I pushed Sebastian forward to lay flat on the bed and I clambered on top to place my weight over his prone form. Our skin touched everywhere it could and I burned, burned with sensation. I took Sebastian’s hands and entwined our fingers with our hands on the mattress above his head, and then I thrust like a barnyard beast, reveling in the whimpers and moans of delight from the man beneath me. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh counterpointed by grunts, whimpers and the straining of the bed timbers became a beautiful rhythmic music of sorts. I nestled my cheek to Sebastian’s so we were joined, hands, bodies, and prick. This union was more than I ever could have imagined, and when I felt the sudden exquisite sting of pleasure and planted my seed inside him, it was as if his body responded, greedily sucking every drop from me.
Sweaty, panting, and riding on a wave of euphoria I pulled out and rolled off. Sebastian moved up the bed and “Oh Gods, oh Gods…Benedict—” he pleaded as he desperately presented his swollen member to my lips. Dazedly, I took him, sucking his slender prick into my mouth. After a few swift strokes, he too could not hold back the agony of bliss. His muscles tensed and then his beautiful face twisted in such exquisite anguish. He threw his head back and hissed my name as bitter, salty seed pulsed on my tongue and filled my mouth. I gulped to swallow so that I would not choke. When done, Sebastian pulled out and slumped back on the bed beside me, his chest rising and falling as if he were on the run! We turned to look at one another, eyes glassy with satisfaction, and the understanding shared only by lovers. Then, with a foxy grin enlivening his face Sebastian rolled over and tenderly devoured my lips.
I slept like a bear and when I awoke it was to the sound of a paperboy on The Mall calling out the news headline:
“READ AWL ABAHT IT, DANDY ROGUE STRIKES IN SCOTLAND!”
I snuggled into the soft down pillow my mind sodden with sleep. Suddenly, I sat erect at understanding what I’d heard. The press had called him The Gentleman Thief, but it appeared they’d devised a new moniker for Sebastian, The Dandy Rogue. Oh, Gods, I did not know whether to laugh or cry. I turned to gauge Sebastian’s reaction, however, I was alone in the bed, and when I smoothed my hand over the sheet on his side of the bed, I found it was cold. He must have crept out in the early hours of the morn. I was displeased about him leaving, but as my fingers met the crisp sheaf of paper on the pillow beside mine I was content that at least he had taken the time to leave a note.
If you need to correspond for any reason write a note addressed to Mr. Mountjoy and have a runner leave it with a reception clerk at Claridge's. It will find my hand.
The note was signed with a flamboyant S and beneath was a kiss. That tiny X made a tear leap to my eye, and then I scolded myself for being a sentimental old fool.
Sebastian and I were supposed to speak about the men who dined with Baron Von Liebenstein, but our lovemaking made us both feather-headed with lust. I was intrigued as to what he knew about the American ‘truth seeker’.
The paperboy called out again pulling me from my thoughts. I shook my head and smiled, Dandy Rogue indeed!
The Silver Fish
Thursday 30th December 1897
Dawning happiness rather took me by surprise. The day after my assignation with Sebastian, I found I was content in a way that I had observed with couples but never expected of myself. I recalled how once I had resented such displays of happiness and self-contentment because I believed that, due to my preference, companionship was something I was eternally barred from experiencing. However, now that I had a friend who seemed to understand me the world was brighter, the depraved, filthy city did not bother me as much as it used to, and life was not so grim and serious.
The New Year of 1898 would see me giving a grand auction of Spanish works, from masterpieces by painters, Goya, Velázquez, and El Greco, to ceramics, pottery, glass wear, and the heavy baroque furniture that currently seemed in vogue and was much sought after by the gentry for their country estates. Society was a buzz and I expected the high and mighty to flock to the event on the seventh day of January.
Recommencing my familiar daily routine after the festive season, I awoke at five a.m on Monday third of January. On rainy or snowy days or when my affliction bothered me I would make use of a hansom cab to travel to work, but this day when I drew back the drapes the smog had lifted and the heavy rain that fell the previous night melted the remaining snow. Dawn gave way to a painterly sky of golden peach, pink, and watery blue. I thanked the Lord for this glorious bright new morn. I felt… good in myself. This was the rarest of days; therefore, I felt the need to walk to work and fill my lungs. The London air is not the purest, but a walk is good for the soul, is it not.
Walking from my home on Bedford Square, with my cane in hand, I strode down Rowland Street and onto Great Titchfield toward my business premises at 38 St Margaret Street, Fitzrovia. I walked with purpose, a spring in my step, and a lightness to my being I’d never known before, while
