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From the Desk of Mordecai Crossbell

Being a "man of blood," as my father would often say, means you have to always be aware of your appearance. You must always treat a social event as important, the people attending as people on the chess board, and do your best to dominate the game. At these events -- balls, parties, galas, luncheons, picnics, etc. -- it was where the most people in London, and even the world at times, gathered. How many times had I met the Queen during one of these functions? Too many to count. How many dances with a princess? I loathe to try and even make a guess.

It was at functions like these that I had made connections both domestic and abroad. I had met heads of state, ambassadors, foreign politicians, philosophers, scholars, artists, inventors, businessmen, and everyone in between. At first, my father had always taken me by the shoulder and done my introductions for me, just a small kitten of a thing in a suit I would grow out of in six months, but I bowed politely, kissed paws when presented, obeyed when being watched and listened to everything when I was not.

So you can imagine my mild frustration when I was invited to a party of the Countess Del la Marie. She was a favourite among the inner circles, a who's-who so to speak. You did not shun her invitations. Being black balled by her was a death sentence to the nobility. Her parties were where favours were often exchanged, alliances maintained or forged, and enemies plotted against. I was keenly aware she knew of all this political cloak and dagger, and I know she reveled in it. A smart woman, she knew that as the host and never playing favourites unless first insulted, she was insulated from the political drama that circled her; she could watch it with amusement as we bickered and blithered and she was never the topic, except for honest comments of politeness. No one dared challenge her status, no one tried to one up her parties. Only the Queen was exempt from her scorn, and even then because I was certain she knew she would never win that particular fight.

So it was here I am, dressed in my favourite forest-and-emerald-green suit, my hat handsomely on my head, and my cane tucked into my hand nicely. It was a new addition, and it was definitely commented on.

"Lord Mordecai, that cane of yours is simply magnificent. Was it your father's?" or "The craftsmanship is exquisite, you must tell me the name of your jeweler." It pleased me that it made such a splash. I did not need the cane; I was handsome as ever, fit and agile. I had always known I was handsome, but it was not until my prisoner had ended up in my care that I truly admired my own body. Surely I would never be as big and bulky as the men on the docks, but my own body was finely toned and honed. I was never a man lacking confidence, but I had never walked about with confidence in my sexual appeal before.

Until today, that is.

Vanity is everything in these circles, but controlled vanity, the kind that comes off as almost being unaware of it, or that you are so much better than the others that you need not pay attention to it, was special. I cannot help but deny that I was enjoying my new sense of pride in myself. I had gone to great lengths to make sure my suit was tailored better than ever, letting it hug my body in a way I would have never considered before my prisoner. Now it was enough to enhance everything about my body, my movements, while also being sly and casual, like I had simply bought it for the color and not for the fact that, when I turned my chest, the outline of my muscle could be seen.

I was the charm of the party that evening, dancing with the ladies of all ranks of nobility. I was an eligible bachelor, young, rich, handsome, and dripping with a new sexual desire I simply enjoyed.

I danced with Lady Penfaire, a beautiful vixen with red fur so light it may as well have been pink. Her father, a railroad tycoon, was often talking to me and finding not so subtle ways to bring his daughter up into the conversation. It was talking to Lord Penfaire, her father, when she came over and inquired if I would not mind dancing with her.

"My pleasure," I said with a smile, taking her hand after a bow and leading her out onto the dance floor. With one hand I had hers in mine, the other curled around her waist. Politely so, of course. But I could tell there was more there.

"You must have studied endlessly to be this fine a dancer," she said to me, moving with the music -- an old-fashioned minuet -- and following my lead.

I smiled becomingly and acted humble. "I had an instructor in the fine arts," said I, not taking my eyes off hers as we danced, spun, and moved. I could feel her growing warmer in my hand. The exercise was making her flush a bit. That or the cheap wine. "A Crossbell must be graceful and elegant on his feet," I mimicked my father's voice, but not in a teasing way. "As a boy I dreaded the classes, but now I see they are quite useful. It allows me the company of beautiful ladies."

I saw her eyes flick up at mine and she smiled bashfully. I would normally not be so forward. Coy was the name of the game. If I were serious about having this woman I would have to pay a handsome dowry, especially if her father knew I was interested. I could not imagine being married right now anyway, so I was having my fun. Penfaire would be in my grasp by no other machination of my own than simply existing and a sweet word here and there. There would never be a required torture. Though that did make me think of James, chained up and exhausted in my lab.

