the little tongue of heat were worming its way straight into my gut, spreading the warmth even further south until it would have been pointless to deny that I was rampant.
I boldly ventured to look at Holmes' lap. The tentpole in his trousers was testimony enough.
"Watson..." There was a warning in his voice but desire as well. A warning against the dangers of such uncharted waters. A desire to explore new territories together. A caution against this new course, which led us afoul of the law. A longing for consummation of what was long confirmed.
There was but one possible reply: "Yes. Yes." A thousand times yes! I reached for my flies, pausing to see if he would stop me, but he did not.
"Go on," he said, his eyes wide and his chest rising and falling with his heavy breaths.
I quickly opened the placket and freed my cockstand. It throbbed and bounced in time with the pulsing in my veins. My only desire was one simple word: "More."
Holmes closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, giving up all pretense of remaining detached. He set the candle down on the small table beside the bed and twisted his body so that he could rest his elbows on either side of my head and scent me. His nose probed behind my ear, down my neck where he nudged and mouthed at the collar, and back up again, his hot breath sending shivers of need through my body. I could no longer restrain myself, and flung my arms around him, causing the hardened wax on my body to crack and fall in a rain of pellets onto the stiff cloth beneath me.
I murmured his name over and over, burrowing my nose into his hair and neck where I greedily sucked up the fragrant aroma of his musk. It was pure alpha, thick and dark, yet I marveled at how good and right he smelled, how perfectly suited his lean, alpha body was for my arms, how beautiful he was covered in sweat, half undressed, his hair falling into his eyes as he fairly rutted on top of me.
When my nose, my lungs, my very being were saturated in his essence, he finally, finally lifted his head to cover my mouth with his. The taste of him was ambrosia, the scent in my nostrils from his most intimate places become liquid and sweet, and I eagerly lapped and sucked at his mouth, his neck, wherever I could reach. The scent gland at the base of his neck was swollen and hot, ripe for a bond, but even through the heady cloud of lust that had overcome me, I knew I must not bite. There were no well documented cases of alpha-alpha bites resulting in a true bond, and many that ended with lymphatic poisoning. There was too great a risk, and in any event it was not something I would do without leave.
He was equally fascinated by my bonding ridge, sucking and licking at it as if he could draw its serum out through my skin. I thrilled in the sensation and laid my hand across the back of his head to press him more firmly against me, the other arm wrapped around his ribs in an iron grip. I half feared, half hoped to feel the pinch of his teeth but he was as circumspect as I, contenting himself with worrying at the skin until I knew I would sport a magnificent purple bruise for the next few days.
After that it was my mouth which again captured his attention, and I eagerly returned his interest, becoming bolder in my vocal approval and encouragement. This appeared to please him greatly, and he tangled his fingers in my hair to hold my head in place that he might drink his fill of the murmurs I exhaled into his waiting mouth. His alpha member was like a rod of iron across my groin, my own crushed against his hip bone as he ground into me. He slid one hand between our chests to abrade my nipple with the hard-edged bits of dried wax that clung there, rolling them around and digging them in, sending electric jolts through my chest and into my gut to amplify the pulsating beat in my loins.
His movements became more frantic and uncontrolled, his voice repeating my name interspersed with unwarranted praises ever more ragged. If I did nothing more, the dramatic conclusion of our interlude was mere moments away. Yet there was one more thing I shyly hoped that he would grant me.
"The candle," I said when he relinquished my lips for a moment to take a breath. "Use the candle on me again."
Holmes raised his head, and I dare say it was the first time I ever witnessed those clear grey eyes with a veil cast over them. He was one step removed, whether lost in his head or perhaps in his body I did not know, but it took a moment before he blinked and his wits returned to him. My heart beat strong and proud in that moment, and I vowed I would return him to this state as soon and often as practically feasible.
I glanced down and lifted my hips against his to make my meaning clear: I wanted the hot wax there, on my most tender and intimate part. I wanted to know that searing sting, to surmount that Everest of agony, and I believed Holmes would not need much persuasion to inflict the treatment.
I was correct in my surmise. "You are more devious than I imagined," he replied, his voice soft and edged with dark approval. He pressed one more deep kiss into the skin beneath my jaw before lifting himself to retrieve the candle. He tipped the excess over-heated paraffin that had accumulated into the candle saucer, then settled again on the bed beside me, on his knees this time and pressed hard against my hip.
He took a moment to survey the wreck he had made of me. The skin of my chest and stomach was red and patchy, scattered with the broken traces of our activity. Crumbs of wax hung tangled in the hairs on my chest and under my arms, where some stray rivulets had run down. My hair was untamed and ruffled from his hands and my own thrashings. Careful as Holmes had been in attaching it, the collar nevertheless had chafed and rubbed, and my neck felt hot and swollen. And there was my weeping cockstand, purpled and bulging, the ridged knot at the base already beginning to swell. It would not reach its full dimensions without contact with an omega's channel - my experiences with my beta spouse had taught me that - but that did not mean it was tame or unreactive.
We watched together as he tipped the candle, spilling a stream of liquid wax onto my sack. My mouth fell open in a silent scream and I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing my hips to remain still lest I jostle Holmes and cause him to drop the candle. The ache was deep and long, and I thought perhaps we had found my limit. But then came Holmes' voice, forming words like "astounding", "brave", "magnificent". I opened my eyes to find his gaze locked on my face and knew I would go beyond any limit to replicate the expression I beheld there.
"More," I whispered.
