Chapter IV: A trip to the club Rache
It was one o'clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock Holmes hailed a cab and ordered the driver to take us to an address near the West End, in Fitzrovia, a part of the City I had yet to become much acquainted with.
"You amaze me, Holmes," said I, as we took our seats. "Surely you are not as sure as you pretend to be of all those particulars which you gave."
"There's no room for a mistake," he answered. "The very first thing which I observed on arriving there was the proliferation of footprints in mud all over the grounds. Patent leather and Square-toes walked down the pathway together as friendly as possible--arm-in-arm, in all probability. When they got inside they walked up and down the room to the bed--or rather, Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes disappeared for a while--" for the sake of our driver, Holmes did not spell out exactly what the two men were doing--"I could read all that in the dust; the appearance of a robbery was made after the fact in an attempt to hide these actions."
That seems simple enough," said I; "but how about the other man's height?"
"Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation enough, though there is no use my boring you with figures. I had this fellow's stride both on the clay outside and on the dust within. It was child's play."
"And his age?" I asked.
"Well, if a man can stride four and a-half feet without the smallest effort, he can't be quite in the sere and yellow. That was the breadth of a puddle on the garden walk which he had evidently walked across. Patent-leather boots had gone round, and Square-toes had hopped over. There is no mystery about it at all. Is there anything else that puzzles you?"
"The Trichinopoly cigar," I suggested.
"I gathered up some scattered ash from the floor. It was dark in colour and flakey--such an ash as is only made by a Trichinopoly. I have made a special study of cigar ashes--in fact, I have written a monograph upon the subject. I flatter myself that I can distinguish at a glance the ash of any known brand, either of cigar or of tobacco. It is just in such details that the skilled detective differs from the Gregson and Lestrade type."
"And the florid face?" I asked.
"Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt that I was right. You must not ask me that at the present state of the affair."
I passed my hand over my brow. "My head is in a whirl," I remarked; "the more one thinks of it the more mysterious it grows. Why were these two men taking such a risk in a house that doesn't belong to them? Why did they feel the need to hide their affair with this elaborate charade? If robbery was not the men's intention, they why is the wife's ring still missing? I confess that I cannot see any possible way of reconciling all these facts."
My companion smiled approvingly.
"You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and well," he said. "There is much that is still obscure, though I have quite made up my mind on the main facts. I'm not going to tell you much more of the case, Doctor. You know a conjuror gets no credit when once he has explained his trick, and if I show you too much of my method of working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all."
"I shall never do that," I answered; "you have brought detection in this field as near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world."
My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty. Desperately, I wished to speak to him more about what had transpired when I tried to kiss him during our time with Drebber. If nothing else, I wished to clarify our standing with one another. But I knew my questioning would be impudent--Holmes had articulated the rules and they seemed to be rather steadfast. Besides, it would not be practical to talk about such matters here in public.
Oblivious to my thoughts, Holmes watched out the window. "I've told you all I know myself now," he said. "For the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have a good working basis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up, for I want to go to Halle's concert to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon."
This conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading its way through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In the dingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly came to a stand. As I previously mentioned, this area was new to me; though I noticed we were not far from our apartment on Baker Street. Holmes seemed intimately familiar with our surroundings, addressing our cabman on precisely where to pick us up in a few hours. The drive made a face as we disembarked; evidently he did not think this part of town decent.
I'll admit it was not an attractive locality. A narrow passage led us into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined by sordid dwellings. We picked our way among groups of drunks, and men giving furtive glances as they swiftly walked, until we came to Number 46, where hung a sign like that seen above a tavern, decorated with the woodcut of a short-nosed dog. The establishment's name--"Rache"-- was written on a small slip of brass on the door.
Holmes gave a sequence of syncopated knocks that must have been a signal of some sort. After a moment, the door opened to a dark and warm waiting room, the air inside perfumed and musky.
The woman who opened the door looked at my companion and smiled. "Ah, Mr. Hawthorne--it is always a pleasure to see you back here."
