Each one had a painted sign identifying it – Gideon’s yard’s read Le Société Panthères de Ciel, Ltd., a curious and somewhat barbaric name for an airship concern.  Edward had the coachman merely pass the yard’s gate, then turn about and pass it again before depositing him at a supply shed and custom’s house half a mile away.  The man seemed irritated at the extra distance, but a generous tip insured his courteous departure.

Edward mumbled something about a better view to the civil servant on duty, a junior assistant customs officer of some sort who was intent upon his lunch, and the man waved him in.  He made his way up to the tiny three-storey “observation tower”, one of many along the wide stretches of the Aeroport, designed to allow passengers, guests, and ground controllers a better view of the sprawling complex.  From here you could see the dozens of mooring towers which seemed to be constantly busy with new ships arriving and old ones departing from all over the continent.  There was even a brass telescope there, so that the various numerals and symbols upon their flanks could be more readily espied for a mere two sous – though the overcast and constant drizzle made such attempts overly ambitious.  Edward made use of it, but it wasn’t the ships aloft he turned it upon.

He scanned the breadth and length of Gideon’s yard, where a dozen sheds clustered around a massive wooden hanger that looked like an enlarged barn.  The entirety was enclosed by a wooden fence nearly four meters high.  The perimeter of the compound was patrolled by some dusky-looking carbine-toting natives of some distant land, who seemed eager to shoot at someone.  There were no less than five of them at the gate, itself, and when a few beggar children who seemed to haunt every aeroport he’d ever been in came near, the guards wasted no time in turning them briskly away.

The more Edward watched, the more he grinned.  Whatever Gideon was doing in the yard, he did not want it known, that was certain.  The utilitarian iron mooring tower that peeked up over the sheds was empty, at the moment, but there were two more keen-eyed lookouts ensconced therein, with long, wicked-looking rifles at the ready, constantly searching the area around the yard.  All in all it reminded Edward more of a fortress than a manufactory.

But a manufactory it was.  Carts and lorries of all description seemed to be gaining access, once they presented their credentials to the guards, though Edward could see that the crew inside insisted that all materials be off-loaded in the foremost part of the yard, well-away from the hanger.  Upon retiring, every vehicle was subject to close scrutiny before it was allowed to leave.

This, then, would be a challenge, Edward decided, as he abandoned the observation tower.

Less so, it turned out, than he’d hoped for.  It took only ten francs under the desk to the attendant to discover that Capt. Becker’s ship, the Victrix, was scheduled to return from a brief trip to Berlin near sunset – if, the bitter clerk added, the sun deigned to show it’s face today before retiring.  A brief walk down the muddy road that swung around the yards provided Edward with the only other essential piece of information he needed to gain access, and the roots of a plan began to form.  Yet merely appearing as if out of nowhere was not sufficient to appease his desire for an impressive arrival.  He took steps to ensure that his appearance would be memorable.

He took his supper at the wine shop where waiting passengers took their comfort before they embarked, paying far too much for fare that would have made any self-respecting Parisian shudder.  While there, supping on the upper porch where he had a reasonable view of Gideon’s mysterious yard, he was able to monitor who was allowed in, and who was stopped at the gate by the armed savages that seemed to be everywhere.  Edward sketched out some notes in his notebook while he observed, and noted Gideon could have easily been raping innocent schoolgirls by the wagonload within.  But any Parisian gendarme would have balked at trying to get past the private army of dark-skinned warriors and their gleaming guns to preserve their virtue.

The interior of the compound held numerous sheds and huts, all surrounding the massive building the fence barely contained.  A few of the huts were nearly full houses, and one in particular was easy enough to pick out as Gideon’s residence.  It was a legitimate house, at lease four or five bedrooms, and it had several servants who went back and forth between it and the gate, or it and the kitchen, or it and the biggest building.  If there was a brain behind the hum of activity, it was there.  But before he got into there, he had to get past the gates.

Several deliveries arrived while he watched, and Gideon noted that they were each well-searched at the gate, their identities and business no doubt identified, before being aloud to pass within the compound, proper.  The walls were regularly patrolled, and the towers at the edges of the yard were constantly manned by his friend’s soldiers.  And twice while he sat there observing Edward witnessed a savage patrolling the exterior of the fence with a brace of fierce-looking wolfhounds.

It was a formidable defense, to be sure, but as Uncle Pete never failed to remind him, the greater the visible defense, the easier it was to penetrate it once you understood its weaknesses.  His uncle used the metaphor of an old widow: though she might protest mightily on the basis of her morality, she was just as willing as any maiden to part her legs when approached properly.  By the time Edward had finished his meal and a second glass of vin ordinaire, he knew exactly how to get this metaphorical widow to spread like a whore.

*                      *                      *

“So who is that mysterious whore Billy’s seein’ in town?” Tayanita asked Marta casually as she swabbed an acrid smelling concoction of liquid latex on to a broad canvass sheet in her “laboratory”.  It bore little resemblance to the pristine German laboratories she’d seen, the French versions at the University and the Academy of Science or even the hastily-built labs back in the Oklahoma Kingdom.  Indeed, it was little more than a shed tacked on to the massive hanger building, but it was where she and her protégé, Marta, worked on the millions of questions that needed to be answered before the Argo could be successfully built and launched.

She was testing the comparative weight ratios of rubberized canvas, which the French and British used as the outer envelopes for their airships, compared to the cotton denim cloth the Germans and Italians preferred. The outer envelopes did not need to be gas-tight, of course, as the interior lifting cells were, but they did have to be water-tight, fire-resistant (if not fire proof) yet strong enough to hold together under the punishing conditions of the atmosphere – but not weigh more than absolutely necessary.  Every kilogram of unnecessary weight was a loss.

The Atlan girl shrugged as she continued to stitch together the denim sheet that was next to be coated.

“I am not certain,” Marta answered, cautiously.  While she loved her friend dearly, the issue of William Bonney had been a sore spot for both of them.  “She must be fabelachtig, though.  Even the well-born women in Paris dress and act like whores – how much better, then, would the actual Parisian whores be?”

She and Tayanita had become close friends and confidants, as well as colleagues, despite the problems over the man they had shared.  Though Tayanita had been angry and jealous of the less-attractive Atlan woman, as their journey through New Orelans and their adventures with the Moriscan pirates beyond the Florida Straits had overtaken them on their journey to France, Tayanita had recognized a kindred spirit when it came to all things aeronautical.  Marta did not have her training and education, being destined for the more feminine world of early matrimony, but she had a nimble mind and a keen eye, and she, like Tayanita, had been around airships most of her life.  True, they had been the primitive Atlan variety, but the basic principals were the same.  If she did not share Tayanita’s talent for engineering, she shared her enthusiasm for building the Argo.

“You ain’t too wrong about that,” Tayanita admitted with a sigh.  “Never saw so much lace and silk in my life as there was in M. Belvoir’s gown when she came to call on Gid.  And talk about forward: she had her hand on his knee fast as a shot!  It’s like these French women breathe and sleep sex all the time.  Hard for us American girls to compete,” she said, a trace of bitterness in her voice.

“Do not worry, misje,” Marta reassured her, “They may capture a man’s attention for a few weeks, but they tire of them quickly.  Or so I’ve heard,” she added, a trace of doubt in her voice. Tayanita suddenly felt sympathetic to Marta – while she felt inadequate compared to these whorish Parisians, she was still aware of how much more attractive men still found her, compared to Marta, whose wide features and broad nose, not to mention her dusky complexion and dark eyes – made her homely by most accounts.

Marta had reveled in the brief relationship she’d enjoyed with Billy on the voyage across the Atlantic, but within weeks of arriving at the City of Lights Billy’s attention had turned towards the perfumed-and-belaced examples of French femininity the cosmopolitan Empire thrust at him so forcefully.  Their romance had faded within days, and had broken within a fortnight, under the pressure of such aggressive competition.  Marta still carried quite a torch for the dashing young American, but Billy’s eyes were easily distracted.  Indeed, even as they had brought the Victrix down in their yard for the first time there had been nearly a dozen airport whores huddled around the mooring tower waving and showing off their cleavage and their slender limbs.