His reply was an echo of my name, followed by the demanded portion. This time, however, the searing pain was succeeded by a cooling touch, spreading the paraffin into a thin layer that rapidly dissipated the heat. The technique had the additional excellent advantage of placing Holmes' fingers on my balls. Another round of wax was followed by another touch, this time just brushing the ring of my knot.
"Yes, that, more!" I was beyond decency.
Holmes did not mind. He became more bold with his strokes, travelling up my length and wrapping his waxy fingers around me, squeezing and jerking until I had to beg him to leave off.
From there he established a relentless routine. Each application of the flaming liquid was followed by a stroke or three, the torture prolonging the pleasure, following the same pattern as the pair with the violet ray had practiced at the club.
But whereas the omega then had counted out his sentence until his release, I did not. I could not. The rapid back-and-forth between agony and ecstasy, the stinging assaults trading off with the rough caresses, sent me into a tailspin of sensation that had me quite insensate. I felt the approach of the incumbent climax like an ocean swell, implacable and unyielding. I babbled something, perhaps a warning or a plea.
"Watson, yes," came the breathless reply, the hand on my prick unrelenting.
I gave up all resistance at his word, and my release came bursting forth, splattering my stomach with the thick gush of my seed. The first wave was followed by a second and a third, and then Holmes was upon me as if my scent were water and he a desert nomad. His kisses were barely more than frantic nips and panted gasps. He crouched over me, scrabbling at his trousers until he was able to get his hand inside.
"Holmes, let me, please," I begged, putting my hands on his hips, but he was too far gone to respond or perhaps even understand what I offered. Rather than force the matter or interrupt his progress, I settled for touching him wherever else I could: his face, his back, his chest. I deposited kisses of encouragement and praise on his head, words of gratitude and approbation on his ears as he worked his fist furiously inside his trousers.
Finally he lifted his massive cockstand out of his drawers and, with a deep groan, spilled over my stomach, splashing out a white rain that seemed as hot as the wax had been on my overstimulated skin.
We did not exchange many more words that night. They were not necessary. We had said what was in our hearts through our bodies and deeds. We cleaned up as well as we could with the basin and pitcher in Holmes' room, remade the bed, and lay together until shortly before dawn, when I reluctantly retreated to my room upstairs before the maid came in to stoke the fire.
~~.~~.~~
The rest of the tale occurred very much as outlined in print. When we discovered that Baron Gruner was planning to leave the country, I was sent in to distract him with a ruse while Holmes and Kitty Winter filched the damning book.
The Baron was as pleasing to behold and cunning to deal with as his reputation proclaimed. That scent and demeanor which made him irresistible to omegas I found merely foul and repulsive. I was meant to play a fawning collector of Chinese pottery, but I was so angered by the memory of what he had done to Miss Winter and the lurid secret of what happened to his wife, that I made an utter hash of my part. He saw through me right away, of course, although I believe that would have held true no matter how artful my deception. His was indeed a mind for the ages, like Moriarty, and like the same, it was his overzealous faith in his own superiority, and the need to prove it, which led to his downfall. If Baron Gruner had been a little stupider or less bent on silencing his opponents, he would still have his sight today, and Kitty Winter would not be sitting in Brixton on charges of vitriol-throwing. She is satisfied with her sentence, though, and has told me she would sit a hundred times as long and more for one more chance to exact her revenge on the man who ruined her and countless other omegas.
Either way, the notorious diary was sufficient in the end to convince Violet de Merville to abandon her suitor. Baron Gruner's book was truly a malleus maleficarum. He kept a meticulous journal of all the tortures he had enacted on hapless omegas across the globe. I had but a brief glimpse of the compendium before Sir James arrived to retrieve the evidence and bring it to the Baron's fiancée, yet I am still haunted by the piteous men and women who adorned its pages. Their faces were contorted in pain, fear, and despair, whilst their bodies were subjected to the most horrific and sickening acts. In more than one image, the Baron's initials were visible carved, burnt, or etched into his victims' skin. I did not doubt that Kitty Winter bore similar marks somewhere on her maltreated body, unless they had been obliterated by the vehemence with which he had repeatedly enacted his treatments on her.
It was a caution to both Holmes and me of how tender emotions may be perverted, and I thought perhaps to see in it a clue to Holmes' reticence in the area where the emotional and the physical overlap. I do not believe he ever fell into the clutches of a monster the likes of Gruner: I have seen the glory of his unclothed form, and it does not bear the marks of any abuse other than that which he has inflicted on himself. But there are other kinds of cruelty that may leave scars of a different kind. Like their physical counterparts, they can never be removed, but they may be soothed and softened with a steady balm of kindness and tender attention. It is that which I strive to give my one true and honest friend, my life's companion, through the dedication of my body and my will to him, and his in turn to me.
We have continued to explore our mutual interest, with the Inferno Club and its members playing a not insignificant role as inspiration and reference, which is why I have agreed to pen this account. It is my hope that through it, more seekers and questioners will find the courage to rattle their own cage and open their eyes, hearts and minds to themselves and others.
Still, when all is said and done, Holmes and I prefer the privacy of our own rooms, shut away from the world and out of the reach of its staid strictures. The challenge is always part of it, the edge of danger dancing with us, but equally so the affirmation of our connection, the acceptance of those parts of us we may have difficulty understanding ourselves, and which the world rejects utterly. Here, between us, in our touches and shared breaths, in our pinches and cries, our bites and slaps and kisses, there is no cruelty or selfishness, but only love and devotion. For then, for now, and for always.
FIN
