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I will not deny how attractive I found sir Henry Baskerville from the very moment we first met. The baronet who had only just come over from Canada was younger than I was but not by much, tall, and well built, with a pleasantly weathered face that was blessed with a set of large hazel eyes and excellent manly features. He altogether looked fierce and proud and strong, yet kind and trustworthy. His appearance may have been a little unkept, with his longish hair and hint of stubble, but that only added to the man’s virile charm, and beside that his manner was expressive and his voice with its exotic accent intriguing to listen to. The awe Baskerville displayed at Holmes’ skilful deductions about the mysterious letter he presented to us at breakfast only further warmed me to him, as did his courageous insistence on going to the Hall of his ancestors despite the threat to his life. I was equally thrilled and apprehensive at the prospect of travelling with the baronet to Baskerville Hall to protect him. Holmes, of course, had observed.
“I’m afraid our Canadian friend underestimates the danger that awaits him out on the moor. But you will keep him safely occupied and satisfied indoors, won’t you, my dear Watson?” he murmured to me not long before our 10.30 train for Devonshire left Paddington station. My face promptly felt like it had caught on fire. Drat my intimate friend, in possession of such great intellect, who yet seemed to understand preciously little about all to be considered before attempting to enter such relations.
Yet he was hardly naive about the ways of the world. Probably Holmes did understand, yet judged those considerations to be an illogical fabrication of society, and so felt free to amuse himself a little at the expense of men of passions such as myself. Certainly it was ridiculous of me to be so embarrassed by my friend’s suggestion, when I knew that Holmes meant well, that despite his teasing manner he was genuinely concerned for both my own and sir Henry Baskerville’s sake. Yet it was hard to shed myself of my last remnants of shame whenever I was confronted about having such desires while face to face with the one who had none. It seemed unfair that Holmes could be so blasé about a topic I myself had struggled to come to terms with for many years.
During the whole train journey, my mind kept mercilessly drifting back to Holmes’ words and the imagery they brought with them. It certainly did not help that sir Henry was seated right across from me, gazing out onto the country landscape gliding past with glee.
Safely occupied and satisfied
… What would it take to satisfy a man as he? My salvation from embarrassing myself came in the form of distraction from dr. Mortimer’s incomprehensible yet amusing talk about physiognomy, and, even more entertaining, from his adorable spaniel who insisted to be petted.
Speaking truthfully, it really was not my intention to seduce sir Henry Baskerville. I tended to limit my occasional affairs with men to either a select few trusted friends, or complete strangers; anyone who fell in between I considered not worth the risk, both too unknown to be trustworthy enough and too well known for forgetfulness should things go astray. Sir Henry’s vast wealth was another reason to refrain. Better to not accidentally offend someone who had such limitless resources at hand as he, or convey the impression that I was only after his money, which was definitely not the cause of my interest in him. Holmes and I had more than enough to comfortably get by. My last and most important reservation was that, despite how kind and jovial the baronet was to a humble doctor and writer as me, I thought it unlikely he would be interested in pursuing such unserious pleasures when it was obvious that he would need to direct his energy to finding a wife and producing a future heir to secure the stability of the Baskerville estate.
Our first days at Baskerville Hall only strengthened me in my view: the baronet had certainly swiftly let his eyes fall onto the beautiful miss Stapleton to fulfill the role of the future Baskerville wife. Was sir Henry even carnally drawn to other men at all? My gut feeling told me he might be but it was hard to tell for sure; I may have had affairs on three continents but America was not one of them, so I had no experience yet with distinguishing between mere warm manner and desirous affection in one from that cross Atlantic-ocean culture.
So, both for my own reasons and out of a wish to avoid having to confess to Holmes that I had in fact engaged in such acts with sir Henry Baskerville, I was determined to keep my attraction unexpressed. Yet my desire for him grew stronger and harder to ignore as sir Henry and I became familiar with each other, drifting closer together in friendship during shared explorations of the ancient Baskerville house and its dreary surroundings, his ruggedly handsome face flushed by chill and wind, accentuating the lively sparkle in those hazel eyes. His promise to Stapleton after that man’s odd behaviour to not meet with miss Stapleton the coming months meant that I had his company to myself for the majority of the time. I learnt that my new friend was skilful with a bow and arrow and a carving knife; I learnt of his bravery in hunting and his cheer in playing games; I grew especially fond of the easy chatter sir Henry so freely engaged in. The sombre environment of the moor, aggravated by the wet autumn weather, had a depressing effect on me; the cold brought out the occasional old ache; I thought Baskerville Hall rather dismal; the threat Holmes had so insistingly warned about was never far from my mind. Yet through that all he consistently lifted my spirits with his company. Sir Henry Baskerville was a great, generous and distractingly attractive friend to have.