When the minuet ended, I pulled the vixen close to me, looking down at her eyes and smiled once more. "You are as lovely on the dance floor as you are anywhere else, my Lady. I am beyond honoured that you had given me such a gift as your company this evening." I pulled her just a bit closer, tighter, no one would see the grip and the pull but she would. I let her feel me. Her dress had a part and I had moved my knee among it so her thigh pushed against my own.

There, I let her feel my erection.

I was so achingly aroused. Not for this woman, but for... something.

The shock on her face was the reward I truly wanted. I had done something so crass and so secret, and yet she would be the one to blame if she made a scene. Women had an unfair lot in this world, but that was not my fault. I stepped back and bowed politely, catching her eyes falling to my groin. She could not see it, the color of the fabric and the tight undergarments I wore would be enough camouflage. I stepped away from the woman and headed to the buffet table where wine and food were waiting, still painfully erect.

Speaking of my loins, they had become something of an uncontrollable beast. I had always been a virile young man, but as I got older I had found control over my desires. It was a relief to not feel so drawn by my body, and my boyhood was drought with frustrations and confused thoughts that did not make sense at the time.

Now, though, my body responded like I was an adolescent again. I found myself erect all the time while doing the most mundane things from sipping tea to bathing. It took effort to not be dragged around by my cock but I loved the energy it brought to me. With a simple adjustment to my trousers, I was fine. I would calm down eventually and the people around me would be none the wiser.

Just as I was getting my cane and a nice glass of wine, a rather portly walrus lumbered on over toward me. I grimaced when no one could see my face, took a sip of wine and turned around with a smile.

"Your highness," I said with more cheer than I actually felt. I bowed politely as was tradition.

"It is always a wonderful pleasure to see you. How has the leg been?" I asked with a familiarity that would turn heads, if not that this man was my godfather.

He tapped his leg with his own cane, a heavy wooden thing that looked as thick as one of his tusks. "Ah, still hanging in there. I don't know why the bloody thing hasn't fallen off yet." said he with a heavy belly laugh that was hard to not actually smile from. The man was always in good spirits even if he had chronic pain in his left leg from an old war injury. My guess was a cluster of pinched nerves and tissue damage, but I could not diagnose without actually examining him.

"You will outlive us all, you certainly did my father," I said with a small raise of my glass. The walrus had always been in bad health and everyone had expected him to go... now he was one of only a handful of men from my father's old circle still alive.

"That I did!" He laughed again, his face fully flush. He was drunk. The way his eyes were red gave it all away. Still, I played the role I was meant to.

"Ah, poor Mathias," he continued, but look at you, a spitting image of your sire, and with his cane no less. Quite fetching is it not? He had the crown jeweler actually make it, you know. Those lot are secretive, but then so was your father, eh? Haha!" He chuckled again and took a drink of his own wine, which had been replaced by one of his attendants.

"Ah, yes," I said, holding it up and turning it around like I had never seen the thing before. "I found it with a cache of my father's personal possessions not too long ago. You know my father, he always liked his secret rooms and hideaways."

"Matty was indeed big on secrets! I used to joke that your whole mansion was a maze of hidden passages and secret doors."

That made me wonder. I would have to look over my home much more carefully when I was next there. Father was one for the cloak and dagger sort.

"He must be really good at it," I said, "because I only found this one by falling and hitting the release switch." A lie, but a humble one, a believable one. "I guess my family always does fall into good fortune from time to time."

"If you do ever find his journal," the walrus began and finished off his glass of wine, "I would be most interested in reading it. Matty always kept it but also with that bloody code of his. Every time I took a peek at his scribbling, it may as well have been gibberish. But my mind is still as sharp as my tusk! I can probably crack it."

"I will, your highness," I said with a bow as we then talked for a few more moments.

It was always about the same nothingness that plagued the rich -- the weather, the new yardwork, the help, the craziness across the Atlantic, their last trip to Paris -- nothing that mattered. Even his highness, a duke, could not really be bothered to find something truly new to talk about. So, to keep myself from standing out too much, we talked and laughed about such same trite things as every other small conversation in this blasted mansion. We were all faking it; at a kind of attentiveness and interest where most of the people would go to their homes tonight and complain to their spouses about how boring everyone was, and how they were so much better than these boring folks.