My eyes met Holmes', who gave a quick wink and addressed the woman like an old friend. "Hello, Bess. I trust business is well. I've brought a good friend to experience the wonders of your hall. This is Mr. Williams."
The woman bowed her head at the introduction. She was fortyish and wore a heavy coat over her fair frame, her raven-colored hair swept back tight. Giving me a secretive grin, she opened a second door into an even darker room. While my eyes adjusted to the low candlelight, Bess came to stand behind a small lectern placed in front of a lacey curtain. She removed her overcoat, revealing a scandalous kit--an ornate corset that cupped her breasts but left bare her entire arms and shoulders.
"That will be one sovereign apiece," she said, holding both Holmes and myself with a playful gaze. I had the sense that in her imagination we were performing outrageous acts.
Holmes paid and she pulled aside the curtain to allow us in. As we passed, I was shocked to see that Bess wore nothing on her lower half, her bush displayed proudly for all to see.
Flustered, I stammered: "What precisely is this establishment, Holmes?"
"Haven't you guessed? We've entered Rache--the finest place in London for men such as ourselves."
The room we came to was low-lit and smoke filled, redolent of tobacco and other heady smells. From somewhere through the haze came the sound of a player piano and a dull cacophony of voices. Though the space was shadowed, I could resolve a bar in the distance and scattered furnishings; comfortable-looking couches and divans. Draped upon them, turning their heads to watch us pass, was a profusion of beautiful and enticing men.
They came in a variety of shapes, colours, ages, and styles--as if the Empire and all her diversity were on display. Many seemed to be wearing a costume of some kind, often that of a working-class man such as a dockhand, carpenter, or blacksmith. A few donned suits like Holmes and myself--though it was unclear if they were staff or clientele--and several appeared to be of high society. Quite a number were bare-chested or garbed in even less. One nubile young man passed us with naught but the garters on his legs (Holmes gave his cock a playful squeeze as he went by, to which he smiled).
Some of the men smoked cigars or pipes and most held drinks in their hands. They chatted amiably with one another, hands caressing sides, lips brushing against bare skin. Off to one side a group was dancing with the music; in pairs, like frontiersmen. While I have been with my fair share of prostitutes and even entered a molly house or two in my life, this scene was unlike anything I'd ever before experienced. The atmosphere was so open and unguarded, the attitudes so cavalier in regards to sins of the flesh. Here and there, I even saw men engaging in sexual acts, wantonly and without regard as to who was watching. Though I had just spent my seed in Drebber, I could feel lust reawakening within me.
"Holmes," I said, still unable to comprehend the images around us. "Why have we come here?"
"To gather information," he replied, locking eyes with a well-dressed man whose dick was currently being enveloped by a bearded mouth. "And perhaps a few other things."
"But if this is a place for gentlemen only, then what about Bess and her... attire?"
Holmes did not seem as caught up in this point as I was. "As proprietress of this establishment, she often takes certain liberties; observing the dalliances of her patrons for instance. I believe her choice of dress facilitates her hand playing with her own cunt."
"Are you telling me she relishes watching the couplings of men?"
"Many women do."
This thought was a novel and shocking as any. "Human sexuality is more complicated than I ever imagined."
Holmes beamed. "Stick with me, Doctor, and I hope you will become entranced with the finest study I ever came across: a study in fornication. After all, there's the thread of sex running through this colourless skein of life, and our duty is to follow its every inch, and see where it takes us. But now for delights, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowing are splendid. What's that little thing of Chopin's she plays so magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay."
Parting ways with me in the wonderland before us, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind. Finding a secluded sofa, I sat to catch my spinning head. I had always considered myself open to new experiences, certainly of the erotic variety, but a few short weeks with Holmes had already opened up vistas I'd scarcely dreamed about. This strange free-spirited world I had entered seemed ever more fantastic with each passing day, and Holmes himself an ever greater mystery and temptation.
"Would you care for some, effendi?" said a delicate voice beside me, interrupting my thoughts.
