Chapter Text
The domino masks were technically unnecessary, since everyone who walked in at the Tankerville Club had their names in the register, but they did add an air of anonymity and intrigue to the experience. I was not a member of the Tankerville myself, but a mutual acquaintance had assured Colonel Prendergast that I could be trusted with the inner workings of the club, and would agree to wear the mask.
I will say, the mask did make the right sort of fellow very dashing and attractive. I even took a moment to admire myself in the mirror in the entry hall: with my face half-obscured, some of the severity of my features was softened; my prominent nose, my stark cheekbones, my over-bearing brows. Below the line of the mask, my mouth was accentuated, and that was the intended effect of the thing. If I were a regular member, it might be the only thing I wore by the end of the night, but I wasn’t here for that.
Prendergast and I were admitted to the main hall, and the door to the entry was closed behind us before the doorman let another guest in. The colonel brought me first to the bar, where he ordered us a drink. I accepted a whisky and soda, though only for appearances; an earlier indulgence had sharpened my mind and alcohol would only dampen the effects.
Then he took me on a tour and introduced me to a few of the club’s members. My cover story was that he had brought me along as his new boy toy, a youth who might allow himself to be petted and fondled in exchange for the favour (and money) of a gentleman. This would allow me to get close to anyone I wanted, to ask impertinent questions, and to sidle in and out of the various rooms without being stopped.
Prendergast had been discomfited by the idea of the fiction in the beginning, assuring me that he was no such scoundrel who might pay for the company of a young man (even though he was a member of the Tankerville, and I knew for a fact that men there did pay for company), but he was playing his part nicely. The colonel’s hand rested possessively on the small of my back, and he paid me compliments throughout that sounded genuine. It was enough to win the favour of the members, for however long I would need it, to solve the problem that plagued this particular gentleman’s club.
The Tankerville had a thief in its midst, and things were going missing: money, keys, jewellery. The club’s owner was reluctant to take the matter to the police, given the nature of the place, so Prendergast, a close friend and advisor, came to me. I expected it might take several visits to be able to determine which of Tankerville’s members was light-fingered, and to what end. So I ingratiated myself, fawning and lounging and generally acting as though my prospects were limited to the attentions of older men. We spent several hours in the more public areas of the club before the late night entertainment really began. I kept an eye on who slipped away to private rooms, who sidled close to people looking the other way, and at some point I convinced the colonel to leave me alone so that I could get a look at people without his looming presence.
He disappeared, muttering about consulting with someone on club business, and I was free to interact with the clientele on my own terms.
Part of me wondered why anyone would bring anything valuable to a place like this, where the chance of taking one’s kit off was higher than usual, but for so many this was a place of sanctuary. It wasn’t a sordid, dirty molly house catering to low clientele. It was a hideaway for the rich and titled, uranians and sodomites with power who had to hide their true nature in society, and their faces even in sympathetic company.
I hadn’t any power, then, being freshly out of University and without any true profession beyond this little peccadillo for solving problems. Mycroft had rolled his eyes when he heard about it, but so far it had been going very well. I’d even started charging for it.
Which had led me here, where gentlemen brought their billfolds and their pocket books and their personal jewellery without expecting to have it nicked. And then of course they couldn’t explain where or even admit that it had been stolen, for fear of anyone close to them looking into the matter.
Prendergast had pointed some of the victims out to me, and given me their club pseudonyms, so that when I approached to ask questions they were not alarmed. I didn’t want it to look like an investigation, in case my quarry was here in the room with me and might run if he thought he was in danger of being caught. Instead I sidled up to the men in question, acting as if I was flirting, and got their stories out of them. They knew who I was, or at least my purpose, and gave me everything I needed to know.
Throughout the evening, I made my way through the club, dipping into every public room and lurking my way around the edges and perimeters. I snooped in the toilets, the changing rooms, the private areas on the second and third floors. Once I had the lay of the land and the threads of the very simple mystery in hand, I was ready to follow the path. The thefts had been kept very quiet, so the rest of the members were not alarmed. They would be as careless as usual, and this was to my advantage.