Gideon had put a stop to that quickly, of course.  No prude, her half-brother was dedicated to running a smooth enterprise, and complicating matters with on-site prostitutes went against that ideal.  He had immediately restricted the entire yard to “outsiders”, depending upon his fierce Oklahoman marines to patrol the compound and keep the whores, thieves, and other airport scum at bay.  The men were still permitted liberal opportunities to enjoy their illicit favors off-premises, in their off-duty hours, but no one came past the second gate and into the secretive yard without written permission.

But that left the few ladies of the Victrix largely without company.  Tayanita was lucky – she had a few German engineers on her crew she could count on to service her womanly needs, secure in the knowledge that nothing more serious would arise from the liaison. But poor, plain Marta rarely attracted even their brief attention, and it was starting to bother her mightily.  She had even started mooning about Billy again, and that could not be a healthy thing to the Cherokee woman’s mind.

“Oh, I ain’t worried none – not much, anyway.  I know my future last name won’t be ‘Bonney’,” she reassured her friend as she dropped the heavy brush back into the evil-smelling bucket.  “But I’m just curious what manner of whore has got him so twitterpated.”

“I’m sure she is very beautiful,” Marta said, bitterly, as she hung up the denim sheet on the framework she’d built the day before.  “A beautiful, sweet-smelling, foul-mouthed nasty Parisian whore,” she completed, scathingly.  “Probably a Protestant whore, too,” she condemned, as if that made it worse somehow.

Tayanita had to giggle – that was one thing she adored about Marta, her polite forthrightness.  Tayanita herself had little patience for the long-winded way the French conducted business, preferring plainspoken American methods instead, and one of the things that had charmed her about the homely Atlan woman was her earnest manner.

“If only there were boy whores, too,” Tayanita sighed wistfully as she moved the bucket of latex over to the denim sheet.  “They say there are, down in that Moulin Rouge place they keep talkin’ about.  But from what I gather, they’re more interested in other boys than us delicate flowers.”

“My ‘delicate flower’ is in need of some tending, misje,” Marta said, wistfully.  “And I am near to thinking that paying for the service from a . . . professional gentleman might be the only way that occurs. Not even those savage braves that lope around here will pay me attention!” she pouted.

“Oh, honey, that ain’t no way to talk!” Tayanita soothed, lapsing back into the casual English her people spoke at their ease.  “Don’t worry, if these Frenchies know ‘bout anything besides wine, it’s how to get their jollies.  I heard tale of this device they build here, a special contraption—”

“For . . . masturbation?” Marta asked in a whisper, looking around scandalously.  “I, too, have heard such things, but such mechanical abominations must be a grievous sin . . .”

“You can’t tell me you haven’t rubbed your nubbin before,” Tayanita said, aghast.  “Every girl does it!”

“Not nuns,” Marta quickly pointed out.  “Never nuns.  And they would whip us if they even thought we had been . . . pleasuring ourselves.”

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t, though,” she observed.  “You do know how, don’t you?”

Marta blushed, her dark skin growing even darker.  “Yes.  I believe so.  There was a girl – her name was Anchelle, from the coast – she once showed some of us . . . what she did—”

“And you ain’t done it since then?”

“Well, with all that has happened . . .” Marta said, skeptically.

“Here,” Tayanita said gently, sitting up on her own desk and drawing up her knees.  “I know you have religious objections to this, but watch what I do, at least,” she said, not knowing what strange humor had came over her.  Why was she being this intimate with the girl?  They were friends, close friends, which was unusual considering their peoples were traditional enemies and had been at war all their young lives.  Compared to the Parisians, they were practically from the same clan.  But this was an intimacy that she had shared with no one.  Yet here she was, drawing her skirts up and peeling down the lacy drawers that seemed to be required among the fairer sex in this fair city.   Her slender pussy was exposed to her friend’s astonished sight.  Suddenly Tayanita’s loins were heavy with the dew of her excitement as her brown-skinned friend gazed enchanted at her brazenly displayed beaver.

“It’s real easy,” she breathed, as she parted her inner lips with her fingers.  “This up here, that’s your happy spot – rub it.  A lot.”  To demonstrate, she began making delectate circles around her clitoris with her hand, her breathing getting deeper and more ragged as she did so.  “You got to relax, though,” she said softly as her friend watched her perform the private ritual.  “Maybe stick a few . . . fingers inside yourself,” she said, exhaling pleasantly, “and run ‘em in and out, like they’re a real cock . . .” she said, demonstrating, “and it feels . . . real nice . . .”

“Are you . . . ?”

“Gettin’ there,” Tayanita agreed huskily, relaxing a little more, now that Marta had accepted the spectacle of her masturbation.  “It ain’t as nice as a real dick, but when a girl’s got . . . no place else to be . . . and no one to be with . . . it will get you through a hard night.  An’ sometimes it can keep a girl from thinkin’ with her cunny instead of her brain, and that’s a help.”

“It looks like fun,” the Atlan girl admitted, licking her lips.

“Oh, it is, it is,” she assured her as her fingers sped up their revolutions around her button.  “It’s a whole lot of fun – more fun than most boys, actually. Oh . . . OH!  Watch closely, Marta . . . here I . . . go!”

With that the girl spasmed hard as her orgasm washed over her, shook her like a dog shakes a squirrel, and then deposited her gently back to earth.

“There,” Tayanita sighed as she pulled up her drawers.  “That was simple – and a lot of fun.  And no smelly, nasty, hateful man to deal with afterwards.”

“I don’t know, ‘Nita,” Marta said, doubtfully.  “The nuns . . . they said it was a sin . . .”

“You been sinnin’ since we met, Marta,” Tayanita chided.  “And you go to church more’n any body here.  Weren’t you fornicatin’ without the blessings of the Church all the way over the ocean?  How in hell is that somehow more godly than ticklin’ your twat your ownself?”

“Well . . . technically . . . that was rape,” Marta justified, quietly.  “I was – am – a prisoner of war, and therefore I am not in control of my destiny.”

“Well ain’t you just full of justifications today!” Tayanita howled.  “Rape? That weren’t rape.  I seen rape before, sad to say.  If anyone was getting’ raped, it was poor Billy.  You realize how much noise y’all made?  Enough where we could hear over the engines clear back in the Engine Room!”

“If it was rape,” Marta sniffed, indignantly, “then it was no sin.  That is what the priests say.”

“Likely why I ain’t a Christian,” Tayanita said, shaking her head as she coated the denim.  “All them rules about fuckin’ – ain’t right.  The Spirit put us here with perfectly good working girl parts, Marta, ain’t no good reason not to use them as intended.”

“Ignorant savage,” Marta spat, derisively. But she was blushing deeply at having

“Pretentious slut,” the Cherokee princess sneered.

“Blasphemous cunt!”

“Filthy Atlan whore!”

“You’re courting damnation!”

“You’re courtin’ cobwebs in your coochie!”

Both women stared at each other, then broke into gales of laughter.  It was a common and enjoyable game they had developed to pass the long hours spent running trials on materials and figuring out complex calculations.  ‘Swearing like an airman’ was a common expression, and both women had been around such rough trade for almost six months, and had learned a rich new vocabulary they never hesitated to try out on each other.  The exchanges were good natured and intended to amuse, not hurt, and they always ended in laughter.  This time, however, the laughter was cut short by the sudden peal of the alarm bell.

“What the hell?” Tayanita asked, confused.

“The alarm!” Marta said in a hushed whisper.  “Quickly: how many bells?”

“Three—no, four!” Tayanita said.  “Intruder!  Probably one o’ them pickpockets and sneaktheifs.”  She quickly rooted around in the large bag she carried, full of useful tools, and pulled out a wide belt from which was suspended a small but deadly revolver.  As she strapped it on her hips, Marta nodded, her face pale, and picked up a carbine that Gideon had thoughtfully posted in her shed for their protection.

The girls made a point of locking the laboratory securely, then made their way to the central courtyard in front of the yawning hanger where the Victrix slumbered and from which the Argo had yet to be born.  There was already a crowd of two-dozen, a mixture of Oklahoman marines and European crewmen, all of whom had armed themselves with deliberate speed.  A profusion of carbines and revolvers, not to mention implements of a ruder – but no less effective – sort bristled from the crowd.