I turned to see that the couch I'd chosen was not as private as I first believed. An appealing man sat in the dark corner, his body half wreathed in shadow. His skin was cinnamon brown, his eyes dark as midnight, his lashes long and lovely. He appeared to be in his early twenties, though the top of his head was bare and smooth, and a finely-trimmed beard of wiry black hair plastered his cheeks. He was shirtless and I could see another tuft of coarse hair covering his pectoral muscles and nipples.
In his hand he held the wooden handle of a long hose. This was connected to a water pipe, a device I recognized; the men in Afghanistan had called it a huqqa. The young Moor at my side stated that it contained hashish, though I was still reeling and didn't fully pay attention to his words. Offhandedly thanking him, I took the hose and sucked in a long draw. The smoke was scented with rose and a lungful relaxed my beating heart.
"Is everything to your liking?" the man asked, taking a drag himself and smiling.
With the smoke rushing into my head, I felt momentarily bewildered. "Yes," I said, and then repeated myself. "Yes."
The candles began to glow with a buttery light, the room resembling the oil painting of an Impressionist. The long-lashed man shuffled closer. As he emerged fully from shadow, I saw that he was nude. His organ was thick and serpentine, draped softly over one of his legs. His Mohammedan heritage was clear--the exposed purple head of his dick facing toward me, swelling. He allowed his fingers to gently play along its length.
"Anything else I can help you with, effendi?" he asked in a low voice.
Swallowing, I tried to think of an answer. My yearning was glowing hot and bright but the situation, and perhaps the hashish, held me immobile. My mind fluttering like the pages of a book caught in a draft, I sputtered nonsensical utterances.
"Ah!" said another voice, saving me. "Mr. Williams!"
I snapped around to find Holmes returning, a half-dressed man under one arm and fluted glass in the other hand.
"Seems you're making yourself comfortable," said Holmes. "I myself have found a dashing companion. His name is John Rance."
The man he held sported wild brunet sideburns and a toothy grin. His face seemed rather low-brow for my tastes, with a crooked nose and a scar above one eye. He wore the pants and shoes of a constable, though the rest of his uniform seemed to have gone missing. Holmes appeared delighted with his find.
"He rather enjoys having his armpits licked," said Holmes, demonstrating with a protracted taste of the man's underarm that made Rance laugh. "And this one--" Holmes scrutinized the Moslem on the couch beside me-- "He seems like he's up for a bit of anything."
Extending his hand, Holmes pulled the darker-skinned man from the couch, slapping his naked, hairy arse once he rose. He placed an arm over the man's shoulder and aimed his two conquests away into the club. Stunned and stoned, I watched them disappear into the haze.
Nursing my annoyance with the huqqa hose, I sank deeper into a stupor. Who does Holmes think he is--a debauched Casanova expecting everyone to bend to his disgusting whims? If the price of this hedonistic lifestyle was relinquishing control over my own power, then perhaps I'd prefer to return to Baker Street alone tonight.
"That was rather rude," said a voice.
A well-groomed fellow had crossed the room to stand above me. He was smartly-dressed and carried a walking stick with a jewel. Smiling, he asked if he could take the open seat on the couch. His face was rather kind, with sparkling blue eyes and a debonair moustache decorating his upper lip. He wore his auburn hair long though neatly combed. Despite my ruffled condition, I took a liking to him and moved over to allow him a place on the couch.
"Of course my motto is this," the man said, accepting the huqqa hose, "Always make the best of whatever situation you find yourself in." Taking a drag, he allowed the smoke to slowly pour from his nostrils, the tendrils curling up and around his enchanting eyes.
Shaking my head, I realized that I'd fallen into an abysmal state. Holmes had affected me more strongly than I cared to admit. Here I was in a veritable paradise; there was no sense sulking. Why venture home alone when men were readily available all around?
After my new companion caught the attention of passerby and asked him to bring us two beers, he turned to me. "Saul, Jack Saul, Sir, of Lisle Street, Leicester Square, and ready for a lark with a free gentleman at any time." He told me he was twenty-four and originally from Dublin.