#
The most well-guarded room, besides the private suites upstairs, was the room in which the public fornication happened. It was a moderately sized room on the first floor filled with comfortable seating, wide ottomans, and low, moody lighting. In the middle sat an exhibitionist’s dream: a huge, comfortable bed piled with cushions and pillows, ready for fucking. I spared a moment to wonder at the laundry bills for this place. Several men were already lounging upon the communal bed, kissing and fondling one another, in various states of undress. I stayed close to the wall, observing the other people in the room and trying not to draw attention to myself. It wasn’t difficult; the attention of the members in here was fixed primarily on the bed in the middle. Voyeurs were as welcome here, encouraged even; three men in one corner sat together with their limbs entangled, alternately watching the proceedings and making proceedings of their own. I found my attention caught by the sight of two kissing while the third caressed one’s chest, his gaze on the group in the middle.
I dragged my eyes away, chastising myself for becoming distracted, and realized I was being watched.
A young man was lounging on a divan in one corner of the room. It was hard to get a precise read on him, for he was seated, the lighting was low, and his face was half-hidden behind a mask like everyone else’s, but his eyes followed me and the sensation of it prickled down my spine. I wasn’t used to being so carefully observed. He didn’t bother to hide it, and when I looked at him directly he smiled rather than look away.
It was a clear invitation, but when I didn’t immediately move towards him to accept his invitation, he released me from his gaze and returned it instead to the group of men that had taken centre stage. He was dressed– most people still were– and he had one ankle propped up on the opposite knee, shielding his lap. If he was aroused, it was difficult to tell from a distance.
But he had a good view of the proceedings, so I sidled over to him, trying not to appear too eager. His position might make it possible for me to observe the other people in the room while the show was going on and see if anyone took advantage of the piles of clothing left at the edges of the bed. If I’d been inclined to thievery, this was an excellent opportunity when my marks were distracted.
He glanced my way again as I approached and offered me another smile. This one was more shy; perhaps he had not expected to be taken up on his obvious offer after all. He was young, my age or so; he had a neat moustache and short, fair hair. The moustache was clearly military. So, he was a soldier. Discharged? He wouldn’t have turned up here in uniform, but he wouldn’t have been here if he’d been actively serving anyway. Too risky. So, a recently discharged soldier without fear of court martial.
“Do you mind if I sit?” I asked, indicating the space beside him on the divan.
He spread his arms wide, laying them along the back of the divan, and said, “You’re welcome to.”
He was aroused. Even in the low light, I could now see the line of his prick in his trousers. My heart felt unsteady in my chest. My mouth watered, and I found my body responding in kind. It was impossible not to be affected in that room; the air was filled with the sound of mouths meeting and parting, skin sliding on skin, and men enjoying themselves. It was debauchery in the highest form, a most closely guarded secret for men who pretended the rest of the time to have never heard of such a place or even be able to imagine it.
I moved to sink down beside him and let myself lean against his side. This was the role I was playing, wasn’t it? His arm curled around my shoulders. He was warm and solid, if a little thinner than I’d expected, and he smelled delicious; pomade and cologne with an undercurrent of tobacco. His fingers played a gentle little tattoo on my shoulder before settling on the curve of it. He uncrossed his legs, pressing his thigh against mine.
It was a good vantage point from which to watch the room. Prendergast’s thief was here somewhere. It was up to me to observe the comings and goings (and goings and comings) of the members.
The soldier made it difficult, though. He wasn’t doing anything; he made no further advances on me. But his hand on my shoulder shifted from time to time, his fingers dragging my attention back to them, and I could feel the rise and fall of his breathing where we were pressed against one another. He did smell excellent, and the men fucking in the middle of the room were impossible to ignore. Alone, I might have stayed well above my own baser instincts, but nestled into the crook of this man’s body, my own body was warm with desire.
He cleared his throat, just enough to catch my attention— not that he’d lacked it— and asked, “Have you ever—?” before he cut himself off, embarrassed.
“Joined in?” I guessed. “No, but I’m not a member yet, so I don’t know anyone well enough to be… invited, I suppose.”
“I’m not a member either,” he admitted.
“Somebody’s guest?”
“I have a friend, he’s brought me a few times since I got back from–” He cut himself off again. “Overseas.” Interesting. Soldier felt even more true, but it was impossible to tell from here exactly where he’d been stationed.“I didn’t think it was this sort of place, exactly— I didn’t know a place like this could even exist— but he said I didn’t have to go into the back rooms at all, and could get just as much out of the public spaces.”
“But you were curious,” I teased.
He chuckled, self-conscious. “Who wouldn’t be?”
I looked over at the men caressing each other in the middle of the room on the platform piled with cushions and pillows that served as the communal bed. “Is your friend here?”
The soldier nodded, indicating one or another of those men with a lift of his chin. I couldn’t tell which one; they were at that moment more or less interchangeable.