Just like me he was a man eager to take to action too, I discovered, when sir Henry without hesitation made his proposal to lay an ambush for Barrymore after I laid my observation about the butler’s mysterious nightly movements before him. So it was just after eleven that very night when the both of us retreated to the baronet’s rooms. I only realised I had placed myself in quite a possibly compromising situation when I had settled down into a comfortable armchair beside the fire, opposite yet close to sir Henry, and it was just him and me, alone behind a closed door, in a silent house. Thoughts of a, well, quite different course of action to take during the night were suddenly impossible to ignore.
In those hushed nightly hours that seemed to stretch on forever, my senses alert with the nervous thrill of our mission, my desire grew to such heights I could hardly bear it. My protectee was so nearby, seated in his green velvet armchair - clad in a newly tailored fine British tweed suit, high leather boots and arctic fox fur waistcoat he had taken with him from Canada, illuminated by the dim orange glow of the low fire, he simply looked ravishing. My gut was tingling with warmth - if I but leant forth and stretched out my arm, I would be able to touch him. What would sir Henry Baskerville be like under those clothes? My whole body yearned to feel him, taste him, have him. In this warm and cosy corner of the eerily silent, cold, dark house, I could not seem to remember one reason as to why I should refrain.
During the first night of our joint vigil, I was just barely able to hold strong. Deep into our second night, bored and weary of restraining myself, I at last gave in to the insistent call of my body.
It is not without its dangers, these games of seduction with other men. I risked much worse than rejection - some men who find themselves the object of desire by other men recoil in disgust and refuse to ever meet in friendship again, others become violent with disdain, a few even go as far as attempting to ruin one’s reputation as retaliation. I had the impression the authorities rather wished to avoid being confronted with the subject of gross indecency, and that they did not particularly care what consenting men quietly did in private, but I was well aware that even legal persecution occasionally did occur if one gave sufficient cause for it. Our current laws certainly allowed for it. Yet one cannot claim that I shrink away from the prospect of danger, for else I would not happily share quarters all these years with my dear friend Sherlock Holmes. I confess that, beside the joy of intimate companionship and pleasure, the not-quite-safe thrill of carnal encounters as these has its own appeal.
I started subtly, on the stable grounds where I could gauge sir Henry’s interest while still able being to deny any lecherous intent on my part should I find his response lacking. I caught Baskerville’s eye and then slowly let my gaze wander down his body, a little too lingering in certain areas to be mere interest in his clothing. His eyes promptly widened. I had his attention; now I meant to keep it. I wrapped my lips around my cigar a tad suggestively. My knees fell wider apart, casually, with just a hint of the thrust of hips as I adjusted my sitting posture.
I was succeeding in my seduction; I could tell at once. I certainly did not have my intimate friend’s great observational skills, but nonetheless am well versed in spotting the signs of arousal. Sir Henry’s startled gaze kept fixed on my figure, roaming all over like he was taking me in entirely anew; there rose a telling ruddy hue of colour upon his cheeks. I could even hear the frequency of his respiration increasing by a fraction when I strained my medically trained ears. None of these things were guarantees that my attractive friend would consent, of course, but they were promising signs nonetheless. Especially because, after I anxiously awaited what the object of my desire would do, sir Henry relaxed his study of me and donned a pleased and expectant expression - both the corners of his mouth and his eyebrows slightly quirking up. I decided to push him a little further, catching the baronet’s eyes again before I deliberately licked my lips. And oh, there it was, the way his eyes dropped down to my mouth, followed by that telling subtle shift in his seat. I was willing to bet those neatly tailored trousers of his now fitted a little tighter.
“Either I am misinterpreting British manner,” Henry Baskerville spoke, his voice low and a tad breathless, “or you are up to something, my great friend.”