I introduced myself using Holmes' invented alias, though gave him no further particulars. Despite the fact that I could tell he was an escort of this club, I was having trouble finding a suitable topic of conversation. My confidence had been dealt a severe blow and I had yet to regain my footing. Just then, our beers arrived and we passed a moment in drinking them.
Jack Saul of Lisle Street seemed content to simply sit beside me. He pressed his thigh calmly against mine, though gave no additional indication of interest. Clearly, it was up to me to initiate further interactions.
"Have you been with a man before, Mr. Williams?" said Saul, lightly.
"Certainly," I managed to say. "Though I'm afraid I'm a bit out of my element now."
"Why is that?"
"I've simply never been in a place where love was both offered and taken so freely. To me, affairs of the bedroom have always remained behind closed doors. Seeing them exposed in this manner is more disorienting than I would have expected."
Across the room, through the curtain of smoke, I could see Holmes in outline. He was naked and his enormous curving implement stuck out pompously before him. He threw the side-burned Rance over the back of a couch and immediately sank his massive manhood all the way into Rance's snug arsehole. Soft moans carried over to my ears. The darker-skinned man Holmes had stolen took a position beneath Rance, deftly swallowing his cock while rubbing his own circumcised member. Several nearby patrons began to touch themselves, watching the action attentively.
Beside me, Saul leaned over to whisper delicately in my ear. "And are you not interested in growing more accustomed to such circumstances?"
Somehow, my limbs had become entwined with his, and my hand had come to rest upon his crotch. A growing hardness was evident beneath the cloth.
"Oh yes," I breathed, unable to tear myself away from the performance across the room.
Saul directed my hand into his trousers, and my fingers curled around his organ. It was thick and long, though the details of its scope were hidden beneath the cloth. Reflexively, I began to tug at the shaft. Saul's hand slipped into my pants and found my own stiffness, and he murmured delightedly at his discovery.
"Then what say we pull these endowments out and give the men around us a show?"
My head fell back in pleasure as Saul tugged at my foreskin. Sensations had become heightened due to the marihuana smoke. My cockhead was damp with precum. A whimper escaped my lips.
Righting myself, I begged Saul to stop. "Please. I want to feel you. But not here--I need privacy."
Twitching his moustache left to right, Saul gave me a wicked smile. He retracted his hand from my rigidity. "Of course. There are rooms we could go to for seclusion."
He stood and pulled me up. After planting a sweet kiss upon my lips, he held my hand and bade me to follow him. Holmes' orgiastic display disappeared into the smoke, as if it had been nothing more than a mirage. Noticing how, despite my best efforts, I continued to look back at the scene, Saul asked whether or not I knew the man who had swooped in earlier to claim my prize.
"Somewhat," I admitted.
Saul squeezed my palm. "I have seen him before at the club. He strikes me as a rather lonely individual, filling his life with things he doesn't really need in order to distract himself from what he really wants."
"And what is that?"
Saul's silently raised eyebrows were the only answer I received.
We reached a series of doors, from behind which issued sounds of pleasure. Courteously opening each one, Saul and I found that most were occupied with pairs, trios, or more; fucking. I believe Saul lingered on the inhabits for slightly longer than could be considered decent in order to amplify my arousal. After each viewing, he kissed me deeply, and our clothing beginning to unravel on our bodies.
By the time we reached an empty space my shirt had flown open and Saul's tantalizing hands were running through the ursine pelt on my chest and stomach. He was shirtless too, his physique slim, though his muscles were toned like that of a swimmer. Looking at him, I could almost name each grouping in the anatomy chart: deltoids, biceps, pectorals, obliques; my fingers and lips touching each in turn. A small diamond of hair sprouted at his sternum but he was otherwise smooth.
Alone at last, I felt more free to take my pleasure with him. We kissed with abandon, tongues intermingling like Parisians. The room was dark as ever, a single candle placed on a pewter tray near a mattress on the floor. Piles of pillows and blankets spilled from this rough-and-ready bed. The fact that hundreds of other men had previously given themselves to one another should have repelled me, but it instead stiffened me further.