“But you’re not joining him?”
“He’s not that kind of friend, actually,” the soldier said with a laugh. “Not to me.”
I heard myself ask, “Do you have that kind of friend?”
He glanced at me again, face almost—but not quite— unreadable behind the mask. “I do not, not at the moment.”
I looked away, my face heating, and across the room I saw my true quarry for the night. A young man in a rumpled suit— he’d been doing what everyone else was, or at least it was meant to look that way— was lifting a pocket book from beneath a pair of trousers that had been discarded. It was so casual the regular observer might not have even noticed; he might have been tying his shoe. But he had the pocket book open and the notes out in a flash.
“Excuse me,” I said, not taking my eyes off the thief as he ambled casually away. “I’ll just—” And I stood and hurried after him, leaving the soldier behind.
#
Half an hour later, that chap had been relieved of his stolen goods and thrown out into the street, never to be allowed back into the club. His closest friends were locked in the club’s office, being interrogated as to their involvement or knowledge of the matter. I’d given some advice on how to deal with the missing items that were not on site anymore, and Prendergast had shaken my hand most enthusiastically.
“I don’t know how we can thank you enough,” he said several times. There was my bill, of course, which he knew well enough; but then he said, “Come back anytime, my dear fellow. If you want to, of course. We’ll put your name on the list.”
It was, perhaps, a dangerous list to be on, but I wasn’t thinking about that at the time. Instead, I was thinking about the soldier I’d so carelessly walked away from.
“Thank you,” said I. “May I stay a little longer tonight?”
Prendergast gave me a knowing look that made my face flame beneath my mask.
“Of course,” said he. “Stay as long as you like.”
#
The soldier wasn’t in the public fornication room anymore. This was probably because the men on the bed in the middle had finished their fucking and were in the midst of some kind of ritual of drinking water and arranging blankets over each other. I left as quickly as I’d gone in, embarrassed, and made my way back down to the bar.
Mercifully, he was there, and he caught sight of me at once. As I approached, I took him in at full length and in better light. The military bearing confirmed my assessment of his being an army man, and what I could see of his face was tanned, but his wrist where he lifted his hand in greeting was lighter in tone. He held his left arm a little stiffly, unnaturally; he’d been injured. His thinness was more evident, too: his suit hung a little loose, so it was clear he had undergone some hardship, perhaps even a prolonged illness.
“I thought you’d left,” he said with obvious delight. “Can I get you a drink?”
“I should offer you one,” said I, “as an apology for leaving so suddenly. I— had business.”
“Oh, indeed?” He was smiling beneath the mask, and I found my gaze fixed upon that smile.
“I can’t talk about it,” I said loftily. “Club business.”
His smile widened. “Very mysterious,” he said. “Would you like a drink?”
“Brandy and soda,” I said. “But let me get yours.”
Once we had our drinks in hand, we found our way to the upstairs lounge. Now the bed had been cleared, the linens changed by nimble staff, and it was as-yet unoccupied. A break in the entertainment. Our divan was empty too, so the soldier led me back to it and we resumed our positions from earlier, his arm around my shoulders, my body tucked snugly into his.
Something about the anonymous nature of the whole thing made it easier to give him truths when he asked about me. I told him where I’d grown up, about my brother and our parents, and about some of my schooling. I didn’t tell him I’d been sent down at least once, or that my primary interest was the study of crime. That might have put him off. In turn, he told me about his own childhood, his education, his opinion of current events.
It was all very careful; things you could share without truly identifying yourself.
Meanwhile, a new group of men took their places on the bed in the middle and began to undress one another.
I stroked my hand up and down his thigh as we talked, and I could feel his trousers getting tighter. The ridge of his prick was so tempting, but I didn’t touch him until his hand came down atop mine and moved it. He was hot and hard under my palm, a thick line beneath the fabric, and the breath gusted out of him at my first touch. I gave him a slow squeeze, feeling him twitch. His thighs parted, giving me more room. I held the bulk of him in my hand, grinding slowly with my palm, and felt his hips rise in response.
“Christ,” he whispered.
“It’s William, actually,” I said.
He laughed and his hand slid from my shoulder to the back of my neck. “Will you kiss me, William?”
His eyes were fixed upon mine, dark and warm. The blue of them reminded me of the sea before a storm. My gaze dropped to his lips, and in that moment his tongue flashed out to wet the bottom one. Hunger clenched in my gut. I leaned in.
