The Story of Lanyon and Henry

To ensure that the transformation was temporary, I employed copper sulfate, an emetic that would aid in rapidly flushing the toxins from the body. Copper sulfate was a common and well-documented drug; nonetheless, I tested it in concert with some of my psychoactive elixirs to establish that I could control the period of delirium, reducing it from as much as twelve hours to as little as four.

I also employed a short-term sleeping draught to induce exhaustion in Henry, so that he would slumber through the transformation. Again, experimentation was necessary, but I eventually was able to standardize the dosing to a level that plunged him into sleep within two hours after dinner, but would dissipate after approximately ninety minutes, returning him to consciousness. As for Hyde, the copper sulfate ensured that the body would rid itself of the transformative compounds within six hours, so that Henry would awaken as himself.

Developing the necessary potions took the better part of six months, but eventually yielded a transformative elixir that acted quickly, put my husband to sleep shortly after dinner, allowed his alter-ego to waken an hour and a half later, gave me several hours for experimentation, and finally ensured the transformation back into my dear Henry long before he was due to awaken in the morning.

*

My first attempt with the new Hyde elixir was an abject failure. Recognizing the potential danger of allowing my husband's alter-ego to run free, I waited until Henry fell asleep, then secured his wrists and ankles to the bedposts with lengths of rope. Initially, he slept quite soundly, but as he grew nearer to wakeness, he shifted and stretched, his thrashing hands and legs testing the limits of his bonds. He began mumbling and groaning, and the fabric on his shirtsleeves and pant legs filled out with the bulk of his clenching muscles. He appeared to be growing more muscle mass, as his face became sharper in a strange, undefinable way.

When he opened his eyes, they were tan.

He blinked at me, and a smile crept across his face, but as he attempted to move his arms toward me, it faded. "Where am I?" he demanded.

"You're in the home of Dr. and Mrs. Henry Jekyll," I responded.

"Jekyll!" he spat as a grimace twisted his features. "But you! I remember you!" His smile slowly returned. "My sweet sparrow. How lovely to see you again."

My face flushed and I cleared my throat. "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Hyde."

He glanced at his right wrist, tightly bound in rope. "And now you're Jekyll's wife. How things change."

"It has been quite some time," I admitted. I was dumbfounded at the politeness of our conversation. In our prior interactions, he had been little more than a brute; now, he seemed almost courtly. Was this some part of my Henry slipping through into his other self?

"And here we are again," Hyde said. "Although under strange circumstances. Perhaps you could tell me how I came to be tied to your bed?" He smiled again. "In our previous meetings, I never got the impression that your tastes extended in this direction."

I colored even more deeply. "You're secured for... well, for my safety. Based on our prior meetings, it seemed wise to ensure that you were incapacitated."

"I suppose I can understand that. You are, after all, an irresistible morsel." His eyes glittered with hunger. "Yet, I'm sure you can see that you are in no danger. If you could perhaps loosen these ropes..."

"I-I'm afraid that I'll need to keep them in place for the time being, Mr. Hyde."

His features twisted back into a grimace as he tugged at his bindings. After a few moments of struggling, he relaxed his features. "So what is it to be between us, Mrs. Jekyll? Am I to be your plaything this evening? I'm afraid I have little experience with this sort of arrangement. Most of my assignations tend to be more... unrestrained."

"Th-this isn't that sort of evening, I'm afraid. I-I'm not interested in you that way."

His smile broadened at my words and I saw him weighing their honesty—which, I must admit, was in question. "Then, if this isn't to be that sort of evening, may I inquire exactly what sort of evening it will be? Am I to dance for you? Tell tales to make the hours pass more quickly?"

I took a deep breath to steady myself. "You are a fascinating man, Mr. Hyde. I do believe that there is nobody quite like you in all the world. And tonight, you are to be an object of study. I plan to take some samples from you."

"What sort of samples?"

"Nothing you will miss. A bit of blood, perhaps some hair."

His brow furrowed. "I fear, Mrs. Jekyll, that this will not go as you planned."

*

The following fortnight proved Mr. Hyde's prediction to be true. That first evening, he broke three needles and shattered a syringe as I attempted to take his blood. When I brought him forth a few days later, the same thing occurred, although I trussed him even more securely. A week later, after yet another attempt and another handful of broken needles. I noticed abrasions around his wrists. He smiled at my concern.

