I learned to recognise the thorough and primitive duality of man - Robert Louis Stevenson: The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

Picture the scene.

Hotel suite–clean, well-appointed. Tasteful décor too–it’s beige, but you know, classy beige. Black hardwood furniture. Crisp white linen on the bed and tastefully patterned bedspreads, a complimentary shade…

Alright, fuck this. Interior design’s not why we’re here. It’s a nice place, enough said. Now what else?

Temperature comfortable–A/C managing a UK Easter heatwave. Mini-bar well-stocked and, let it be noted from the empty scattered bottles, well-used. Observe remnants of white powder on the dressing table, along with makeshift accoutrements for said powder’s consumption. Naughty, naughty. Sufficiently decadent? No? You want more? Fine, let’s do this.

Scan the room and check out the discarded clothing on the carpet, and in several cases hanging where it landed on that hardwood furniture; flung, in those latter cases, with no regard for anything but impending nakedness.

Quick inventory of said clothing. One tuxedo with matching trousers, one man’s dress-shirt and bowtie (proper kind, none of your hook-at-the-back rubbish); shoes and socks, one pair boxer shorts. Two dresses (one in ostentatious fitted chiffon, the other less showy, but still your dress-to-impress posh-frock); one pair low-heeled shoes, one high; assorted feminine under-garments–lacy brassieres and panties, stockings and suspenders, garter belt, in pale pinks and yellows. All in all, quite the lingerie catalogue, don't you think?

Let your imagination stray to the bed. Come on, it was there already, wasn’t it, you dirty bitch/bastard/non-binary horny fucker (delete as appropriate)? Unless of course you’re still fetishising the items of shed clothing, in which case knock yourself out. No judgement here, we’re all friends. But it’s the activity on the bed that really concerns us… no?

There’s a guy–mid-to-late-thirties and sufficiently well-kept that the phrase ‘proudly naked’ feels merited. He’s fair-skinned with the first of a summer tan. Broad-chested and notably (though not extravagantly) muscled–good ass and a stomach that’s admirably staving off middle-aged padding. His resting face would be charming and amiable, but his features are currently contorted into something altogether different. At full height he’d be just shy of six feet; he’s kneeling right now and is–you might well choose to say–splendidly erect in the penile department. We might even resort to a second ‘proudly’, especially since his pubic hair has been trimmed to accentuate his considerable dimensions.

His hands are all around the apparent source of his excitement–a finely formed young female bottom, plump and smooth like a nectarine and as firm as that swollen fruit when it’s first plucked from the branch. The ass in question is but one noteworthy attribute of a slender blonde girl who must so recently have parted company with her clothing. There’s a silkiness to more than her shoulder-brushing hair–the whole of her gives off a glossy youthful sheen, from her taut flanks to the tips of her high, neat breasts, that perspiration only serves to enhance. Her face has natural sweetness and retains it now, even though it’s flushed, and smudged. Even though–in this moment suspended in time–there’s another female ass, inches from it.

The second bottom is olive in complexion (as with the girl of which it forms a part), yet it bears comparison to the blonde’s in terms of shape and tightness. Equally succulent in other words. In height and form this girl is similar also to her blonde mattress-mate, though with a tad more fleshiness and fuller boobs. She’s dark-eyed, with shiny ash-brown hair (loose) and a prettiness suggestive of mischief in the curve of her lips and her eyebrows’ arch. As of this instant, however, her expression is all astonishment, at what the man has just told her companion to perform. The girls’ ages, tender like their hot young bodies, would add up in total–or thereabouts–to his, and there’s no reason to expect that they’d be familiar with such demands. But a firm instruction, delivered with authority and expectation, has power over an impressionable young mind, especially one that wants to be impressed. And these girls are so evidently desirous of that.

Let’s get this clear–there’s no conjecture or assumption at work here. This third-person narrative may have played out like guesswork so far, but guess what–it's omniscient when it wants to be. You’re an intelligent reader and you want the insight track, not just a blow-by-blow (though there will be much blowing). So let’s scrap the external perspective and get closer, specifically to the guy.