His mouth was warm and soft, and he waited for me to part my lips before his tongue came out again. He kissed me slowly, carefully, almost cautiously, even though my hand was firmly in his lap. His cock pulsed beneath my fingers as I kissed him back, licking between his lips. I heard myself give up a little moan.
I ached to be closer to him. I broke the kiss and pulled away so that I could turn my body around to face him. I switched hands, my right hand coming up to caress his prick and the other wrapping around his shoulders. He embraced me, cupping my face with his open palm, and we kissed again. His moustache scratched at my cheek; he tasted like brandy. This time it was he who moaned, as I gave his cock another firm squeeze. I could feel a little wetness beneath my hand, seeping through the fabric of his trousers.
“Do you want me to get it out?” I asked against his mouth.
“I—” He swallowed hard. “Yes, please.”
I smiled, trying to find my coquettish persona again. “Such lovely manners.”
His blush came back, and I rubbed my thumb across his cheek, under the mask. I could feel the heat of his skin. His smile was shy, embarrassed; he couldn’t believe we were doing this, here, out in the open.
It wasn’t anywhere near what the men in the middle of the room were doing, and we were tucked away in the corner, but I felt an answering nervousness. Though I’d been certain of my inverted nature from a young age, I’d only experimented a handful of times with a close friend. It had always been furtive and awkward, and intensely private; hidden, even. Now a splendid young soldier and I were entwined in a sex club in London, about to debauch each other where anyone in attendance might be able to see, if they chose to look.
But on the other hand, the thought of it was freeing, too. I was masked and so was he, and this was a place where this kind of behavior was expected— encouraged, even!
I unfastened the buttons on his trousers with one hand, the other now holding the back of his neck as we kissed. The buttons came open easily, and he unfastened his braces and lifted his arse to tug the trousers down around his thighs to give me access to his drawers. These buttons were more fiddly, but finally I had the placket parted and my fingers delving into the humid space between.
His prick was smooth and hot, and it left a wet smear on my hand as I drew it out. I closed my fingers around it with relish, glancing down to admire the plump, ruddy head. It gleamed with excitement, and I felt his hips rise as I rubbed my thumb over his sensitive tip.
“How do you like it?” I asked, my voice rougher than I expected.
“I, er,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Slowly. I like it slow.”
I went slowly, stroking him with a firm grip but a leisurely pace, drawing his foreskin over his head and back down again. He was leaking, slicking my fingers. The curly hair that met the side of my hand was damp with it. He was biting his lower lip, his breath coming heavy.
I kissed him again as I made a ring with my fingers and drew them up and down the length of his prick. His right hand clutched at the back of my shoulder, bunching the fabric of my jacket and shirt. Then he was opening his waistcoat and pushing his shirt up to bare his stomach, to give me more room to work. He slid a little down the back of the seat, but he couldn’t spread his legs any further, trapped as they were by his trousers. He cursed into my mouth and a laugh bubbled out of me.
“Easy,” I whispered. I broke the kiss and pulled back to look into his eyes for a moment, and then ducked my head to kiss along the side of his jaw to the tender edge of his throat. He tipped his head back on a sign and I dug my teeth in there; hard enough to feel but not enough to leave a mark.
His cock was rigid in my hand and swelled further as I kissed and nibbled at his neck. His left hand came up— the stiffness I had noticed was just barely evident— and he cradled the side of my face.
I dipped my right hand lower to stroke his heavy sac and felt him jerk in surprise.
“No?” I asked against his throat.
“No, go on,” he breathed.
He let go of my face to press his left hand into the meat of his thigh, legs straining against the restraint of his trousers. I rolled his bollocks in my fingers, rubbing my thumb against the root of his cock, and felt them drawing up, tightening. His cock head leaked profusely, and his hips were hitching and rising to meet my touch.
He wanted to come, and I wanted to make him.
I ceased my exploration of his neck and turned again so that I could use both hands on him. I held his prick in one, tight around the base, and with the other stroked the top half, giving special attention to his swollen head. It was so plump and firm, slick with excitement. He was breathing hard, and when I looked up into his face I found his eyes closed and his lip caught again between his teeth. Perhaps he felt me looking at him, for he opened his eyes in that moment and I was transfixed at the heat in them. I switched back to one hand to give him long, firm strokes from root to tip.
“Please,” he whispered, and I felt the desperate rise of his hips as he hurtled towards his peak.