Ah, but that was excellent. An acknowledgement he was aware of my offer, vague enough to not be offensive had he in fact misinterpreted, and at once an expression of affection for me to leave no question that he would be amendable.
I had him exactly where I wanted him. “Indeed I am, dear baronet,” I said, grinning in giddy anticipation. “Please allow me to make my intentions obvious.”
At his answering grin, I threw all caution aside, dropping onto my knees in front of Baskerville. His reaction was a delight: his breath hitched, he spread his legs and slid lower into his seat for me in an unmistakable invitation, and my mouth promptly watered, knowing I would actually get to taste him. My instinct was to tear his clothes off him so as to quickly get to the bulge that was thus presented so alluringly before my eyes. Yet I told myself to take my time, for I was of the fast opinion that any first encounter should always be treasured, never rushed. I placed my hands onto sir Henry’s sturdy thighs, and at our first physical contact, he actually gasped and flushed a deeper red. If he was already this responsive to a touch this innocent - dear Lord, I could not wait to see how utterly I could make him lose control over himself in the deepest throes of pleasure. The thought alone stirred me in my trousers.
I slowly slid my hands up higher, finally pausing to instead hover them above the fastening of his trousers, awaiting one last clear permissive word, and got it at once, a resounding, impatient, “Good God, Watson, yes!”
How eager was he! Much pleased, I proceeded to rub one of my hands over that alluring bulge and was met by his moan, a sound of pure pleasure that sent heat all through me. I hastily took off my smoking jacket to cool myself down a little; sir Henry did the same with his tweed jacket, so that I was blessed with the arousing view of him in his shirtsleeves.
I rose up all the way on my knees, stretching my arms out towards his chest to one by one undo all the buttons that protected his modesty, carefully pulling open the fur waistcoat and then the trousers bit by bit. Baskerville’s eyes on me were dark, full of impatient, unadulterated lust. I was finally presented with the drawstring of the linen drawers and took it in hand, making swift work of untying it and partly pulling the drawers down together with his trousers, growing increasingly impatient myself. Sir Henry readily helped me by lifting his hips. I tugged at the long woolen shirt that made up the last barrier and pushed it up with both hands until it bunched around his chest. Then at last I had sir Henry Baskerville’s impressive cockstand bared to my eye, in all his glory; proudly jutting out from its thatch of black curls, stiff and reddened, glistening at the tip. The intense, musky smell that met me was intoxicating.
I eagerly wrapped my hand around the thick girth, drawing a strangled moan out of sir Henry, and marvelled at the feel of delicate, warm, silky-soft skin beneath my fingers. I moved my hand experimentally up and down, after a while settling to a pace and amount of pressure that my attractive friend - as shown by a rather uncontrolled jerking of his hips and his myriad of low yet deep sounds - was very much pleased by. All of his aroused reactions caused me to grow harder yet, but I ignored my own need, for first I wanted far more from my friend. I stilled my hand to hold him steady at the base.
And oh, did he know what I was about to do to him. Sir Henry Baskerville was watching me, struck speechless for once, mouth agape. His hands were clutching the armrests of his chair so hard the knuckles turned white.
I felt emboldened. It was an incredible boost to my self-esteem that, even though the days that I was young and unmarred were long behind me, I could still have such an effect on lovers. “Can you remain quiet enough during this, sir Henry, or should I find a gag for you?” I teased.
The baronet of Baskerville closed his mouth and swallowed with visible difficulty. “l - I should think there is no need,” he croaked out.
I smiled, taking his answer for the challenge it was, and bent forwards to swirl my tongue around the tip of his prick. His resulting moan, I admit, was not loud - but it was guttural and long, and set my whole spine aflame. I wanted to hear more of that, wanted this wealthy baronet to utterly forget himself, so I took him fully into my mouth, stimulating the sensitive head with my tongue while I let my lips slide down the length. His salt-bitter musk pleasantly overwhelmed my senses. To my delight I discovered I could take him whole; he was thick, but not so long as to make me gag.