Gideon was on the pedestal he’d erected there, addressing his folk like the lord he was.  His voice was loud, purposeful, and angry.

“—saw him around the front gate, asking questions about our yard.  Wet Fox sent him on his way, but the man disappeared a few moments later, and that’s when the sergeant on duty noticed the cash box we use to pay our suppliers was missing.  Since the front gate was bolted at that point, the only explanation is that the thief is still somewhere on the premises.  There will be five ounces of gold for any man who brings him to me alive, and two gold for his corpse.”

“It was a thief,” nodded Marta.

“Perhaps he will take you unawares and rape you,” offered Tayanita in a whisper.  “I’m sure you’d enjoy that.”

“Perhaps if he was handsome,” the Atlan girl conceded.  “I would not struggle overmuch.”

“Struggle?  You’d put him down and ride him like a rented horse!”

“Surely you have mistaken me for a woman of loose reputation?”

“You ain’t got no reputation right now, that’s the problem!” the Cherokee girl giggled as she checked the load on her pistol.  “Tell you what: we find the man, we take that reward money, go into town, and get us a couple o’ fellas.  Don’t care if they like boys – they got pricks that can rise, that’ll do.”

“We may have sex if we find this man?” Marta said, suddenly interested.  “Then lead the way, meisje, and I’ll destroy him!”

“You horny old . . . hey, see how the Marines are all headed for the walls?”

Marta nodded.  “It would make sense.  The thief would want to escape with his prize as expediently as possible.”

“Which is why goin’ towards where all the folk with guns are ain’t necessarily the best plan for him,” Tayanita pointed out.  “So let’s go up to the guard shack, take a look around, see what this fella got and then figure where he went.  Basic tracking.”

The two women wandered away from the resolute-looking men who were swarming the fences and found the route to the guard shed, where there were easily twice as many armed Indians as usual.  They were reluctant to let two women in to look around, but the respect they held for Tayanita – and the fact that both ladies in question were armed – allowed them into the scene of the crime.  Tayanita wasted no time, asking questions about the look of the criminal, exactly what happened, and expressed a desire to see where the stolen money box had been secured.

“Bolted to the wall,” noted Tayanita in a murmur.  “So he planned this.  Chief, how much money in the box?”

“Twenty, thirty francs,” Robert “Chief” Standing Bear answered.  “Plus some sous.  Hardly seems worth the effort.”

“It wasn’t,” agreed Tayanita sagely.  “And note what else was stolen?”

“The box?” Marta asked.

“The book,” Tayanita corrected.  “Gid’s big accounts book.  It’s gone.”

“Why would someone want that?”

“And why would someone after money not take that cigar box?” she asked, nodding towards the desk where an ornately carved and inlaid Moriscan box held fine cigars looted from the wreck of a Corsair the Victrix had overtaken.  “That box is worth forty francs by itself, not to mention the tobacco inside.”

“Yes, that is strange,” Chief admitted.

“So they took the book, but not the box,” reasoned Tayanita, quietly, opening the expensive piece.

“And this means?  Besides the fact that he does not care to smoke?”

“The thief wasn’t after money.  If he was after mere money, he would have taken the box, the cigars, and had them safely sold before he left the port.  Oh, he took the money, of course, but what he really wanted to take was the information in the accounts book.  How much we’ve spent, and with whom.”

“But why?”

“That,” agreed Tayanita, “is an excellent question, Marta.  All of our suppliers are of public record – all of the ones in France, at any rate.  So he wanted to see . . . how much we’ve spent, and with which vendors.  And on what.  Someone, it seems, is curious about the Argo.”

“Who even knows about the Argo?” Chief asked, mystified.

“Someone who wanted to know so badly they hired a thief to steal our account book.  And you say he left . . . this way?”

Fifteen minutes later, while the outbuildings were being thoroughly searched and the walls were being checked for the intruder, the pair of young women came out of the guard shack and strode resolutely across the compound to the old farmhouse that Gideon had converted into a residence fit for a captain.  And his engineer.

The old country house predated the airfield by a century, at least, but was snug, warm, dry, and even painted a lovely light blue color.  No one seemed to be searching it, so the girls were able to enter without notice.  Tayanita immediately drew her pistol and turned towards her brother’s hallowed study, where he kept his desk, some books, his safe, his papers, and – most importantly – the master plans she herself had drawn up in designing the Argo. If anyone was curious enough about their labors to steal the account book, then the blueprints and designs would be too rich a prize to pass up – not with the entire compound mobilized to search for a petty thief.

Indeed, Tayanita was gratified a moment later to discover the thief, right where she had deduced he was located.

Sitting at Gideon’s desk reading those same – very secret – plans was a young man no more than twenty five, neatly coiffed, clean shaven and professionally dressed.  He looked like a bright young accountant, or clerk at law, in his well-tailored dark suit.  After being around Frenchmen for almost half a year, she was able to determine that this man looked somehow “more English” – although, truth be told, she frequently found all Whites looked the same to her.  But this one was strikingly handsome, she had to admit.  He was puffing heartily on one of the Moriscan cigars from the gilt box from the guard shack while he studied, much to Tayanita’s horror, the master blueprints that she had painstakingly drawn herself.

“Excuse me,” she said, a deadly threat in her voice, “but I believe the tradesmen are expected to use the rear entrance.”  She spoke in English, because her French was awful and it was one of the languages she and Marta shared.  Besides, after six months of seeing how the whole of Paris dressed, the style of the man’s suit was decidedly English, even if his face might not be.

“This is a social call, actually,” the handsome young Englishman said, without looking up.  “This ship you’re building – it’s fantastic!  I’ve never seen anything like it!  It’s beautiful!”

“I’m glad you like it,” Tayanita said, evenly.  “As it may be the last thing you ever see!”

Finally, the intruder glanced up.  “Well, perhaps not the last,” he said, after a pause.  “Nor, I’m afraid, the fairest.  You have taken that honor.”

Tayanita had the good grace to blush, but her pistol never wavered.  “You have a gentle tongue, I see,” she said, when she had recovered from the unexpected flattery.

“That depends entirely on my mood and the lady I’m with,” he quipped.  “Not to mention the manner in which it may be deployed.  Would you be so kind as to summon Captain Becker for me?  Thank you.”

“Sir, it seems to have escaped your notice that I am armed,” she said, her anger rising.  “I have yet to kill anyone on this continent, but you are making that exceedingly hard to avoid!  In any case, yes, Captain Becker should be informed of your capture.  Tom!  Black Tom!” she called over her shoulder.  When no response was forthcoming, she glanced at Marta.  “Go seek my brother and tell him what has happened.”

“Will you be all right with him?” the Atlan girl asked.

“I have the gun, he is the trespasser,” the Cherokee princess replied.  “As far as being ravished,” she added, scornfully, “he hardly looks the type.”

“As you say,” Marta said doubtfully, but she left in good haste.

“I’m not, actually,” the stranger commented.

“You are not what?  A trespasser?”

“Oh, I’m guilty of that.  And of evading your stout savages.  And of breaking into this house in broad daylight without a single one of you witnessing the act.  I meant to say, ‘I’m not the type to ravish a lady’ . . . without her express permission.”

“I assure you, that shall not be forthcoming,” Tayanita said, raising the weapon a little higher to emphasize her argument.

The man shrugged and smiled, displaying dimples that revealed a boyish nature.  It unnerved and frustrated her that he was not displaying an adequate amount of fear of her and her pistol.  “The day is still young.  So, in what capacity do you serve Captain Becker?”

“You are not to do the interrogation, Mr. Thief.  I am the one holding the gun!”

“So you have said, thrice now, and yet you haven’t fired and I haven’t been remotely concerned that you would do so.  Does that not speak of a more complicated affair than merely catching a thief?”

“What?  If I have restrained myself, Sir, it is out of a fear of giving in to my savage nature – which I assure you, my people are well known for!”

“Yes, I’d say you were about half English,” he nodded.  “A beastly people.  I’m one, myself, sad to say.”