"I see you're beginning to understand, Mrs. Jekyll. You won't be able to get the information you need without my cooperation. And, if we continue in this vein—so to speak—you're going to begin leaving evidence that even your dunderheaded husband won't be able to ignore. Don't you think he's going to wonder why his wrists are rubbed raw? Or perhaps why he's suddenly wracked with aches and pains, as if from a night of struggle?" He smirked. "You're trying to hide it from him, are you not?" I nodded. "And how long do you think that will be possible without my assistance?"

I assume Hyde saw the frustration on my face. "There's no clear answer, is there, my sweet sparrow? Clearly, you won't be able to gather your little samples without my cooperation. And no samples means that your little study will grind to a halt before it even begins. Have you found the solution yet?"

I shook my head.

"Why, you're going to need my cooperation. And if you want that, you'll have to negotiate."

*

When Hyde awakened the next night, he seemed surprised to find himself unbound. I wasn't completely unprepared to defend myself—I had secured a pistol and had it near my hand—but for all intents and purposes, he was free.

He grinned at me. "I see you're prepared to negotiate, Mrs. Jekyll." He straightened in the bed, and I reached for the pistol. He chuckled. "Come, Mrs. Jekyll. We both know that's an empty threat. For better or worse, I share this body with your husband. Any injury done to me is an injury to him. And while I can't imagine why anyone would want to maintain a relationship with dull old Henry Jekyll, I suspect that you aren't yet prepared to become a widow."

I straightened. "No. But that doesn't mean that I won't defend myself. And you might want to consider whether the daughter of a Colonel might not know how to inflict a non-mortal wound in the defense of her honor."

His eyes glittered. "Touché, my dear." He stretched. "In that case, it would appear that we're at an impasse. And so the negotiations begin."

I raised my chin and stared back at him. "And so they do."

"Well, in the spirit of negotiation, please tell me what, exactly, it is that you would like from me."

I squared my shoulders. "I want your cooperation as I continue my work. That will include taking regular samples of your blood and hair, and may also include skin and urine samples."

"Urine, you say?" He smiled. "You're more adventurous than I imagined." I cursed the flush that I knew was spreading across my face, but Hyde seemingly took no note of my discomfort. "And in return for these considerations, what will I receive?"

"I-I don't know." I regretted not better preparing myself for this confrontation. "You'll... well, you'll be here. Conscious. That's more than you've had for the last seven years."

"That's true," he said, his eyes boring into me. "But what is life without experience? The idea of being awakened, but then being imprisoned in this perfect little home of yours..." He grimaced. "It's not an appealing option."

"I cannot allow you to roam free," I admitted. "You would undoubtedly finish your evening in some other dwelling, leaving my husband to awaken in a strange bed. He would soon learn of your return."

"I could promise to return every night...?"

"I think you'll understand why I'm not ready to trust you," I replied. "I-I suppose I could accompany you on your adventures."

His grin widened. "I think you already know that I will require more than that, Mrs. Jekyll."

"W-what do you want?" I cringed as I feared—anticipated—the answer.

"I want you."

My mind swam. "What do you mean by that?"

"Come, let us not play games." He looked bored. "You want my cooperation in your experiments. And I want your cooperation in my own explorations."

I was appalled. Appalled... and excited. Nonetheless, propriety demanded but one answer. "I-I couldn't! I'm a married woman!"

He chuckled. "A minor detail, Mrs. Jekyll. A prevarication. After all, if we're being precise, you're married to me."

"Nonsense! I-I'm married to Henry Jekyll!"

"A man with whom I have the misfortune of sharing a body." His eyes narrowed. "Come, Mrs. Jekyll. The clock is ticking, and the evening is calling. Will you join me, or will I finish the night in another bed?"

I cast about for another solution, some other way I could continue my experiments without tarnishing my relationship with Henry. In retrospect, a multitude of alternatives come to mind, but at the time, my mind was empty. And, despite my oh-so-proper objections, part of me was eager to accede to his demands. I began to muster my self-justifications. Hyde, I told myself, had a point: For all the differences between them, Henry and he were effectively the same person. I would not—technically—be dishonoring my vows if I shared myself with the man currently occupying my husband's body.