“My good doctor!” It was not quite a shout, but satisfyingly close to it, so I increased my efforts. The feel of his full hardness in my mouth was immensely gratifying. The baronet’s gasps and encouragements and moans gradually grew continuous, a wonderful music to my ears as I tried out a few different rhythms and tempos of sliding up and down, finally deciding on a slow yet deep and intense pace. I had maintained that tempo for a few minutes when one of sir Henry’s hands fell to my head, a gentle pressure. He was panting. My hand not engaged with holding him steady was on his thigh; I felt that its powerful muscles were tensioning. It would not be long now, so I quickened again, unleashing a string of colourful curses which I would be sure to tease him about later. I applied more pressure with my tongue: sir Henry Baskerville became undone rather spectacularly, head thrown back, trashing, trembling, groaning, his strong hands clenching and unclenching, the very image of unrestrained pleasure. He flooded my mouth with his taste wave after wave and I eagerly drank him.
When I had guided him gently down from his crisis, the baronet of Baskerville sank back and laid limply for some moments, heaving his breast and catching his breath while I watched him smugly; then he abruptly pulled me up from my knees and into his lap, kissing me with fierce abandon. And oh, it was excellent: passionate, none too gentle, a perfect expression of lustful friendship. I kissed him back just as enthusiastically, our tongues sliding together in that most pleasurable way. Yet sir Henry had more in mind with me; his fingers reached for the front of my trousers, which definitely were straining against my full hardness by now. He wasted no time in undoing the buttons and ribbons; the baronet of Baskerville demanded access, and would not be slowed by such small inconveniences. He succeeded in yanking everything loose, then instead of properly opening my trousers and drawers he simply reached inside, shoving aside my shirt and to my vast relief pulled me out, his fingers finally upon my length. I moaned shamelessly into his neck as pleasure at his touch washed over me. His long fingers felt incredible; he was so warm and sturdy beneath me; I rapidly lost all ability of rational thought as I let the sensations take over me.
When I had spilled myself all over sir Henry’s hand, the baronet wrapped his strong arms around me - cradling me close, his clean hand stroking my hair with surprisingly tender affection.
I sighed contentedly, wriggling to settle myself more comfortably against his great breast. “Am I not getting too heavy?”
“You are not. Stay.”
“Hmm, I might never rise then.” I am no light man; it was blissful to lay on the lap of someone who was strong and sturdy enough to bear my weight. Sir Henry turned to stroking the back of my neck, a part of my body that is remarkably sensitive, and my whole body went limp with pleasure against him.
He chuckled. “Oh my, dear doctor, you are positively purring.”
“Continue your caress like that and I might do more than merely purr, my good baronet.”
“I never quite dared to hope I would be blessed enough to have you,” he whispered then, sounding completive. “Handsome friend, I assumed you already taken.”
Sir Henry knew that I was a long-time widower, so that could only mean one thing. It was not the first time such an assumption was made either. “By Sherlock Holmes, you mean?”
“Yes.”
There was a curiosity in that affirmation, and I pondered for a while on how I would answer it.
“If you have no wish to talk about mr. Holmes with me-” my friend started, but I hushed him with a quick kiss.
“I am taken by Holmes,” I said. I felt that in my bones to be true. Even when I was still a married man, before my dear Mary had passed away, I had still belonged to Holmes first and foremost. “We are very intimate with and devoted to each other. Just… not sexually.”
“Ah. But why not?”
“Because his interest does not lay in carnal matters.” I thought Holmes would not mind it if I told sir Henry that. He is forefront about his disinterest for what he somewhat inaccurately refers to as ‘the distractions of the heart’. It is sex and romance he dislikes and refuses to engage with, not all sentiment, I had found.
“Not even a little?” Sir Henry sounded somewhat astonished. “I did not know that was possible for a man.”
I shrugged. “Oh, it is definitely possible. Several patients I had were like him; they visited me because they all assumed something to be wrong with them. Yet I examined them and they were physically well and able and normal - and I did not see reason to assume such differences in sexual inclinations to be caused by mental unwellness either, as is sometimes claimed. Then men such as you and I, Baskerville, would have to be unwell either, and I do not think that true - not anymore. My theory is that such disinterest is caused by the same unknown factor that predeterminates some men to be tempted by men, or women, or both. For a small portion it simply somehow seems to be neither.”
“I find it hard to envision a life without erotic satisfaction. Is carnality not a vital function of the male nature?”
“Oh no, medically speaking, there is no necessity to engage in such actions.”