Know first that he's not who you think he is. Because you've got him down as a player of long standing, right? Some established fucker who chucked the moral rulebook long ago, or maybe never owned one to begin with. Getting two young things half his age all stripped and quivering and ready, when he's learnt little more than their names, is just what he does of a weekend, same as some men play five-a-side football. He’s a city type, corporate, probably corrupt. Alpha male, borderline sociopathic. Wrong 'un through and through, however white collar, whose guiding force since puberty has been his cock. Right?

Wrong. Nowhere close. First surprise–the guy's a teacher. Grammar school–that's high school for proven smarty-pants, if you're unfamiliar with the UK’s education system. Teaches English Lit and Film, plus something called Life Skills, to a student body exclusively (bar those who have re-identified as something other) made up of girls. So now you're thinking, Ahhhhh, bad teacher, story archetype–the classic dirty dude who smarms about the classroom, angling to fuck his senior students. Wrong again. Hold fire! Get to know him properly…

His name's Jed Martin. Jed for Jedediah–his parents were Quakers. Jedediah is an unfortunate name with which to be saddled, but ‘Jed’ is pretty damn cool, I think you’ll agree. As for Quakerdom, he left the strictly religious aspects behind, but has held to the wider ethics–equality, justice and peace, living your life in a spirit of generosity and being moderate in all your habits. Commendable stuff. It's such thinking that informs his career in teaching and that shapes his attitude to his students.

He takes it serious as stone. Not just the academic part, though he loves all of that–from Shakespeare to Atwood, Hitchcock to Gerwig, getting those eager, knowledge-hungry students engaged with the creative spirits that inspire him. Seeing them inspired too. But he wants more for them, these pupils of his. Devotes himself, never less than to his A-level girls, the ones staring real life–college and freedom and independence–in the face. Ever read The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie? No reason you should have. Seen the film? It’s got a young Maggie Smith in it (Prof McGonagall from Harry Potter) as the teacher, invested in her girls’ cultural and social and intellectual furtherance. He’s like her, but without the unfortunate leanings towards Fascism. No–scrap that, rubbish analogy. He’s more like… Robin Williams in Dead Poets’ Society, that’s the one! Encouraging his female charges, in this case, to seize the day and make their lives extraordinary.

Go out there, live your lives and live them well. Be the leaders of tomorrow–in science and politics and industry–the thinkers and doers who forge a fairer society and drag us back from environmental disaster and help us all lead healthy, fulfilled lives. Become women of the world, who know your worth and take no shit from anyone, least of all men.

That’s what he’d say, that’s what he thinks, that’s how he teaches (or at least aspires to). Wants them to do more than smash exams and achieve dream careers. Wants them to fulfil their potential in all aspects. To be healthier and happier, aspire higher and greater, hell–be better than the generation gone before. That’s what this teacher wants for all his students.

Here’s the rub–he also wants to fuck them.

Not all, not indiscriminately–but… every year, among his older students, those on the cusp of that great beckoning world, are those girls. You’ve been to school, so you know the ones. The sly, the sassy, the vivacious. The flirtatious, the coyly cute, the pushily provocative. The sleekly elegant and the in-your-face sexy. And of that lot, Christ he wants to fuck every damn one. Wants to shaft each of them shitless.

Don’t ask how he got here, this isn’t a fucking biography. Suffice to say that an advanced sense of kink and a deep sense of morality can end up as unhappy roommates within the same human being. Check out that quotation at the start–it ain’t lyin’.

Nor, let it be stated, has Jed spent his nights lusting and scheming. Hell, for years he didn’t dare admit his lusts to himself. Admittedly they were much easier to suppress when he was shacked up with a steady girlfriend–happily shagging the weekends away, channelling his sex-drive (and it took some channelling, let me tell you) down routes widely deemed appropriate. He could deal back then with tease and temptation, brush off classroom crushes and ignore the more pronounced teen curves on view. It became trickier when the relationship went arse-over-tits and he was single once again in a demanding job–bored and overtired and lonely–with the tide of his libido ebbing back post break-up and not enough to do with it. That spelt T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

And Trouble was firstly personified in the form of Tori Beeching.