"Very well," I said. "Allow me to take my samples, and I will be yours for the evening."

He gave me a playful frown. "Now, that's no way to seal a bargain, Mrs. Jekyll. No, I think we should seal our agreement with a kiss. Come here." I began to walk to him. "Stop," he said.

"But you said-"

He interrupted me. "For an agreement such as this, Mrs. Jekyll, I think you should come to me on your knees."

*

Months later, as I reflected back on the memories of that night, I could remember the tangle of emotions that gripped my body. Guilt was there, but so was excitement. Arousal. Fear. As I sat at the dinner table with Henry in early October, I could feel my stomach tighten at the recollection.

"Are you in distress, my dear?"

Henry's voice was gentle. Loving. A distinct contrast to the cold rigidity of his form. I felt a trickle of sweat trace down my neck. "I'm fine, my love. I fear that our dinner might be disagreeing with me."

"Oh, dear. Perhaps we need to have a talk with Mrs. Willoughby about her culinary experiments. Is the food too strongly seasoned for your liking?"

"N-no, I think I'm fine," I said. My churning stomach, unfortunately, said otherwise.

*

That first night with Hyde was horrifying and exciting and wonderful.

I did, indeed, crawl to him. When I arrived at his feet, I remembered his demand for a kiss. I pursed my lips and looked up at him, waiting.

"You will not be kissing my lips," he chastised. He undid his trouser buttons, presenting his manhood. It was hard, taut, and appeared larger than my Henry's equipment—although I must acknowledge that that may merely have been a matter of perspective. After all, I had never seen my husband's privy member from quite that angle... or distance. Nonetheless, I was not able to look on it for long before he grasped my hair. "Kiss it," he ordered.

My face burning, I did as he demanded. I felt his grip on my hair tighten. "Such a dainty kiss, my sparrow," he chuckled. "I can perhaps understand dear Henry's reticence, if this is the affection he comes home to. I, however, am more demanding." His eyes hardened. "Lick it. Taste it."

My stomach roiled, but I followed his instructions, sliding my tongue along his length. I softly caressed it with my hand as I placed kisses on the shaft.

"Such dainty pecks! I suppose I should expect nothing more from a sparrow," he teased. Looking up, I saw his grin widen. "Still, a good start. Now take the bellend into your mouth, my sweet Mrs. Jekyll."

I opened my mouth to accept his offering and slid my lips over his head. He slowly pushed himself into me, and my tongue rubbed across his flesh. I heard him sigh as he pulled himself out, then pushed deeper. I felt it strike the back of my throat and tried to suppress the nausea that gripped me. My vision blurred.

"Breathe, my sweet sparrow," he moaned. "Yes, like that."

As he slid in and out of my mouth, I felt a burning shame. I was a college graduate. A scientist. The daughter of a Colonel! Of a Baron, for God's sake! Yet here he was, using me like some common dollymop. Like my mouth was no longer my own, but rather some random moist aperture, designed solely for his enjoyment. I felt myself shrivel with humiliation.

But I also felt another emotion coursing through me. I was unable to identify it at first, but as the slick, turgid length of Hyde's manhood moved back and forth through my lips and against my tongue, I realized I was excited. Inflamed.

I had long grown accustomed to the eyes of men—eyes that measured my form, my face, my status, deciding whether or not to pursue me based on the sum of these factors. I knew that, while my sisters' beauty and loquaciousness were the key to their attractiveness, my own allure as a perspective mate lay in my father's wealth, position and connections. In the final analysis, I feared, the bluntest, baldest assessment of my womanliness might be "Passable body, somewhat pleasing face, made beautiful by a promising dowry."

My dear Henry had seen far more in me than any of my other suitors, but even his passions had been ignited because of my intellect and scientific ability, not my physical attributes. What we felt for each other was love, admiration, respect. But was it passion? Lust?

Yet this man whose root was filling my mouth didn't care a fig for my fortunes or my father or my ability in the laboratory. No, he saw me as a body—breasts and thighs, mouth and vagina—for which he lusted and on which he could exhaust his passions.

With his coarse desire for my body alone, Mr. Hyde gave me something that no other man had. By seeing so little of me, he made me aware, for the first time, of how much I actually could be.