“Are you not concerned for your skin, Sir?” she asked, quivering at the stranger’s temerity – and wondering about his accuracy.

“Usually,” he admitted, sublimely. “But my foremost concern regarding my skin is what the most expedient means would be to press it excitedly against your own.”

“You go too far, Sir!” she warned.  She blushed, despite herself, and realized that she was attracted to this cocky, self-assured stranger.

“Do I?” the thief mused.  “I often wonder if I go far enough.  I had considered making my entry by means of a line dropped from an airship, but discarded the idea as too . . . showy.  I prefer a subtler style.  Now Gideon,” he chuckled, “Gideon would not have considered such a sudden appearance as ‘subtle’, unless there was a lion or a camel or something involved, and then he’d only consider it ‘mildly interesting’.”

“Yes, Miss?” asked the deep and pleasant voice of Black Tom, who acted as Gideon’s majordomo while they were aground.  If the fact that she was holding a loaded pistol on a stranger in his master’s office disturbed the Negro in the slightest, he did not show it.

“Tom, if you would not mind, please pour two glasses of wine for myself and our guest.  Three, actually – the Captain will be joining us.”  She spoke lightly, but through clenched teeth.

“Yes, Miss,” the sharply-dressed man nodded, and disappeared.  A moment later he handed a winestem full of red – a Burgundy, to which her brother was partial – to Tayanita, and without getting in the line of fire, set a glass near to the thief’s elbow on the desk – receiving a polite thank you for his trouble.  The third glass he deposited on a nearby table.  “How many for lunch, Miss?  Will you be dining with us today?”

“Yes, I think I will be,” she agreed.  “Set a table for four.  We can always remove a seat, if it isn’t required any more.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“This is splendid,” the mysterious stranger nodded after sipping the wine.  “From Burgundy, I would have to guess an ’88?”

“If you are seeking to impress me,” Tayanita said, sipping her own glass, “you will be hard pressed to do so.  Although I admit your stealth in breeching our compound has piqued my curiosity.  How did you do that?”

“Easily enough,” the thief demurred.

“And you act as if you know my brother?”

“Know him well,” the thief agreed, congenially, as he continued to smoke the cigar and sip the wine.  “To his health!” he added, raising the glass.

“Cheers,” she nodded.  The pistol did not waver.

“So, what is a gloriously radiant woman such as yours—oh, hello Gid, outstanding vintage!” the thief said, interrupting himself as her brother stomped into the house, half a dozen of his Sky Panther marines behind him bristling with weaponry.

“It’s an ’88,” the airship captain said, dully.

“Thought so,” the man nodded.  “It’s splendid . . . but it will be radiant in a few years.”

Gideon crossed the room and retrieved the glass that had been prepared for him.  “Good to see you Edward.  Oh, gentlemen, please cancel the alarm,” he added over his shoulder to the bronzed warriors.  They nodded and left without any further discussion.  “I see you met Tayanita,” he said, as the thief vacated his chair.

“Lovely woman, truly beautiful,” the man her brother called Edward said, affably.  “Is she your bride?  Or your fiancé?  Or something less . . . formal?”

“She’s my sister, actually,” Gideon said, putting his mud-stained boots up on an ottoman.  Edward took one of the facing chairs, while Tayanita still had not lowered her weapon.  While the men were acting like old friends, she knew that Gideon’s lack of an order to do so was no oversight: clearly he was suspicious of this “old friend” who was so free with his property and security.  “Half sister.”

Edward’s eyebrows raised in surprise.  “She? She’s the one your . . . oh, dear God, it is such a pleasure to meet you, then!” he said, roaring with laughter.  “And such an enchanting creature, too, to be at the heart of that tempest.  Oh, what a scandal you have left behind you, Gid!  Your mother is livid, your father is . . . well, I would have a care before you dropped in over the holidays.  Might want some of those savages with you.”

“I doubt they could stand one of Mater’s vicious assaults,” Gideon chuckled, wryly.

“I don’t say you’re wrong.  Oh, by the way: your strongbox,” the thief said, pulling it out from behind an aeronautical globe in the study.

“Why did you steal it?” Gideon asked, curiously.

“Because it got your attention.  You had to know a thief was about.  I thought it a fair warning to get your people mobilized for a search for me.  That’s an impressive cadre you’ve built, Old Man.”

“And yet you broke in anyway.  Sissy, when we were at Rugby, Edward had the most amazing talent of . . . acquisition you had ever seen!”

“So, you know this man is a thief?” she asked, skeptically.

“I prefer ‘gentleman burglar’, actually,” Edward offered.

“I prefer ‘housebreaker extraordinaire!  You may holster your weapon, Sissy, and join us for a bit.  Edward was one of my closest friends from school, but afterwards he . . . got involved with disreputable folk.”

“Please,” Edward dismissed, “I’ve always been involved with disreputable folk.  It makes a man truly appreciate a reputation.”

“In any case, Edward steals things – expensive things – from very rich people.”

“The truth comes out at last,” Edward sighed.  “So you knew?”

“Of course.  Don’t let it concern you, Old Man, I didn’t mind.  You never stole anything from me, personally.  And you shared your loot in school too often for me to begrudge you a few silver spoons.  I was amused, actually – the way you made the rounds.  Always seemed to have some brass, never seemed to work for it.”

“Never work for it?” Edward asked, astonished.  “Are you joking?  Burglary is hard work, I’ll have you know.  There’s as much art to it as science, and if one is to remain a burglar long, one must put in endless hours of preparation for the tiniest assignment!”

“Really?  Is that how you stole my cousin’s silver Swiss pocket watch?” Gideon countered.  “A grand, elaborate plan with meticulously detailed preparation?”

“He passed out drunk at cards, and I took an opportunity,” Edward admitted.  “All right, I admit, there’s as much initiative in the art as preparation.  But it is hardly easy.  Not if you’re good at it.”

“And are you?” asked Tayanita, impressed with the man, despite herself.

“Did I not just break into your home in an armed camp in broad daylight?  With no witnesses?”

“He’s one of the best in Europe,” Gideon assured her.

“Well, as long as you’re associating yourself with a high class of criminal,” Tayanita said, beginning to relax a bit.  Perhaps the wine was soothing her nerves.  “By the way, I am indeed claiming my five ounces of gold for capturing him, Gideon.  I need to get Marta . . . serviced.”  And herself, too, she added, silently, somewhat to her dismay.

There was just something about this damned city that made a girl want to throw her legs up to the heavens and hump every cock that happened by!  She didn’t know if it was the finery, the architecture, or the fabulous cosmetics, but the city of Paris enchanted you, reached out and grabbed you by your cunt and made you want to fuck.  Even the presence of this Edward, a comparative stranger, was having a most lubricating effect on her virtue.  That was one reason why she didn’t blame Billy as much about his infidelity with Marta – everyone in this town was horny, from the lusty young Emperor to the lowliest scullery maid.  And the cosmopolitan nature of the city drew the horny from all over the world, compounding the problem.

She had heard a rumor that the magnificent cathedral of Notre Dame was behind it – that the church had been built originally on the site of a pagan temple of a particularly lusty divinity, a kin of Pan’s, and that Paris’ well-deserved reputation for licentiousness was his revenge.  She liked that thought – she found the European manner of religion to be stuffy and impractical – not to mention not much fun.

The wine helped – she rarely drank it, preferring good German beer instead, but in Paris wine ran like water – better than Parisian water, actually.  She tolerated the flavor, but the effects of the alcohol were the same as beer.  And the Parisians seemed to drink it at all hours of the day.  That had to contribute to the lusty nature of the city.

“Is Marta your horse?  Dog?” Edward asked, curious.

“She’s my aeroarchitechtural protégé,” Tayanita corrected.  “And if she doesn’t see some joy soon, she will be unbearable.”  That went for both women, of course – Tayanita nearly blushed at the memory of her brazen display of self-love earlier.  If she did not soon find relief . . .

“So you’re an . . . engineer?”

“I am the engineer,” she corrected, smoothly.  “A distinction I truly hope you’ll bear in mind.”