The conversation with his highness did have me think about my father. Matthias Crossbell, a man who had had the ear of the Queen and more influence than even I could fathom. Even after his death I had only inherited a little more than half of my father's connections and favours with the other Powers That Be in this city. It had taken me a while to puzzle out but I soon came to the realization that my father was a paranoid man. I suspect he worried what type of man I would become and if I would try to use our family name for my own gains, the gains that would end up costing my father his hard earned power. Too bad he never lived long enough to see what I could do with power.

As I headed back to my carriage, I pondered over what I had learned from his cryptic journal. I will not deny the cypher had taken me more than a little time to puzzle out; it was not as simple as replacing a letter for another. What made it more frustrating was my father had used the cypher to hide his entries that were, of all the annoying things he could have ever done, Latin. Once I had the text written out, I had to then translate it. The whole event took several nights of hard work, work I could have been doing on my dear prisoner, but I needed to know just what my father had been up to.

What I did find out, however, was worth the time spent deciphering it. You see, surprisingly, my father became Spring Heeled Jack not because he was sadistic or thought he was a demon -- but because he craved sex.

A man of his position, with a wife and a son, could have had a mistress but that was a gamble I believe father was never one to consider. Mistresses were living creatures and could spread your secrets, or worse, blackmail you. It did not help that my mother and father were together more because of an arrangement between our families than out of love.

Father had done his duty when he sired me, and that was it. I doubt he had wanted more. I also believe he hated my mother. They were just two completely different people wanting completely different things out of life, to the point where my father isolated himself and then, as best I can imagine, went insane.

The other risk of having a mistress is the chance of a bastard. Bastard children had undone families of lesser stature, the whelps trying to prove their heritage, claiming inheritance, families being driven apart due to shame. If a bastard came looking for you, it could destroy everything a family had built for generations, and it would imply many things that, given the very nature of the nobility, we could not discuss openly. Even a slim chance was far too much a gamble for the controlling man that my father was.

His journal started out discussing his desire for sex, for women, for a release that he could not get at home. He did not dare go to a brothel because even there he could have a bastard. Sex could also be your undoing and he knew spies lingered even in the finer establishments that saw to the carnal desire of the nobility.

His first foray into this life of mask and murder was him walking home one evening and finding a woman he found fanciful. There, by overwhelming desire, he took her into a dark alley and raped her. Knowing what he had done was far greater than any other sin someone of his stature could commit, he took it another step and killed her. It was in a regular part of the city and the murder had made the newspapers. It was there that the first seeds of Jack had been planted.

Father knew he needed to hide his face when he went out to satiate his insane hunger. He also knew that he could not ride around in a carriage and walking down the street was far too risky.

So, for his disguise, he came up with a demonic mask, the very mask that now sits on my desk.

Made of leather and metal, the eyes are tinted red with some kind of resin. Wearing the bloody thing does paint the city in red, as if drenched in blood, but I have discovered it actually enhances night vision. Father made mention of the reduction in brighter light to keep the pupils relaxed. Even looking at bright lamps would not weaken one's natural vision.

The face itself was that of a demon, a feline or canine by examination, but nothing definitive. The ears were neither pointed or rounded, but a mixture of both depending on the angle of the helmet. The muzzle guard was also only slightly longer than a typical feline and gave enough of an impression it could be worn by a wolf or fox. It was, I must admit, a brilliant use of angle and shadow play to hide the contours of the face. People would see different things depending on where they stood; the only defining feature that everyone reported was the eyes.

Father also took to modifying an old Persian gauntlet he had found in a museum and hastily purchased. He had made it into a kind of a clawed device where the ends were sharp and bladed, but he could still curl his hand into a fist if necessary. There is also a mechanism on the back of the hand that, when twisted, can extend inch long claws on all five digits. I may have to modify this feature, though I am not terribly certain as to how.

Next was the cloak. A simple thing of dark leather and fabric that hung down to the ankle and could be cast aside if necessary. There is a hidden pocket on the back of the cloak for a dagger, but I am guessing this was hardly used as the brass button is still shiny as ever and I cannot see any wear on the fabric.

The cane was the final piece my father had made. A growling caracal but without the ear tufts to give it away. It was a silver alloy of some kind, strong and sturdy. The muzzle was open in a roar, or rather, a death bite, with the teeth individually razor sharp.

This was the riskiest thing about the whole disguise; Father walked about town with this cane all the time. If someone had managed to see him, Jack, and the cane, they could piece it all together. It is sheer luck that he was not caught. Still, I cannot deny such a thrill as leaving a partial clue for people to discover. I may keep up this risky venture. It depends on how my own expeditions go.