Saul and I fell together into the downy softness of the bed, eventually landing in a position where he straddled me from above, our bodies pointed in opposite directions. Undoing the clasps on my trousers, he pulled them down to my ankles as he slid his chest over mine. He rubbed his face at the bulge in my underwear. Sniffing like a fox, he inhaled my aroma, as if no bouquet had ever been finer. His tongue slipped into my underpants just at the point where my legs met--that responsive patch behind my balls--and I squirmed, tugging uncontrollably at my beard and curls.
He fished out my towering implement, busily moving his lips over the head to collect the succulent juices that had issued forth. The hashish had intensified my awareness, my mind zeroing in on what would provide me with the greatest enjoyment. Seeing his legs over my head, I knew precisely what I wanted. Reaching up, I undid his belt and removed his accouterments. His knob sprang out, the fat tip practically knocking me in the eye. He was as at least large as I was--perhaps a bit shorter though certainly thicker.
Pulling the foreskin back, studying it carefully, I marveled at the object in my hand. Though I am a connoisseur of cocks, I know they are not always what one would call beautiful. Yet his was magnificent; evenly thick and immense, the slightest curve tapering upward to a perfectly rounded dome; the Platonic ideal of dick. Holding the shaft with two hands, I accepted Saul's splendor into my mouth.
We swallowed each other's swords, the two of us groaning with delight. Neither of our skills could match Drebber's, though throaty encapsulation need not be the only goal in cock-sucking. After driving down as far as I could, I would pull his enormity from my mouth and run my lips up and down its extensive sides. My tongue tasted his wonderful bollocks and soon his entire crotch was dripping with saliva and other fluids. The warm wet feelings issuing from my own private parts were already almost more than I could bear.
But now Saul introduced a new element, his finger gently probing at the spot behind my hairy sack. It moved in a posterior direction, landing directly in my twitching hole and sending electric enchantments up and down my body. Matching his movements, I explored his rear end, finding it smooth as his body save a ring of hair just around the opening. Naturally, my mouth gravitated that way. Shortly, my tongue had taken over for my fingers and he returned the favor in kind, each of us diving headfirst into the other's sweaty crack. We relished our mutual anal-lingual stimulation, our hands running over each other's glutes, occasionally reaching to tug at each other's rods.
Caught up in a riot of sensations, I knew the next thing I needed--to feel Saul's thick hardness opening up my aperture. It was not an indulgence I always dallied in, but there were times when no other position could satisfy my urges. Taking control, I shuffled out from beneath Saul and flipped him over on his back. He wriggled on the bed excitedly, wondering what I had in store. Straddling him like a horseman, I arched my buttocks, grabbing his shaft and rubbing it against my hole. An itching need had started to spread throughout my opening. The feeling of his massive cockhead temporarily relieved it, but I required even greater pleasures.
On the pewter dish sat an array of oils and unguents. We each reached over to grab one; I smearing ointment on my impatient arsehole while he coated his substantial member with cream. Leaning down, I kissed him. We locked eyes in the low candlelight, sweat dripping down our faces. His ebullient smile melted my heart. This moment, the calm before the fucking, was one I wanted to savor for as long as I could.
Of course, my body had other needs that soon announced themselves. My pucker was now twitching expectantly and so I once again moved backwards over Saul's body. His tip slipped unexpectedly into my compartment; the task happening so smoothly that it stunned me. Normally, I required a fair amount of digital encouragement to relax my purse strings yet here we were, Saul's glans already working its way into my hole. Sighing with a combination of delight and surprise, I felt his stiffness dig slightly deeper. Saul looked at me as if to ask if everything was alright and I nodded to indicate that he continue.
Another inch of his largesse slid into my slot, stretching my sphincter. My arsehole accepted the girth without complaint, the pucker pliable as soft butter. It drove me into a frenzy, running my hands through my chest hair, pinching my tender nipples, and making me shift my hips farther back to capture more of this man's magical endowment. The grin on his face indicated his delight, as if he knew the agitation his instrument could induce, and he gave my buttocks a few encouraging slaps. He drove farther inside me and I welcomed his intruder with zeal.