“Oh!  Of course, mademoiselle,” Edward assured her.  “I meant no disrespect.  If you are half as talented in your field as your brother is in his . . .”

“Half?  She eclipses me, Old Man.  Really, Edward, ‘Nita’s extraordinary, she really is,” Gideon smiled indulgently.  “She’s not only my chief engineer, she’s the chief architect of this,” he said, dramatically spreading his arms to encompass the large sheaf of design diagrams covering the desk before him.  “She’s the wizard behind the Argo.”

“Now I am the one who stands impressed,” Edward said, quietly, after a moment’s consideration.  “That ship is . . . it’s no less than magnificent.  Glorious.”

“You know how to read blueprints?” she asked, surprised.

“A gentleman burglar is equipped with all sorts of unusual skills, my dear,” he assured her, a silky tone in his voice that she found both pleasant and irritating all at once.  “I can read a blueprint, but more importantly I can recognize a truly unique design when I see one.  This will be the biggest, most extraordinary thing aloft—”

“If it gets built,” Tayanita finished, sourly.

“What?” Edward asked in surprise.  “I thought you came back from America loaded with gold and jewels.”

“Not as such – but I did come back a wealthy man.  And wealth I earned in my own hand, by the by, not taken from my father’s,” her brother said, proudly.  “Yet I have this yard to pay for, my crew to pay, plus the cost of this ship,” he sighed, concern haunting his eyes.  “I have not spoken openly about it, but . . . well, my funds will run out in months – and it will be at least two years before the Argo is skyworthy.”

“It’s true,” Tayanita confirmed.  “I’ve had to reduce some of my expenditures . . . and we are making progress on the envelope structure, and the gondola is mostly framed in, but . . .”

“Bah!  We took plenty from that Moriscan corsair,” Gideon reminded her.  “Enough for a few additional months, at least.  And I can always sell off a precious tank of Helium to keep us afloat.”

“Don’t you dare!” she almost shouted.  “That noble element is the key to our whole enterprise!”

“I know, I know,” Gideon agreed, clearly frustrated with the prospect, “but if it’s the only way forward . . .”

“We can go raiding in the Victrix if we need more funds,” she countered, shaking her head.  “Air piracy isn’t my natural calling, but if it keeps the creditors at bay . . .” This was not a discussion she wanted to be having now, especially in front of this . . . surprisingly handsome stranger.

“See, Edward?  I’m a thief as well,” Gideon chuckled.  “I just steal to a larger scale.  But if I don’t, then all the money I’ve spent thus far will have been wasted.”

“Actually,” Edward said, mildly, “I think I may have a solution . . . for all of our problems.”

