Work Header

Undiscovered Country

Work Text:

I believe my orgasms are unique in all the world. I cannot be certain, of course, but from the little I have discussed and the lot I have read on the subject, I have not found a single person whose description matches my own. Naturally, I am capable of the ordinary sort as well; the little ting of pleasure and the rush of seminal fluid. More often than not, that is what I end up with, but that is not what drives my lust. No, the climax of which I am speaking is a white-hot paroxysm, a sudden collapse of the wall between mind and body.

The first time it happened, I thought I was dying, and I may well have been, as the other gentleman in question had his hands ‘round my throat in what I assume was a more or less good-natured reminder I was never to mention this to anyone. It was the ’70s, when it wasn’t quite so foppish for a man to wear his hair long about the ears, and I recall that locks of his had fallen onto my face as he worked himself in and out of me. Up to that moment, our tryst had been nothing but ordinary, in as much as that sort of deviance can be considered ordinary. Then, as if a switch had been thrown, I began to feel a prickling sensation, as though his hair consisted of a thousand needles, which spread across my whole self until I trembled and my mind went gloriously, miraculously blank. I am not a religious man, but if I’ve ever seen the face of God it was while being roughly fucked by a stevedore in the basement of an East End opium den.

It was an entirely novel experience of pleasure, one which raised up the realm of the physical, elevated its delights to the levels I had hitherto only experienced in my mental pursuits. As a case or cocaine stimulated my mind, I had at last discovered a means of so stimulating my body. I have been chasing that hedonistic achievement ever since.

This led, as with all vices which are illegal and which, thus, must be kept secret, to me doing ill-advised things in less-than-preferable locations with less-than-trustworthy sorts. I cared not a wink. Indeed, I believed danger to be an important factor, and sought to purposefully find myself at the point of a knife, or with one too many bruises, or with my face pressed hard against the lavatory wall. I courted violence and in London violence may be bought and sold on most any corner. As any man who has suffered from drink can attest, the more of it one has today, the more is needed to slate the appetite tomorrow. So it was with me. I shall not bore the reader with a list of my Sadean vices, but suffice to say that by the time I arrived at Baker Street, my proclivities violated more battery statutes than they did indecency.

Enter one John H. Watson, M.D., late of Her Majesty’s service. I knew at once that he was taken with me. It was only after several months of comfortable silences, of shared glances and secret smiles that I realized I was taken with him. I seduced him quickly one summer afternoon, and then slowly every afternoon following until summer turned to autumn and we both grew confident that our arrangement would not vanish with the season.

I did not mention my appetites to Watson. Even after I quietly decided to put off my usual sojourn to the dockside in search of a man with large hands and an ill temper, first for a month, then two, then indefinitely. How could I mention sordid things like that to him? He, who is considerate in all things, for whom violence is only a means of protecting the weak against the strong—how could I ask him to a raise his hand against me, to strap me to the bedposts and bite and pinch and tease and use me as he pleased until white-hot oblivion overcame me? The first time I slid my prick inside him, he muttered "I love you" into the hollow of my neck. I climaxed immediately, with no euphoria beyond a shiver, stunned by the grave possibility of love.

I spent a year discovering what love was and decided that whether or not I considered myself well-suited to it, I liked it. It, too, had the capacity to link the mental and the physical. And while our physical unions produced in me no exquisite agonies, I concluded I was fortunate beyond measure to have found a man who did not tire of my rambles, who had half-decent opinions on Wagnerian opera, and who is, in fact, more indispensable to my work and to my happiness than he should ever admit to in fiction. For John Watson, I decided, I could sacrifice being a flagellant.

Which brings me, at last, to the heart of my story.

It was May, nearing the second anniversary of those summer afternoons, and I had somehow been talked into accompanying Watson to a lecture given by some ancient relic of a professor whom he had admired greatly in his University days. The poor man was so incoherent that I doubted he had ever been much of an orator, even in his prime, and despite Watson’s most earnest hopes I might enjoy myself, the lecture did not tell me anything about the process of blood coagulation which I did not already know. Add to this a crowded hall and a bright, early-summer sun through closed windows.