Finally, I was back at my lab. I climbed out of the carriage and waved the driver off. There, I spent the next thirty minutes walking round about and into the darker parts of London, pulling my coat up over myself a bit more. The fog had brought with it that chill I was ill-accustomed to. But after three turns down a dark alley and a push through a facade of cloth and wood, I got to my secure door. A quick unlock from a key and I was inside, sighing in contentment. This was beginning to feel more like home than home.

I took off my hat and hung it on the peg, as well as my jacket and rubbed my shoulder, putting the cane against the wall on the two pegs to display it and walked further inside, grinning to my work in progress.

"Good evening, James," said I as I approached the limp hanging man from chains in the middle of the laboratory. "I trust you had a pleasant evening without my company? Or were you bored?"

The tiger had looked better. While still healthy -- I made sure he ate and drank -- the ways I had been practicing on his body were starting to show. I had never had such a resource to experiment on pain. Cuts, thumps, a broken finger and toe, minor flaying, shaving some of his fur on the back of his thigh... I was just curious.

My biggest and more intense experiments were the red stripes. I had cut his skin along some of them, flayed a couple of the smaller ones, and let him bleed. Of course I rubbed ointment on him to keep him from rotting, and of course the blood did dry up. I always made sure to reopen the wounds when I felt James was strong enough to endure it. It was almost maddening to not be able to do the more invasive, but I was not ready to say goodbye to my prize.

I stroked his cheek and leaned in toward him, engaging in a tender kiss. A risk, but he knew better now than to lash out and try to bite me. Still, he was nearly unresponsive, merely looking up at me with his eyes that had given up. I loved that look. I knew I had broken him and I could do anything I wanted. I felt myself grow hard.

I began to undress and went back to thinking about Father. His journal was littered with stories of hunting and killing women in the very poor parts of London. Never in excess and always in different areas. Father wrote about the sexual liberation he felt every time he bred one of them. He took a rather odd fancy to trying to find women who had gone into heat and then murder them after having raped them mercilessly. Father hurt them while he was taking what he wanted. He never stopped to savour the moment or enjoy a fine wine, but then father was never one to think more than ten steps ahead.

HIs journal ends a few days before he had passed away, talking about how he had gone around London sometimes and scared locals, letting them see Jack from far away, always feeding the story of a demon stalking the city for prey. He enjoyed building the legend and even outlined the stories he had written about Spring Heeled Jack in the papers.

No one expected father to die so young, and with his death the sightings of Spring Heeled Jack ceased. It seems no one knew of his hobby and his desires, and he took such great effort to hide himself. The only way James had managed to find the connection was those blasted stories father had planted in the papers. They had linked back to the Crossbell name and put me and my life in jeopardy. However, I could not deny the wonderful fortune it had brought me since discovering Jack.

Clothing discarded, I admired myself in the mirror, my well-built, lean body with defined muscles. I had trimmed my fur down to make myself stand out when bare like this, and I saw now why athletes trimmed. You could see every line, every contour, and I knew I was the envy of many a man and a desire of some, too.

My erection jutted out in front of me, hard as a rock. I must admit I had not seen many men naked and erect, but I knew I was not a slouch in terms of size and dimension. I felt right, and it matched my body properly. I purred and admired my perfection, enjoying my member jump slightly and a bead of my clear lubrication falling from my tip and to the floor. I curled my hand around it and moaned when squeezed. I had a need tonight, a hunger, and James was on my menu.

I stalked over and got right behind the tiger, tugging on the pulley which lowered his arms and let him bend forward. His ankles were usually manacled, but I had undone them before I had left to let them heal from the chaff. I pushed his tail up and out of the way, and like sliding a key into a lock I had pushed myself right into the one thing about which I had been thinking all day.

Sex always surprises me in how it feels. You think you know what is going to be like, but when you find yourself buried in another body and the warmth and wetness closing around you, it is unlike any other feeling and hard to describe with words. It felt right and wonderful and I could not wait to have it again. Sex had always been so restrictive until James. I had never in my life had someone at my own beck and call for pleasure and my body seemed to respond in kind. Not that I am writing a complaint, but I hope I do relax shortly, it is becoming increasingly distracting spending more hours erect than not.