I didn't have very much time to ruminate on this discovery: Hyde's breathing grew more ragged, and he began thrusting harder and faster. His hand again tightened on my hair and he withdrew slightly. Taking his shaft into his other hand, he stroked himself and released into my mouth. His spend was thick and warm and felt odd on my tongue. I started to tip my head, intending to let it run out onto my shirtwaist, but he stroked my cheek. "Swallow it, my sweet sparrow. This is your first sample, freely given. Show me how much you appreciate it."

And so I did.

We never left the house that night. By the end of it, I had gathered my other samples, along with a wealth of dark, hard-earned experience. It was but the beginning of my lessons.

*

After our first evening together, Hyde and I established a routine. I would bring him forth roughly once a week, and would use the intervening time to process the blood that I was able to gather from him. Our evenings began with samples—I would collect a few small vials of his blood and would occasionally snip a lock of his hair. I collected his urine a few times, and contemplated gathering some measure of his spend—although, in the heat of the moment, I consistently forgot to employ the necessary apparatus.

To my great frustration, the samples revealed minimal secrets. Hyde's blood seemed almost indistinguishable from Henry's—they had a similar quantity of red blood cells and, while Hyde's white cells seemed more numerous, the difference was negligible. As far as I could tell, their chemical construction was almost the same. I began creating new tests to measure the quantity of different chemical compounds in the blood, but—in layman's terms—this was roughly comparable to blindly throwing hammers out a window in the hopes of hitting a pigeon. Given enough time and hammers, one is likely to find success, but the process is laborious and taxing.

Even so, I continued to meet with Hyde weekly. In the beginning, we limited our activities to the home in Cavendish Square. While Hyde was restrained in his choice of locale, that was perhaps the only restraint he showed, and I was initiated into a host of carnal activities of which I had formerly been ignorant. In truth, broadening my horizons was hardly a challenge for Hyde: My connubial interactions with Henry had largely involved staid, dignified couplings in our bed, befitting a married couple of our status. Hyde, by comparison, took me on every flat surface in the house, and a few vertical ones as well.

I could deny him nothing, not my mouth nor my garden, my breasts nor even my anus. I had agreed to our infernal bargain, and he took advantage of my consent most comprehensively. I soon began to crave his touch. After a few weeks, even the thought of our time together had the power to bring a flush to my cheeks.

Hyde, too, seemed thoroughly enchanted by my body, though whether that was attributable to an attraction to me or a desire for revenge against Henry is less clear. Certainly, he reveled in marking me, routinely leaving handprints and bite marks on my pale skin. These, in turn, proved something of a complication when it came to performing my wifely duties for Henry. Our long hours spent cuddled together in bed—once among my greatest pleasures—became a source of anxiety, and I began wearing demure bedclothes to conceal myself.

I also began to emotionally distance myself from my husband. Clearly, I couldn't discuss my current experiments with him, which meant that we were denied our most passionate topic of conversation. And while I still felt a high regard for him, I was increasingly unable to meet his clear-eyed gaze. Nonetheless, I maintained a regular schedule of conjugal activities with him, assuming that, as long as I continued to sate his oh-so-proper carnal desires, I was not shortchanging him in any meaningful way.

As the fissure between us widened, I quailed before the confusion and sadness that I saw reflected in his eyes.

By early July, Hyde had grown increasingly restive, and began aggressively advocating to leave the home. However, while dominant in conjugal matters, he acceded to my wishes to remain inside, perhaps aware that, if he pushed me too hard, I would refuse to let him out to play. In this, at least, I retained the upper hand.

July was when the tide turned. Having ravaged all my available orifices and unable to find any pristine expanses of flesh to bite and maul, Hyde became more demanding. He introduced new elements to our arrangement—he bound me to the bed with silk scarves, an activity that, in concert with our frenetic lovemaking, often left my wrists abraded and my shoulders sore. He also found an old horse crop in the house and introduced me to the dubious pleasures of flogging. While I found the pain exciting in the moment, it left me raw and aching for days afterward, a condition that I'm afraid my poor husband noticed.

In late July, I finally allowed Hyde to leave the house. I escorted him to the Hoary Goat, a disreputable tavern that he'd frequented in his earlier years. The inhabitants he'd once known were long gone, lost to drink or disease or violence. However, with a pocketful of Henry's pound notes, he soon found a new group of inebriates to join in his revels.