“You don’t really wish to stay, do you?” I whispered after suffering through a truly impressive ten minutes.

Watson shushed me and waved an apologetic hand to the odd neighbor who glared in my direction.

“Watson, I’m suffocating.”

“Then loosen your collar and hush.”

I slumped back into my seat. I sighed, too loudly I suppose, and then it happened. He pinched my thigh. It seems quite amusing to consider what such a small, frivolous gesture of annoyance has led to—ah, but I am getting ahead of myself. He pinched me, quite hard, and in a rush my body recalled its long-unsated appetites.

My cock stirred in my trousers. My thigh smarted, in fact, it ached. My cock twitched again, stiffening, and I sat forward to disguise it better. Watson gave me a chiding glare, which deepened my arousal. Indeed, even the thought of the potential humiliation at being discovered only served, as any schoolboy can attest, to worsen my condition.

“Watson,” I whispered again, “We need to leave.”

“If you don’t shut up—“

I shuddered at his words, my mind completing his threats with all of my worst, most perverse desires.

“John,” I tried, my voice thick with meaning.

My gaze met his and then dropped to my lap. He noticed my condition, no doubt, as he suddenly cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. He sucked his teeth and stared fixedly ahead. Hot embarrassment crept across my cheeks and singed my ears. He turned his head and leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of my crimson ear.

“You are to sit here and listen to good Dr. Mantel until you are fit to be seen. Then you may meet me outside.” With that, he rose, shuffled his way past the feet and knees of a few irritated attendees, and disappeared out a side door.

I dared not dwell on growling timbre of Watson’s voice, nor how eagerly I wanted him to command me again, for then I should never have escaped the lecture hall. As it was I struggled to keep my focus on the meandering explanation of the structure of cells in an anemic’s blood. To Dr. Mantel’s credit, he is a supreme anaphrodisiac, and within a few minutes I was able to make my own exit. Watson was already seated in a waiting cab, fairly bristling all over like a perturbed tom cat.

“And just what, may I ask, was all that about?” he demanded as I settled in next to him.

“Blood coagulation, weren’t you listening?”

He again pinched my thigh and again I felt a stirring. I pressed my lips together and Watson’s eyes fell heavily upon me. There was no mistaking my reaction, not at this distance, and I thrilled at and dreaded his comprehension.

“Ah, so that’s it, is it?”

When I turned to look at him, he looked like my undoing. He was sitting back against the far corner of the hansom, legs spread, arms folded against his chest. Beneath his mustache, the corners of a smug grin appeared. We were paused at an intersection, waiting for a vegetable cart to pass, and he spent the interlude smirking at me. Only once we resumed our journey, words easily lost amid the clatter of hooves, did he continue.

“That is it, isn’t it?”

“Is what?”

“What I haven’t been doing—I can deduce things too, you realize, especially when it comes to being unsatisfactory in bed.”

“You aren’t unsatisfactory,” I mumbled.

“You might have told me.”

“It’s—I—You see—“ I started and abandoned half a hundred sentences. I settled at last on: “It’s more than little pinches.”

Watson slid closer to me, until our thighs ran parallel and his elbow dug into my hip. He placed his hand over my knee and pressed his thumbnail into my flesh. The pain was sharp and sweet. In the mild sanctity of the cab, I let a small moan escape my lips.

“You wicked, awful thing,” he growled, chin resting against my shoulder. “You were very badly behaved during that lecture. You need some correction. Don’t you agree?”

My skin prickled at his words. I trembled at the possibility, at the nearness of my hidden desire. I still doubted that Watson understood the depths of my depravity, still feared that he would shudder to learn it. All the same, I wanted very badly to know what he could give to me, what rich, untapped veins of lust lay hidden within.

“Do you agree or don’t you?” asked Watson, his hand easing off my thigh. I could already hear him apologizing for the misunderstanding. The opportunity was slipping through my fingers.

“I agree, I agree!” I blurted.

My companion gave a satisfied rumble. “You agree you behaved abominably?”


“And that you ought to be punished?”

“Oh, yes.”

He hummed in consideration, the hand giving me a rough squeeze. “I’m afraid a spanking is in order.”