Emerson slept poorly that night at his flat in the city. He had rented the apartment to be closer to his wretched office and had never found it comfortable. He paced and napped until 3am, the appointed hour.
      He sat up groggily and laced his boots. He straightened his clothes—having forgotten to undress before bed—and put on his overcoat and top hat. “Like two gentlemen out to catch an early-morning train, we’ll be,” Adalia had told him. From his trunk he withdrew a small cigarette case, embossed with his initials, and placed it into an interior pocket. He pulled on his gloves, took his umbrella from the stand, and walked out into the early morning fog.
      Adalia was sitting on the stoop outside, dressed as before except for the large briefcase she held on her lap, and soon the two made their way through the deserted streets. Occasionally they heard the clack of a delivery cart or the thud of footsteps tromping across the brick, but they saw not a soul—to the great relief of Emerson’s swift-beating heart.
      “What’s in the case?” Emerson asked.
      “A rucksack for you, a bit of this and that for myself. Servant of the household is meeting us; she’ll open the latch. Old Stoney’s in India right now, trying to poison up their countryside, so we’ll really have the run of the place. Take your time about it.”
      After their short conversation, the rest of the walk was silent, and soon they stood in front of an—admittedly large and gaudy—row home. True to her word, Adalia’s light rap against the door was answered by admittance.
      Inside, the place was as overwrought and over-decorated as a colonial tourist shop. Statuettes of all sorts depicted gods and folk-heroes of a dozen conquered people. The tall, broad entryway was papered with gold-leaf paisley and vinework, and oil paintings were hung at ill-considered intervals.
      In the center of the hall stood a handsome servant woman, perhaps a decade over Emerson’s twenty-two, wearing the plain dress of her station. Her dirty-blonde hair was tied in a simple bun and she was grinning mischievously. “Do shut the door, we wouldn’t want to let some stray cat in, now would we?”
      Still in shock by the crime that he was about to commit, Emerson turned and closed the door.
      Adalia removed her coat, jacket, and bowler and placed them on the coat rack, then opened the briefcase and withdrew the rucksack. “You’ve a better eye than me for what’s worth what, I’d expect,” she said as she handed Emerson the bag. “Take your time. Edith and I will be in the master’s bedroom. Come and find us, later.”
      Emerson sleepwalked through the home, burglarizing at a leisurely pace. He spent almost a half-an-hour in the library, glancing through books, choosing which to take, when it struck him—he was there to loot, not read. Gold candlesticks being worth more than books, he shifted his focus and made his way through the ground floor.
      In the study, two locked, glass-fronted cases caught his eye. He reached into his suit pocket and withdrew the cigarette case he had deposited therein and took out the set of lock-picks he had purchased for just such a purpose. The first case opened with ease and he withdrew an enameled rosewood box.
      The second lock, however, proved his master. Emerson put his case of picks down atop the cabinet and climbed the staircase in search of Adalia.
      It was as he reached the landing that he heard a dull thump and a short, shrill scream. Fearful that Adalia had been betrayed by the servant, he barreled down the hall and threw open the door to the master’s chambers. Therein, he saw a sight most splendid, and more than slightly perverse to a Christian’s morals. Thankfully, Emerson was no man of God.
      The dresser was open and all manner of women’s clothing was spilled across the floor, most of it near the full length mirror. Edith, the servant woman, was dressed solely in a camisole that seemed designed for arousal, leaving little of her small breasts to the imagination. Her beautiful legs and ass were entirely revealed. She was kneeling, bent forward over a low lounging couch, her face thrown up in pleasure, her mouth slightly agape, her eyes staring blankly forward. Behind her, Adalia sat on a rug in an evening dress of soft, green hues, running a thin metal dildo along Edith’s exposed pink cunt.
      Upon his entry, both women turned to look over at Emerson. Adalia smiled while Edith’s mouth continued to hang open in intense pleasure.
      “I was having problems with… well…” Emerson began, before his thoughts vanished entirely.
      “I’m certain. Come and join us, yeah?” Adalia was still smiling, clearly amused by the upper-class man’s discomfort. “Maybe you want to watch for awhile?”
      Emerson nodded and sat down on a nearby stool. He had never seen lesbianism, although like many agnostic men he fantasized that one day he might.
      Edith brought one hand to bear on her own clit, brushing the dildo to the side. “Inside me… inside me…” she said between heavy breaths.
      Adalia obeyed, slipping the metal wand into Edith’s wet cunt. At the base of the dildo was a wide flare and then a bit of a handle, with its whole active length being slightly longer than a woman’s longest finger. Adalia thrust with smooth, even strokes, building quickly in intensity and strength and just as quickly tapering it off.
      Edith soon began to scream in earnest, clutching the velvet cushioning of the divan in her fist, rocking up and down on her knees. She clenched her teeth and closed her eyes.
      A look of concentration came over Adalia’s face as she focused on the lovemaking, and she used her free hand to knead the muscles of Edith’s legs and ass. She pulled the dildo most of the way out, then moved to slow, hard strokes.
      Edith ceased rocking, began shaking, and the hand on her clit started to jerk. Her voice reached a crescendo of sorts and she came, shivers running through the whole of her body. She relaxed—letting her chest fall against the couch—and panted. Eventually, she turned to Adalia and smiled. “Your turn,” she said.
      Adalia pulled the glistening dildo out of Edith and ran her tongue up it once before wiping it and her hands off on her dress.
      “What do you suggest?” Adalia asked Edith.
      “I want you to tell me what to do,” Edith replied.
      “Take off your clothes,” Adalia told her.
      Edith obeyed, standing upright and pulling her camisole over her head. Her breasts were pert, her nipples small and erect. She was of average height and slender build, with thin hips and only the hint of a belly, but regardless she struck Emerson as remarkably sexual, powerful. Her pubic bush was full and unruly.
      “Take down your hair,” Adalia said.
      Edith did so, removing a single long pin, and her straight, brushed hair fell all the way to her belly.
      “Now take off his clothes.”
      Emerson sat upright, taken off guard—though not displeased.
      Edith appeared prepared for the command and stepped over to Emerson. She leaned down and kissed him quickly on the mouth, her lips thin but her touch earnest and lovely. She then pulled off his jacket and vest. She straddled him briefly, pressing a breast against his lips and running her fingers up through his hair. She helped him to his feet and took off his shirt, gazing at his chest. She took great care and delight removing his pants, kneeling to do so and running both her palm and tongue quickly along the length of his shaft as soon as it was exposed.
     “Now take off my dress,” Adalia said.
     Edith stepped over to the beautiful burglar and stripped her, pulling off the evening dress and the ill-fitting chemise underneath, leaving only bloomers. Edith then knelt and removed those as well, quickly kissing her exposed mound.
     Emerson felt a tinge of jealousy as Edith began to fondle Adalia’s lovely red cunt, a cunt he longed to touch, to fuck.
     Adalia lied back on the divan and spread her legs off its edge. Edith knelt before her and kissed the inside of each of Adalia’s thighs.
     “How do you want it?” Edith asked.
     “Sloppy,” Adalia replied.
     So Edith ran her tongue loosely all over Adalia’s cunt, running fingers chaotically and lightly across the mound, between her legs, across the lips. She took to pressing her tongue against Adalia’s clit, her head bobbing as she licked and circled, her fingers going into her own mouth before pressing lightly into Adalia.
     Then Edith scooted back and knelt forward, holding up her weight with one forearm on the cushion. “I want him inside of me,” she said.
     Adalia, breathing heavily, looked at Emerson and said, “In my briefcase, by the mirror, there’s a condom.”
     Emerson found the briefcase buried under a pile of negligees and found the rubber condom, seam up the side, within. It was next to some sort of harness, a larger dildo, and a wind-up device the size and shape of an egg that Emerson found unfathomable.
     Quite erect at this point, Emerson soon had the condom over his dick.
     He knelt behind Edith, uncertain. It was a joy to watch her lick and finger Adalia, and it was equally pleasurable simply to watch Edith’s ass move back and forth as she did so, but he was nervous about being inside the stranger.
     “Please,” Edith said, pulling her mouth off Adalia for a moment, “please, inside of me. Inside of me.”
     Emerson drooled spit into his hands and lathered it along the length of his cock before setting it against Edith’s cunt. Edith pulled her hand away from Adalia for a moment to get the angle right, and Emerson slowly entered her.
     As soon as he was inside her all of the way, she started to rock of her own accord against him, but then focused her attention back on the woman who lay naked and pleasured in front of her.
     Adalia put both of her hands on the sides of her cunt and applied pressure to herself while she was being licked.
     Emerson fucked Adalia, softly, as she seemed to want. Gentle it may have been, but soon he was enjoying himself immensely, pulling nearly out and making short thrusts before slowly working his way back inside of her. The smell of sex overwhelmed the smell of rubber.
     He fucked her that way for what seemed a blissful eternity, balancing her pleasure with his own, running his hand across her back and his thumb down the crack of her ass. On the couch, Adalia began to moan more fiercely, breathe more heavily.
     Emerson watched Adalia as her large breasts shook across her chest, her dark nipples erect, her full lips open, her eyes rolled up in pleasure. Then he looked down at Edith’s thin, long back, her ass exposed, her hair hanging loosely to the side of her head. She was panting heavily.
     Adalia’s breathing grew frantic, uneven, and she reached down to grab Edith’s head and force it harder against her cunt. Then her legs tightened against the couch, her toes and fingers curled, and she came with short gasps and soft shouts, releasing Edith.
     Edith pulled forward, letting Emerson fall out of her, and quickly rolled onto her back and spread her legs. Emerson guided himself into her with one hand and then supported his weight as he went back to thrusting.
     Edith put her feet flat on the ground, angling her crotch into the air, and Emerson fucked her, his orgasm building. Well past the point of no return, he looked up at Adalia, who smiled at him from her place above them on the couch. Then he looked down at Edith, who was panting with deep gasps that shook her body, and he came.
     Edith let him spasm and then relaxed, dropping her legs flat on the rug.
     Emerson put his hand on the base of the condom and pulled out.
     “Mmmmm…” Edith said, and rolled over, onto her belly.
     Emerson stared longer at her naked body as he quivered and shook. Eventually, he took off the condom and, as directed, left it on the floor.
     Edith retired to the master bed, still nude, while the two burglars went to the task of looting the bedroom. Emerson was in a post-coital daze, lost as a fish on land, and mostly followed Adalia around, holding the rucksack as it grew heavy with gold and jewels.
     Adalia stepped back into the ill-fitting evening gown while Emerson re-dressed, and the pair made their way back down the stairs, towards the door.
     “I’ll see you out,” Edith said, following them. She came down the steps naked, still smelling strongly of sex and rubber, a smile still set in her face. She kissed Emerson passionately, then turned to Adalia and did the same. “I’m going to have to report the break-in to the police, of course.”
     “Of course,” Adalia said, opening the door and ushering Emerson out of the house.
     Emerson took one last, happy look at Edith and walked down the steps, back into the pre-dawn city fog.
     The pair made it back to Emerson’s flat with the first of the morning light. Once inside, they emptied the rucksack onto the floor.
     “I got this for you,” Emerson said, handing Adalia the rosewood box he had lifted. “I know you like music boxes.”
     “Thanks,” Adalia said, “but you know I don’t keep any—”
     “Shit!”
     “What?”
     Emerson threw his hands up to his face. “I forgot my lockpicks.”
     “You can get a new set.”
     “They were… they were in a monogrammed case.” Emerson mumbled this last bit. “Got to go back.”
     “Too late. Police will be there already.”
     They stood in silence for a moment.
      “Well, you can fake yourself a kidnapping, can’t you?” Adalia suggested.
     “I suppose I’ll have to.”
     “Nothing wrong with a good fake kidnapping. Maybe we could ransom you back? Let’s just trash up your place a bit, loot it for good measure.”
     “And I suppose you couldn’t be happier about all of this, could you?” Emerson started to smile, realizing what a madwoman he had set himself up with.
     “Could you?”
     “No, I suppose I couldn’t.” Emerson slid his hand onto the small of Adalia’s back. “We’ll have to get you some proper clothes, though, of course. I think you looked quite fetching in that suit.”
     They packed, they looted, they ransacked, and soon Emerson and Adalia were off, in pursuit of the world.

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]]> http://www.steamypunk.net/emerson-adalia-rob-a-house/feed/ 0 http://www.steamypunk.net/chaos-theory/ http://www.steamypunk.net/chaos-theory/#comments Fri, 07 Mar 2008 05:26:02 +0000 Dimitri Markotin http://www.steamypunk.net/chaos-theory/ by Dimitri Markotin
It certainly wasn’t what I planned, I must confess. What sort of person would I be if I were to attend such a lecture—the nature of chaos in contemporary mathematical philosophy—with the intention of entering into such a liaison? This I can tell you in truth: I had no idea how the weekend would turn out. I had no idea that I would end up with a prominent philosopher’s mouth caressing my inner thigh while her husband kissed me. Certainly, no one arrives to such an intellectual event in anticipation of being tied naked and willing to an oak—
     But of course, I get ahead of myself.