James cried out when I dove into him but I did not care. This building was all mine and even damped from sound. No one would hear him so I did not hold back. I held his hips, claws out, and pumped myself mercilessly. My pre fluid was leaking out, making each thrust into him easier and easier, but that just made me apply more strength.

I looked up at the mirror on the far wall, admiring myself, fucking a man who was trying to keep his face neutral. The thing I loved about this view was that James was aroused. I purred and leaned over into his ear.

"Your body betrays you," I whispered into his ear, all the while slamming him hard and drawing out a yelp.

I knew he was not actually enjoying this. I knew that the way my body worked applied pressure to his innards in such a way as to inspire erections even in men who did not enjoy the company of other men. Still, I loved to taunt him about it.

I was relentless with my own pleasure, pushing him hard and making the chains rattle and shake. Sweat formed on my body and trickled down across muscle and fur. I was breathing hard and heavy, heart thumping in my chest. I was close.

The chains hanging around us were bothersome, and I looked down at the tiger bent over, my hand on his back and the other on his hip to keep him steady. I grinned and grabbed the back of James's collar, pulling on it so his back arched up. I stood up on my toes and moaned right into his ear.

"Behave," I ordered him as I reached over and undid the simple locks to his manacles, letting them fall off and to the sides from the small area I had been working in. Now I could pull him up and force him to arch. I kept slamming home, breathing into his ear, growling as I kept his head and body pulled back.

"You are the luckiest man in London," I whispered, inserting myself with full force and subsequently pulling out, driving myself home again and again and again, slower and more deliberate.

My orgasm had been building for some time now, and finally, I could not hold it back. I felt my whole body tighten, stiffen, and I bit down on James's shoulder.

I felt my testicles rise up and clench, expelling my seed. I twitched and pushed forward with each rush of release, breathing again when the pleasure ebbed from a torrential downpour to a comfortable trickle. I was starting to relax.

The next thing I knew, I felt an elbow hit me in the side of the head and sent me stumbling backwards. I fell down to the cold floor and shook my head, looking up to see James running for the door.

"James!" I shouted, quickly getting to my feet. He was already half out the door by the time I got to my helmet and gauntlet. No time for modesty. I gave chase, grabbing the cane from the wall hook as I barreled out into the foggy darkness.

James was in no shape to be running, but he was crying out for help a bit too loudly for my liking. Frowning, I threw the cane at him and managed to get it right between his legs, forcing the creature to stumble and fall, sliding on his shoulder across the cobblestones until he hit a wooden box. I did not stop to pick it up and slowly walked over to the tiger. I was still erect, surprisingly.

"No! Please! Don't do this! PLEASE DONT!" James yelled up at me, but I was already annoyed. This was going to draw some kind of attention. Someone would tell the constable about shouting.

I shook my head, watching his face contort in terror as my clawed hand was up and coming down in one swipe across his neck. I took out about half of his throat in that one swing, watching as droplets flew and a thick mass of bodily matter slammed against the far wall. I watched him gurgle... choke... and die.

It was at this moment I heard the sound of something being moved. Something heavy. I looked up to the source and saw the wift of a tail as its owner ran away. I growled loudly. Of all the... I could not have this end before it began!

Chasing the small thing, which looked canine, was easy, but the person was slippery, twisting and running, jumping over things. I lost his trail down a dark alley heading toward that gay brothel and bar. I exhaled and looked around, trying to guess where he had gone... but to no avail.

He was gone. But he had seen a man in a mask kill another man. Was it all right to not be concerned?

I turned to head back to the lab when my foot hit something. I looked down and saw it was a brush. Picking it up and turning it in my hand, I stared at the broad bristles at one end and pondered.

This was a chimney sweeper's tool. What was it doing out here? You were likely to find discarded brushes like this on the roofs of buildings, but never just in a dark and mostly abandoned alley.

Then it came to me. This must have belonged to my little witness. I laughed at my fortune!

A chimney sweep. Not only was he at the bottom rung of this society, but no one would believe him even if he did talk to the police. I could have left him well enough alone and gone back to my plans... but I stopped as I turned a corner.

No. Loose threads can be my undoing. Even a tiny one such as this. Besides, who would miss a chimney sweeper? They were usually orphans and had nothing but the clothes on their backs, and their tools.

I headed back to my lab with a grin under the mask of Spring Heeled Jack. I could kill two birds with one stone hunting down this brat. Yes. That would be perfect.

Watch out, boy -- Spring Heeled Jack is coming for you.