“Hng.” I cleared my throat and unable to meet his eyes added, “D-don’t forget what they say: ’spare the rod—“

“Spoil the detective,’ yes, I know. And I have let you get quite spoiled, haven’t I?”

I could only manage a whimper at that. My heart was pulsing in my head, my chest, my prick—all of me seemed to be throbbing. I was dreadfully aroused again, and the thought of Watson taking me over his knee threatened to bring me to shame right there in the hansom.

“I will have to do better. And you will have to do much, much better. I suppose there ought to be rules to things,” he paused and gave me a side-long glance. “Even if all you will do is break them… ah, here we are!”

We tumbled out onto the sidewalk and I raced ahead inside, leaving Watson to pick up the fare. I shut myself in the sitting room, pressed my back against the wall and palmed myself through my trousers. I was hard, wonderfully, horribly, terrifyingly hard; I felt more aroused than I had in years. I trembled. I longed for Watson to appear, and I feared it. Suppose my arousal fizzled into a ho-hum conclusion? Suppose Watson, for all his kind-hearted bravado, shrank from the sight of me in my debauchery? I had met plenty of men who would agree to spank or to slap or to hit me—but precious few who were prepared for me to like it.

Lost in these agonies, I did not hear Watson come through the front door. I did not hear him slip down the hall, did not hear him open the sitting room door, nor close it behind him. Indeed, the next sound I heard was the key turning in the lock. Then, the click of a tongue against the roof of a mouth, he was tsking at me.

I risked a glance at him. He stood before the locked door, arms akimbo, looking imperious, austere, and perfect. In the shadow of his elegance, I realized how ridiculous I appeared, plastered against the wall with a hand to my groin. Sheepishly, I dropped my arms to my sides and waited.

“That was very naughty, leaving me to pay for the cab.”

I murmured an apology.

“Never mind, we will lump it in with the rest of your insubordination from today.” He removed his coat and cuffs as he spoke. He sat first in his armchair, considered it for a moment before mumbling “this won’t do” and moving to settee.

“Much better,” he declared before rolling up his sleeves. He put his hands on his knees and raised an eyebrow at me. “Well?”


“Well don’t stand there. Take your jacket off and come here. No—wait—first get that jar from your bedside drawer, then come here.”

I trotted off trying, in my nerves, to remove my jacket and walk at the same time. Managing first to overturn a discarded tea tray, two ashtrays and a lamp, I at last came across the jar of unguent. I returned to Watson’s side, trousers covered in ash and feeling like a fool. I held it out to him with a stiff arm. He looked me over, smirking at my disarray, and took the jar.

“Good. Take off your tie and waistcoat,” he ordered in a clinical tone.

I did as I was told. The shoes followed, then socks, then bracers, then trousers, and so on until he had me down to my skin and I stood at his feet, cock bobbing before him. All the while he watched me with dark, predatory eyes. I longed to fall into his clutches.

“Now then,” he said at last and licked his lips, “Are you ready for your punishment?”

“Yes, sir.” The words seeped out of me, residue from too many years in school.

Watson chuckled and seized my hips. “There’s a good lad. Over you go.”

This was how I first came to know bliss at John Watson’s hands. He pulled me down across his lap. He positioned me so I might rest the bulk of my torso on the settee, and the weight of my erection between his legs. One hand held me in place and the other… the other began to caress my behind. Softly, to start, as he was used to, then the fingers gradually stiffened, aligning with his palm to form a broad, flat surface which promised something sweeter than caresses.

The sound of the first smack startled us both. I jumped. He apologized. Then apologized for apologizing. Then smacked me again because I was laughing. Then again. And again. And again until I was no longer laughing. I have said it before and I shall say it once more, for all the praise and admiration Watson heaps on to my spidery hands, it are his that work miracles. Bless him, he did not stop, not even when my skin grew tender and I sucked in breaths through my teeth. No, he slapped me until my buttocks fell numb and my cock felt as though it might burst from longing.

“More,” I begged, then, “Fuck me.”