Prick-tease Tori, who served herself to him on a Prom Night platter and left him reeling and gasping in masturbatory frustration, after he’d found the will to turn her down. That girl, you see, was the physical embodiment of all he’d fought against–a flame-haired confirmation of what could be, if he’d only let it happen. But that he couldn’t afford to do. Couldn’t risk crashing his career, betraying all he represented, undermining his own moral authority. He couldn’t take the thing he shouldn’t even want, but secretly did, so very, very badly.

So–though Tori’s time at school was ended, Jed’s struggle had just begun. Something inside him was bursting to get out. And not like the alien in John Hurt’s stomach. This something had always been a part of him.

To acknowledge what’s been lurking in the turbid depths of one’s subconscious can undoubtedly be helpful, but you need the right therapist. Jed found Rebecca–a new manifestation of Trouble. She was American, also in education, or that’s what she told him. He met her online one night post-Trish (his ex), on one of those chat sites members of the teaching profession are exhorted to avoid, lest their activity there ever return to haunt them. Rebecca, to be blunt, was truly twisted, at a time when Jed was twistable. Her Instant Messages fast became his moral kryptonite.

You’re a teacher? Who do you teach? (Not ‘what’, note, though that comes into play later in our story.)

He told her. High-school girls exclusively, the oldest aged eighteen. Her response was ecstatic.

Fuck. A dirty bastard like you? (He’d let her see that other side of him, enough for her to know. It was that kind of site.) That’s awesome. Do they fancy you? (Some, he admitted, knowing he shouldn’t do so.) Yeah? What about you? You like any of them? Think about them? You do, don’t you? What kinds of thing do you think?

He resisted, initially, told her he never went there. Reaffirmed it when she asked him did he want to. But she poked and she teased, and she prepped her hook with such enticing bait that eventually he bit. Yes, he said (inwardly cursing her), he thought about them.

She began to reel him in.

Which ones? Go on, give me names.

He told her–not straight off, but eventually. Inevitably. First names only, cock stiffening with the rush of each micro-betrayal to both students and vocation. Alice (Prendergast–sexy nerd who chatted comic-book movies with him). Esther (Goodwin–the funny, garrulous one with tales of weekend party exploits). Olivia (Kemp–high achiever, bright-eyed and eager for his praise and validation).

Describe them. Details. You know what I want.

He knew. He gave the deets while throbbing hard, each treacherous revelation one more self-inflicted wound to his teacher’s battered conscience. Alice’s jean-clad ass on dress-down charity Fridays. Esther’s boobs and hips, hugged tight in woollen dresses (thereby slinking through a loophole in the school’s dress code). Olivia’s lissom smoothness, wrapped up in business-wear, gold pendent kissing that tasteful hint of cleavage. Christ… Putting words to it all was guilty, but so deeply thrilling.

Do you imagine them outside school? You do, don’t you?

He’d avoided it, always, but now she made him do it–admit those thoughts and articulate the questions they inspired, the fleeting kind he’d trained himself to banish. To make them real on the screen–first to himself, then to Rebecca on hitting Send.

Does Alice wiggle her way into those jeans, and what does it look like when she peels them off? What panties is she wearing underneath? Does she trim herself down there?

How about Olivia–what does she wear at night in bed? Something that skims her slender thighs? Does she reach beneath the hem to touch herself? What about when she’s in the shower–where do her hands explore when she soaps herself?

How hard does Esther party at the weekend? How many cocks has she sucked (you know she’s done it) and how far down can she go? Can she throat a guy yet without his help? Where does she take it–back seat of his car, her parents’ sofa, nightclub toilet–and how hard?

What about Alice? Does she have a boyfriend yet? If so, does she know what gets him really fucking rigid?