It is no simple task to be a man of learning without the finances to attend university. The king seems to have little interest in the commoner’s well-being—a trait I wish were reciprocated!—, and I had been caught stealing in to private lectures oft enough to have earned a certain infamy for such behavior. Infamy intermingled with a begrudging respect, I would hope.
     Thus was I absolutely delighted to hear that the much-discussed and controversial team that was Mr. & Mrs. Goldsworth was to be giving an introductory lecture in the city’s public garden, free of charge to the general public.
     I cleared my schedule—quite full it was, between writing unpublishable poetry and irritating passerby with its recitation—and pulled my finest-and-only suit jacket from the trunk at the foot of my bed.
     With joy I walked through the squalor and into the famed garden. Not even the drunken youth, with their bullying, could bring down my mood. Not even the rich in their horseless, steaming carriages, splashing mud and unhappiness onto us urban peasants.
     The gardens were in their early-summer bloom, the evening sun bringing bright the lilac and lavender—oh! lavender, that finest of flowers. It was one of those days when birds sung for the poor and shat on the rich, one of those days when the young couples could hold hands in my sight and no jealousy stabbed through my heart.
     I saw benches had been arranged under a gabled pavilion. I was early, as is my habit, and the attendants numbered two: a young man and woman—clearly, neither over my twenty-six years. The young man wore the jaunty attire of the day’s intellectual youth, much as I did myself; a smart black cap, highwaisted breeches reaching just below the knee. He might have been my double if he were not full-bearded and shockingly handsome. The breadth of his shoulders, the narrow waist, the kind eyes that begged your confidence.
     And yet his friend nearly outshone him. Her skin was two shades darker than either his or my own, with doe-eyes and fashionably short hair. She wore no bustle, no corset, and she sat with her legs uncrossed, her skirt reaching nearly to the floor.
     I’m afraid social interactions have never been my strong point; I was staring. I had walked up, seen them seated and conversing, stopped not three paces distant and looked them both up and down, hovering on their faces, oblivious to their reactions.
     He caught my eye, and I snapped out of my reverie, embarrassed. “My apologies…” I mumbled.
     “Not at all,” the woman said, offering her hand.
     “Christopher,” the man introduced himself, “and this is my wife, Sand.”
     Formalities were exchanged, with the slight casualness we youth-intellectuals—our culture needs a finer name!—had a tendency to observe.
     Within a few minutes others began to arrive, and soon the lecture began. In case you had not conjectured, these two, Christopher and Sand, were none other than Mr. & Mrs. Goldsworth themselves!
     I had earned my front row seat with my timeliness, and listened rapt while they presented. So convincing were their words, so astounding were their proposals, that I completely forgot to stare at their luscious forms. I admit, however, that at a certain point Christopher reached into his pants to adjust himself, and I was lost in brief fantasy.

“If I show you this,” and Christopher drew a square upon slate with a piece of chalk, “would you call it a circle?”
     “No!” shouted someone from the back. No question is too rhetorical for the crowd at a free lecture in the park, it seems.
     “Of course not. And this?” he drew a hexagon.
     “No!”
     “But how about this?” he drew a decagon.
     “No.”
     “And yet with each new illustration, are we not getting closer to a circle? The hexagon may have more sides than a square, but it more closely resembles the single-edged circle. Of course, no matter how many more sides we add, we will never obtain a circle.”
     Sand stood up at her husband’s side and spoke: “This is, perhaps, the crux of our argument. Science has, until now, been in the process of adding sides to squares. You’ll notice that nature doesn’t have much to say about squares.”
     “There is an interesting new hypothesis in mathematics. If one were to create a function, and give it the non-intuitive property of being everywhere continuous and nowhere differentiable—” Christopher put the slate in front of him and began to draw.
     I was lost. I looked about, and I noticed I was not the only one.
     “What my husband means is that if you take a shape, and constantly repeat it, in smaller and smaller incarnations around its edge, you have a shape that approaches infinity.”
     Christoper held up the slate. On it was a triangle, a Star of David, and what was, essentially, a Star of David with little Stars of David branching out from the spikes.
     “Well it looks like a plant!”
     “That’s nothing closer to a circle!”
     You know, although I’ve got a fair amount in common with the rest of that audience, I sometimes understand why those university types lock their doors on the poor.
     Sand handled the comments with grace. “Like a plant is perfectly right. This is how things in nature grow. These shapes, not squares, are the building blocks of nature, the building blocks of infinity.”
     I’m going to skip ahead a bit now, to some of their final points. I like what they had to say a lot, and I want to let you know, but I also want to get on with the story. I promised you “tied to the tree” and rather complex sexual positioning.
     “What we’ve got in our society is a science built on squares and right angles. These are great shapes to use when you’re protecting yourself from nature, but they won’t incorporate you into it. Our little stone cities of cubes and triangles are our eggshells, but we’d best get on to hatching, or we’ll never grow up. Or they’ll become our prison.” Sand gestured out towards the towers that cut into the skyline.
     “Right now we’ve got this useless duality, of city and nature. I’m not saying we’re going to reject science, that we’re going to reject stone buildings and clocks. But we’re going to grow up, grow into a chaotic, organic form of thinking, where we branch off our ideas, stick with the ones that gather more sunlight. Leave behind our pyramids of thought, where each generation builds on the ideas of the old, getting smaller and smaller…”
     I didn’t hear the last couple sentences she spoke, because she was drowned out by applause. That’s one thing that probably doesn’t happen in the lecture halls.

I hung back and let others be the first to mob the speakers when they were done. I watched the sun set from the edge of the pavilion, thinking lyric and rhyme amidst the chatter.
     “What did you think?” Christopher asked, putting his hand on my shoulder.
     I turned and answered, “I think you and your wife are geniuses. But genius isn’t the right word… do we call the sun a genius? This lavender… is it genius?”
     Alright, look. I never claimed I wasn’t a piss-poor poet, and I never claimed that I wasn’t quite taken with thought that may seep with pretension. But if I’m going to tell a dirty story, I may as well be honest. You’ll see as much of my naked mind as my naked body.
     But Christopher smiled. I think he knew what I was getting at. “We’re doing a series of lectures this week at the University—”
     My eyes lit up in hope.
     “I can’t get you in, but… hold on a second, let me ask Sand something.”
     He disappeared and I turned back towards the sun, that dying genius of light, occupying myself in thought.
     This time, when Christopher came over he stood next to me, looked out the same way I was looking. “I just had to check. Anyhow, the University is giving us use of a zeppelin for the weekend, to allow us to go home if we desire. And we were thinking we’d go camping. We’d like you to join us.”
     I wanted to ask why? why me?, but I’ve learned by now in my life not to question such things. With all the steadiness of voice and general lack of bluster I could summon, I accepted their offer.
     Gaily I skipped home. No, not even the mud and sadness that the rich in their horseless horrors splashed onto me could dampen my spirits. I tell you in no uncertain terms that I wanted to have a place within the intelligentsia. Particularly, the section of it that gives free talks in the park, the part that uses the might of their brains to challenge and destroy the massive, structural faults of society. I wanted to be close to the beautiful, the passionate, and the wise.
     And with a growing sense of urgency, I wanted to be inside the beautiful, passionate and wise. It was with such thoughts that I relieved myself that evening.