No sooner did I ask then a slicked finger plunged into me. The suddenness of it made me cry out. I expected to hear John apologize, and was pleased when he did not. I lay there, my hole pulsing around his finger, the whole of my backside tingling and aflame.

“Did you learn your lesson?” He asked, fingering me as he did so. His voice was rough and thick with desire. I should have done anything for him, said anything, so long as he spoke with that voice.

“Yes, sir.”

He withdrew his finger slightly and added a second, stretching and toying with my arsehole. “And you’ll behave in public and won’t go embarrassing me with your wicked thoughts?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean, yes—I won’t—ah!”

My orgasm lay inches from my grasp. I pressed into his lap, until my cock was nestled between the cushions of the settee. John’s fingers stilled and retreated. I pressed back against them, though it meant raising my hips. Forward again, into the cushions, backwards, onto his fingers, forwards into the cushions. I was Tantalus, bound.

“Get up,” John ordered and though I wanted nothing less in the world, I obeyed. He rose out from under me, hands flying to his trouser buttons and bracers. “Face the back of the settee, now kneel on it. Put your hands—there, bend just so—perfect.”

Standing behind me, he seized my hips and sunk into me to the very hilt so swift and so rough that I thought I’d be cleaved in two. I moaned, not the measured, quite moan of a man getting clandestinely buggered in the sitting room on a summer afternoon, but the full-throated, unbridled moan of a wanton scourge. John reached forward and put a hand over my mouth. He began to thrust into me, shallow, aching thrusts and I whimpered into his fingers.

It did not take long once he was inside of me. My skin prickled. First my legs seemed to disappear, then my arms, then my torso to the hips, all of me fading away as if I were smoke, drifting and dwindling until there was nothing but the pulse of his prick and the firm insistence of his hands against my flesh. My brain filled with nothing but sensations, no thoughts, no words beyond this, this, this. I hurdled headlong towards annihilation.

Perhaps I have not explained, exactly, what I mean. Permit me then, an interruption in the action of our scene for an academic assertion. It is not an obliteration in the sense of destruction, rather, as the Japanese Buddhists might suggest, the overcoming of dualism, the un-becoming of myself. There is a Sanskrit term, nirvana, whose linguistic roots lie in the meaning of ‘to blow out’. This is not precisely what is meant, but it is close. I rush blindly, urged by physical sensations intense and mounting, until I crash, careening into a blankness absolute. It is, no doubt, a particular cocktail of body chemicals, a mingling I had teased out over the years with the trusted tools of fear and violence.

That afternoon was a revelation. I had mingled pain and pleasure many times before, but never quite like this. Never had I placed myself and my basest wants so fully into the hands of a man whom I loved, and whom I wanted so desperately to love me in return. Love to me was still largely a country undiscovered, and the fear of loosing it terrified me more than any docker’s knife.  When he fucked me, I felt the unbearable gulf between my mind and my body shrink and shrink until it vanished entirely.

I felt him quiver, heard his breath catch and his grunts melt into whines. His hand slipped from my mouth to my throat. He squeezed, just once, more for balance than for effect, and I came spectacularly in a flood of spunk and tears.

I suppose I must have fainted, for the next thing I recall is laying on the settee, looking up at a very distressed and disheveled-looking Watson. Seeing my eyes open, he kissed me squarely and stroked my hair. He looked so relieved at finding me alive that I could not help but giggle.

“Thank goodness! Are you all right, old thing?”

I nodded, ensnaring him in an embrace. “Beyond all right. I am stupendous. I am electric.”

“You are delirious.”

“You are marvelous and I love you.”

At that, he acquiesced a smile. Limbs were reshuffled, the afghan was fetched and I soon found myself cuddled lazily against him, trying very hard to avoid resting too much weight on my smarting backside.

“Thank you, for that.”

“I only hope I didn’t hurt you.”

I shook my head. “No more than I wanted you to. Was it too odd?”

The arm around my waist pulled me nearer. “Is it awful of me to confess I enjoyed myself?”

“Perfectly awful. I hope you haven’t worn yourself out,” I said, wrapping myself completely in his arms. “I suspect I will be terribly naughty tomorrow.”

“You’d better be,” he answered.

And believe me, reader, I was.