And Olivia–back to sweet, lovely Liv–she’s dating for sure. Has she shown it all yet to the lucky fuck? Has she taken it in her smiley mouth, or deep in her sweet, tight teenage cunt? Has he shot his spunk, and if so, where? Her stomach, her tits, her ass? Her radiant A-student face?

Fuck!

Tell me how hard you are right now.

Fuck off, he’d type, thereby telling her.

I can’t do this. I can’t let this happen, he’d think, and Rebecca would back off for a while. Then she’d needle and cajole and provoke all over–get him riled up, before asking:

What if you had Liv naked on your bed right now, what would you do?

Jesus…

Tell me.

Goddamn

Stop fucking around like a pussy and just tell me.

So he told her. He shelved all professionalism and typed in crudest terms what he’d do, right then, if he had Olivia Kemp naked on his bed. How he’d make her stick her ass in the air and chew on his pillow, as he spanked her cheeks and ate her cunt and thrust his tongue deep in her virgin teenage bumhole. How he’d grip her shoulder and squeeze her tender tits, while he shafted the fuck out of her from behind. How he’d gag her with his cunt-slick cock as he ploughed her sweet sixth-former’s face, her eyes staring into her teacher’s as he made her swallow his bone-hard length to right the fucking balls.

Come now. Come down the bitch’s throat.

He did. He wanked himself off like a bastard the way he’d done after Prom Night, only it was Olivia’s mouth, not Tori Beeching’s cunt, that took the force of his masturbatory fervour, and this time he had no excuse. No sense of private reward for public rectitude here–this was Jed’s frank, cum-surging admission to another human being, however anonymous, of who he wanted to be. Of who she insisted he really was. Stop trying to kid yourself, teacher-man. There’s a whole other you that needs attention.

And that’s why he felt such a lousy fucking bastard once he’d emptied all the jizz from his balls. From shirt-and-tie respectability at the class front, to this… Cum oozing its last at the laptop screen, the teacher having pounded out his filthy Olivia fantasy.

Jesus, she’s my student. A genuinely lovely girl. I have to face her tomorrow. I have to look her mum and dad straight in the eye on Parents’ Evening. Fuck!

He distanced himself from Rebecca after that, so he could cope with school-day mornings. This has to stop, was his mantra, and cutting his online temptress loose was key to its fulfilment, so he thought. I need a break from this, he told her. I’m Mr Martin, he told himself. Consummate professional and moulder of young minds, that was him, keeping his thoughts on his students’ futures and away from their newly (often impressively developed) bodies.

It might have worked had he not been teaching a certain 19th century literary text just then. Call it Trouble in printed form.

Have you read it? Stevenson’s 1886 science-fiction/horror classic The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. If not, it probably still conjures an image–lab-coated scientist necking a bubbling potion, then crumpling behind his desk clutching his throat only to resurface, markedly hairier and more gnarled than before. His alter-ego, right? Nope, wrong again, if we’re speaking in terms of the original novel. Which of course we are, we’re not barbarians. Or… are we? (Cue maniacal laughter.) That’s rather the point, you see. The Mr Hyde of the title is no alternative personality to the good Dr Jekyll, but rather a key component part. Hyde exists within Jekyll.

Let’s not get bogged down in detailed plot synopsis. (You came here expecting a fuck story, not a lit lesson.) Suffice to say that Jekyll, recounting his own history in the revelatory final chapter, describes how as a young man he had two distinct passions–the pursuit of scientific knowledge to better himself and humanity, and the indulgence of hedonistic pleasure. Here lay the problem–that since he desired both, he couldn’t commit to either; the pleasure-seeker distracted from the noble intentions of the doctor, while the moral conscience of the professional man compromised the hedonist’s sinful enjoyments. Jekyll’s solution–a serum that would free the hidden pleasure-seeker in the form of Mr Hyde, who could commit whatever moral atrocities he pleased and enjoy it conscience be damned, before transforming back into Jekyll. No harm, no foul to the good doctor’s reputation. It wasn’t me, mate, it was that evil-looking bloke who rents a room from me. Where’s he gone? Couldn’t rightly...