My handkerchief was easily to hand; this might be a place of dubious morals, but there was a level of cleanliness I appreciated. I jerked him hard and fast, feeling the inevitable swell of his prick and the way he squirmed against me, gripping the divan beneath us. When he spilled with a soft cry, I caught it before it dirtied his trousers. He spurted several times, gasping in my ear, and then sagged back and stilled my hand with a gentle touch on the wrist.
“William,” he murmured, and I regretted so much in that moment not telling him my real name. But it was a dead giveaway; no one anonymous was called Sherlock.
I gave him a gentle wipe and tucked the handkerchief away in my pocket without thinking. He pulled me in for a deep, appreciative kiss, licking deep into my mouth. It was almost possessive. He held my face with both hands and kissed me until I was moaning.
“Let me suck you,” he said against my mouth.
I groaned my assent.
He slid off the divan, hitching up his trousers around his waist, and knelt before me, pushing my knees wide. I slumped, and our fingers tangled as we unbuttoned my trousers and drawers. The moment he had me out, he had swallowed me. I clutched at the back of his head, gripping his fair hair, unable to stop my hips from thrusting up as he sucked me. I was on edge, nerves singing, and his mouth was sweet and hot and devouring. He pulled back to suck the head of my cock, tongue working in a tight swirl, and then he went down again and I was buried in his throat.
“God almighty,” I swore, “you’ve been holding out on me—”
“John,” he said, pulling back just enough to let it out.
“John,” I breathed as he sank down once more. It felt true, much truer than William was.
He gripped my prick with one hand, meeting his lips as his head moved up and down, and I felt myself rocking, desperate for more, deeper, harder. I squeezed my hand in his hair and heard him moan. That only made my predicament worse, and I cast around for something else to think about, if only for a minute, to stay my crisis. It would be unseemly to come off only thirty seconds after a man took you in his mouth: you’d hardly enjoyed yourself, except that you’d enjoyed yourself too much.
The trouble was, now I was facing the room, and before me were five—possibly six—men engaged in the most depraved act of collective sodomy that I could have imagined. Several people had their cocks inside each other in an improbable chain of fuckery, and several others were complicating matters with their pricks in various mouths. I could have untangled it in my right mind, but I was anything but sensible right now. All I took in was the overwhelming sense of sex, pleasure, and need, and my head swam with it.
“Fuck,” I said. The soldier—John— took it as a compliment, and redoubled his efforts, which had the effect of bringing my attention wholly back to him. I gripped John’s shoulder with a desperate hand.
“It’s all right,” he said, glancing up at me, “go ahead.” His lips barely left my prick, and the sensation shot through me. I felt my crisis rising, and he seemed to read me like a book. He winked at me—winked—and took me down again; I barely felt the back of his throat. He was incredible. My hand in his hair was like a vice. I tried to loosen my grip lest I hurt him.
“Oh, Christ, John,” I gasped, and he squeezed my thigh reassuringly. I couldn’t help it now, the end was upon me, and my hips came off the divan as my crisis crashed over me.
He held me, nose against my belly, as I cried my pleasure out. My knees clamped in against his shoulders, and I ground myself against his face for an endless few moments.
It was intolerably rude, but as I collapsed back and he let me slip from his mouth, he was smiling. He looked inordinately pleased with himself, even as he slipped his fingers beneath his mask to wipe away tears. He pressed a kiss to my softening prick and then dabbed his mouth clean with a handkerchief from his sleeve.
I gaped at him for a long few moments and then grabbed him by his loose shirtfront and pulled him up on top of me to kiss him. He tasted like me, salty and rich and slick. He cradled my head in both hands as he straddled my lap. His weight was delicious. I slid my hands over his shoulders and down his back to grip his arse. If I’d had any nerve, I’d have invited him upstairs that minute.
As it happened, his fingers went into his loose waistcoat pocket and pulled out his watch.
“I should go,” he said mournfully. “The landlady tends to scold if we come in after one.”
“What’s the time?”
“Just gone midnight.”
It was late for me, too. I preferred to be up early and abed early. I felt exhaustion wash over me, kept abay until now by the work and the sex and the dose I’d taken much earlier in the night.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” he said, and kissed me sweetly on the mouth again. Then he stood up and began setting his clothing aright. I followed suit.
We parted in the front hallway: he went out first, to divest his mask and slip out the door unobserved by other members. Five minutes later, the inner door opened again and I was permitted to depart.
I walked home to Montague Street in the chill spring darkness, almost entirely unaware of my surroundings, reliving every minute of the time we’d spent together.
Bliss.