My nerve endings were ablaze as we reached the end of his shaft, the base of his cock resting against my cheeks. Leaning back, I teased his hole, tickled his balls, and felt the spot where his thickness entered me. It seemed almost too colossal to be possible. He began to rock his hips up and down ever so slightly, stoking my pleasure and provoking me to new heights. My dick dribbled fluid onto his chest. He wrapped two hands around my enormous shaft, which jutted outrageously outward, and squeezed tight.
At first, I directed the thrusting. Stroking forward, I was able to evacuate most of his magnitude from my cavity, bringing my cockhead nearly to his chin, before plunging him all the way back inside, driving us both to ecstasy. But then he took control, ploughing me a brisk pace, his magnificent implement lunging expertly in and out. The sensation was celestial, my entire being opening from his skill and proficiency. I would not be surprised if our jubilant cries could be heard in Eton.
We shifted positions a few times; he taking me on my back, then from behind while I crouched on all fours. Eventually, we settled on our sides, he spooning me as my left leg stuck straight up into the air. He played his fingers over my erection like a practiced musician on their favorite instrument, bringing me close to the edge but subsiding just before I came. All the while his unbelievable attribute dove into my trembling pucker, coaxing me farther and farther toward Arcadian bliss. With each ingress, I felt the pressure on my prostate, the crowding of my compartment, the astonishing hardness and strength of his enormity. I wanted this delight to be never-ending.
Yet nothing can last forever. A man accepting another man deep inside him, opening up his sanctum sanctorum, was among the methods that would most readily bring both to come. Enraptured by Saul's implement, I marveled at the fact that not all men allowed themselves such pleasure; that we alone had figured this beautiful indulgence. I realized that sliding tower, glistening as it worked its exquisite occupation of my arsehole, sundering my body, was not something to be hidden in shadows, covert and clandestine. It was right and good to allow these acts their necessary place among the wonders of the human experience.
With these heady thoughts whirling through my mind, my cock began to spasm, expelling a tremendous milky white stream that coated my torso, my neck, my face, and even Saul's. We drank in its delectable spray, more copious than I believe I've ever before produced, as waves of abandoning joy traveled toe to crown through my being. Saul continued his thrusts for a few more heavenly moments before giving in to his own expulsion. As he came, he pulled out his magnificence and aimed it all around, dousing us both in a second shower of sticky discharge.
Nuzzling my neck, he whispered in wonderment about the unbelievable partaking we had both shared. "You are a savant of sex, my friend. Do not close yourself off from others." After cleaning off, I thanked and paid him. Lingering on the bed, we held each other, kissing and embracing while reiterating our mutual bond, our soft endowments rubbing against one another. I knew this would not be the last time I sought out the company of Jack Saul.
Eventually, I drifted back out into the club. Coming back to the couch, I found the aftermath of Holmes' exhibition. Rance and the Moor were sprawled and sated, dreamy grins on their faces as they drifted off the sleep in each other's arms. Some of the looky-loos around them had taken to coupling in the low light, and a faint background of grunts and moans could be heard all around. Holmes himself had nearly finished dressing, smartly fastening the clasps of his cufflinks as I approached.
"Was a good time had by all?" he asked, tipping his head playfully. I nodded, though did not wish to go into particulars. "Well, during my exertions I learned an interesting fact: Joseph Strangerson has been here recently."
In spite of the pleasures around me, my mind turned back to the case. "How did you find that out?"
"He and Rance were occasional lovers. But Strangerson had rejected Rance's most recent offer of a dalliance. Apparently, Strangerson had rekindled an affair with an old paramour, a Mr. Jefferson Hope, and would have no other."
"Do you suppose that is the man who came between him and Drebber?"
"I am certain. And here is another curiosity: all three of these men are followers of the Church of Latter-Day Saints."
"The American sect? What significance does that have?"
But Holmes had hidden his thoughts once again behind a secretive smirk. "Come, Watson, or I shall be late for Chopin."
Interesting side note: while doing quick online research for this, I found out that 221B Baker Street, Watson and Holmes' fictional address, is rather close to London's Victorian-era gay district. Make of that what you will.
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