“Well, it sure is a necessity for me,” sir Henry said in a light tone, squeezing my waist, making me giggle. Then his tone sobered once more, “All this is truly fascinating and I will devote some time to think about it. But, good friend, right now I can’t help but wonder - you write and speak with such love about mr. Holmes. Does it not pain you that he will not lay with you?”
In any other moment, to any other person save one, I would have declined to answer. That was an invasive question. But I realised Baskerville’s inquiry came from a mind overflowing with direct honesty and open curiosity, not from a judgemental one, and I felt so comfortable and secure and satisfied then, straddled on the baronet’s lap encircled by his warm strong arms, that I went ahead with voicing my mind.
“It really does not,” I said, almost thinking aloud. “Of course there are moments where I would like nothing more than to take my intimate friend to bed to physically express just how great I think he is and how much I adore him. Yet… one cannot have everything he might wish for in life always. That would surely spoil a man. And it really is such a small loss, compared to everything truly important. Why should I make my desire his problem, why should I bemoan the way Holmes is, when it is my privilege and joy to share life with him?”
“So you chose to not bother mr. Holmes and occasionally instead seek physical fulfillment with other men when the urge drives you to?” Sir Henry’s hand moved to my thigh, stroking the inside. “I suppose I should be grateful to mr. Holmes’ abstinence, for otherwise I might not have the immense pleasure of a handsome, charming doctor seated on my lap right now.”
I laughed. “As long as you promise to not actually express your thankfulness to him! Holmes is insufferable enough about it as it is. You know that he actually suggested to me before our train left that I ‘keep you occupied and satisfied indoors’?”
Sir Henry was now laughing, too. I gave him a joyful kiss before pulling back, “I recognise that it may all sound queer to you, and it took a while for the both of us to settle into it as well after my wife passed away and Holmes returned to me, but it is a living arrangement which works well for the both us. He worries for my safety when I head out alone in quest for relief, yet I do the same for him when he is out in disguise for one of his cases, so we are at least on equal footing there. We simply are not meant to share in all our activities. Yet there is much mutual enjoyment in the adventures and affection Holmes and I do share. I feel ours to be a deeper, more remarkable bond than exists between many married couples.”
Sir Henry was gently rubbing my back now. “Undoubtedly you are right in your assessment,” he said. “Yet in all your admiration of mr. Holmes I do not think you realise how remarkable a man you yourself are, dear doctor. You have capabilities of your own, and certainly not many would be so understanding and kind and loyal, yet you wear these qualities as easily as if they were a cloak tailored for you. I feel honoured to have your friendship, Watson.”
I found myself blushing furiously. To distract from my pleased embarrassment at sir Henry’s words of praise, I reached up to cradle his fine head in my hands, tipped it back and caressed his neck with my lips and tongue, “As I am to have yours, my brave and generous baronet.”
Sir Henry let me lavish him for a while, softly purring himself now. Then he moved his lips up my jaw, planting light kisses along it, until they reached my ear. “You have driven me quite wild these last weeks, Watson, being all the time in my vicinity yet me telling myself that I was not allowed to touch.”
“You’ll have to compensate me for the lost time then, Baskerville,” I said, immensely enjoying myself.
“Oh, I intend to!” Sir Henry fiercely kissed me once again. His hands slid down to my backside. “The things I would like to do to you,” he murmured directly into my ear, voice sounding roughened with desire once again, and I felt my body promptly react to both his words and his touch. I grinded against him, our still unclothed pricks sliding deliciously together, and we moaned in unison. I imagined these beautiful fingers of his inside me; riding him straddling his hips; stripping him down to thoroughly explore and admire every bit of him. Perhaps he would even grant me the privilege of letting me enter him. I felt that my manhood was fully standing at attention again, quite ready for another round of debauchery. Yet when I glanced up I caught sight of the intricate clockwork mounted against the wall, and suddenly remembered why sir Henry and I were still sitting up in his living quarters this late in the autumn night, so I sighed, and with deep regret extracted myself out of the baronet’s arms to sit upright on his lap.
“I am most eager to find out all of your lecherous plans with me,” I whispered, to let sir Henry know that I was not rejecting him in the slightest. “But perhaps we ought to clean up now and make ourselves presentable, if we still are to have any hope of catching Barrymore on his mysterious nightly endeavors.”
Of course, that was the moment when we heard stealthy approaching footsteps on the corridor.