That week I wrote sixteen poems. Whenever possible, I prefer to write a poem, perform it twice, thrice, and soon be done with it. Never let your work become precious. My mother, the potter, taught me as such. A potter will tell you that they made sixteen bowls, and no one will think them odd. Why is a poet any different?
     I was inspired, and I veritably sang as I recited. I made eating money and lodging money and even the money I needed for mead to bring on the trip.
     Friday evening found me walking up the airship tower, pondering poetry as the people shrunk beneath me. Ahead, the Goldsworths spoke in hushed tones, carrying their own luggage as I carried mine. The assigned porter looked more or less confused, and walked beside me.
     I don’t suppose one can feel as magnanimous as one does when there is a servant around whom you refuse to boss or encumber. But I don’t have much experience with such things, and I’m not likely to again.
     And we embarked, just the three of us. Christopher, as well as a remarkable mathematician, was the son of an aviator. He steered and navigated, delegating simpler tasks to the two of us.
     Yes, the several-hour trip was breathtaking, only my third time in the sky and the first time with any sort of freedom to speak of. But of more import to the story, that evening we dropped anchor—quite a thing from a few hundred meters aloft!—, lowered provisions, and descended a ladder while harnessed to the ship for safety. Right into the middle of a wild nowhere, right into a forest the likes of which I’d never imagined, but one that spoke to me in some primeval way.
     Sand was upset by the damage to the undergrowth caused by the anchor, I remember, and Christopher offered no justification. It was clear that he bore more of a love for the workings of science, and was more prone to forgive it its faults.
     We set up a single large canvas tent, one sized to fit a family of five with comfort, and Christopher began to build a fire. “I’m going to cook dinner,” he said, “and you two should get out of my hair.”
     Sand led me down a game path during the first moments of twilight, twisting her way past briars and over fallen logs whilst I stumbled behind her. “Up here,” she said, when I had fallen behind.
     I turned past the silhouette of a tree and came to a sudden halt. In front of me lay a lake, thin and long, its surface whipped about by the night’s bluster. Next to me stood Sand, her short hair revealing a beautiful neck, her working-woman’s overall-dress exposing her collarbones and shoulders. Everything lay open before me; the clouds were retreating at full bore, and stars twinkled.
     Sand bent down and picked a mushroom from the side of a fallen log. “This,” she said, handing it to me—it was barely distinguishable as yellow in the twilight—, “this is part of what we were talking about. The mushroom isn’t the plant. The plant is a vast network of invisible threads that weave their way through the forest. The mushroom is just a manifestation of those threads. It’s like the fruit on the tree.”
     I held the mushroom up to look closer, as if I could somehow see into the infinity their chaotic mathematical philosophical ideas presented by staring at the fungus. Sand placed her arm around my waist, and I was struck once more by how much I missed the touch of a person. I had been too long alone, far too long.
     “So when people decide they want something that looks like this, they build the mushroom, but not its threads. The whole forest is like the mushroom, too. This forest… we need to stop thinking about ‘this tree, that tree,’ because all of the trees here are interwoven. They depend on each other. Hell, they’re not really separate entities. Not really.”
     I think she was making a metaphorical point that bordered on the blasphemous, obscene, and potentially sexual. I was aroused.
     Sand kissed me lightly on the neck. “I bet dinner is ready.”

As the remains of the finely prepared seafood digested in my happy belly, I washed the dishes in a metal basin—and this amount of work I had only because I insisted! Next to me, Sand scraped the food remains into a hole she had dug.
     “D—,” she said after we’d both finished, “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But we wanted to ask you… do you like men at all?”
     “Yeah,” I said. My eyes kept wandering down the top of her dress, where her uncovered, small breasts were quite visible, hanging petite and lovely. I did my best to look at her face, which was smiling. She seemed anxious, nervous.
     “Would you like to have sex with the two of us tonight?”
     I swallowed, and I’m pretty certain I stammered. “Yeah.”
     She unclipped one side of her overalls, and the front folded down, clearly exposing her tit. The nipple, large and brown, stood out. She stood on her toes and kissed my mouth, briefly. “Good,” she said into my ear.
     My hand went immediately to the side of her bare waist, squeezing her gently. She stood back and unclipped the other side of her overalls and was shirtless before me. I knelt before her and put my mouth on her belly. I could smell her getting wet, I swear to you.
     She put her hands into my hair, and tousled it while I licked her hipbones and massaged them with my thumbs. She was very thin, almost bony, but carried enough weight on her hips that it was a joy to knead and touch.
     She tightened her grip on my head and told me to take her dress off. It was awkward, working the fly buttons with my head so close to them, but I had no desire to move my face from that lovely smell. Eventually, the buttons were undone and her heavy canvas dress fell down of its own weight.
     “My bloomers too,” she said, and my hands were quick to the ties at the side. These too soon lay at her feet. I ran my hand up her legs, cupping the mound of her cunt as I happily licked her belly.
     I heard Christopher come up behind me, and for a moment I hesitated. What if he didn’t actually want me pleasuring his wife? But then he was pulling my shirt off, and I raised my hands to let it go.
     The slight breeze was chill against my bare skin, and soon a bearded face was kissing my shoulder. I moved my mouth lower and started to lick Sand’s cunt, but it was an awkward position.
     Christopher departed—I could tell because his mouth was no longer working its way around the back of my neck—and returned with a leather camping mattress, which he unrolled beside me. I lay down on my back, and Sand knelt over my mouth, facing away from my feet. I grabbed her bare thighs, dug in my nails, and began to lick her in earnest.
     It was, of course, all very sudden. But how do you work out the playful introduction to sex—the caresses and light touching—with three people, in the forest? I’ve little experience in such matters. And I certainly had no objections. Kissing and holding would come in due course.
     Christopher stood above my head and held Sand’s hands, helping her balance as she rode my face. It was, in its way, quite romantic for the two of them, as I think of it now. But at the time, I was quite blissfully licking and fingering a most marvelous cunt, one whose taste still lingers in my mind.
     I was, of course, frightfully hard, and it was a pleasant surprise when my boots and pants were removed in much the same manner as my shirt had been. Christopher knelt over my knees and began to fondle me, starting with my balls (with an aware gentleness that—no offense to the few women who’ve allowed me to love them!—no woman has matched) and thighs. Soon he had a loose grip around the base of my cock and began to move it around in circles.
     All of this came at the expense of poor Sand’s balance, however, and she stood. A small part of my senses heard her walk away, but for the most part I heard only my own panting, thought only of the hand that was fondling my cock. He paused to lick his hands and look me in the eyes before his wet palms began to jack me off.
     There is something remarkable about being touched—one moment it may simply feel grand, a fierce massage. Yet the next, it is sublime. Fire runs through you and you are nowhere, no one. As I lay on my back in that forest I flickered into heaven—the only heaven I will allow to exist—and I was no one, an empty mind.
     He put his mouth over the head of my dick and I returned to my body, happy. He ran his teeth—so gently!—up and down the shaft while one hand stayed firm on the base. Suddenly, he looked up, released me, and stood.
     I turned and I saw his wife standing above me, so tall and beautiful and tauntingly naked, a length of cordage looped in her hand. Christopher strode over to her, stripping off his shirt, unbuttoning his pants.
     “Bring the mattress, will you?” he asked of me, and the two began to walk away, behind the tent.
     I grabbed the mattress and followed, watching their hips sway in time, hers bare and his still tauntingly clothed.
     Behind the tent I saw only silhouettes. Christopher took me quite bodily and pushed me against a tree as wide across as I am tall, kissed me hard. His beard was fuzzy and warm, his lips soft, but his tongue was relentless as it explored my mouth for that wonderful second. He overpowered me, held my arms back.
     Sand began to tie a knot around one of my wrists.
     “You can say no anytime you’d like,” Christopher whispered as he held me back.
     A hint of fear grew, but it only aroused me further. I said nothing.
     Sand walked around the trunk of the tree and tied the cord to my other hand. As soon as I was secured, Christopher released me and stripped off his pants. His dick, released, protruded in front of him—of admirable size, I confess, the perfect size to put into your mouth, but thicker than I’d want in my ass.
     Sand approached and placed her hands against the tree on either side of my head. She kissed me softly, and suddenly let out a gasp as Christopher entered her from behind.
     I nearly whimpered in desire as she moaned directly into my face. She put one hand on the back of my neck and gripped me hard for support.
     I could see his hand on her hip, driving them together. With each thrust she dug her nailless fingers deeper into my neck. Tied as I was, I could not put my hands on myself, yet it seemed my groin was screaming at me to do so.
     He groaned as he slammed into her, less gentle now as she was increasingly wet. She screamed once in the midst of her moaning, a high wail of pleasure not three inches away from my face.
     Suddenly he stopped and pulled out, and she collapsed against me, kissing me like a hungry woman.
     “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” she said into my ear, in between fierce bites to my neck and chin.
     The next moment she was a good six inches taller. In retrospect, I know that Christopher had placed the rolled-up mattress beneath her.
     She put her hands behind my back, supporting her weight with her hands. The ropes dug into my wrists. She raised one leg to the side, stood on her toes, positioned herself, dropped down onto the flats of her feet. To my surprise and delight, it worked. I slid into her.
     She couldn’t fuck me, not really. I bucked against her as well as I could from my position tied to the tree, and it felt sublime nonetheless, but soon she stood up once more and I was out of her.
     I must have whimpered. How could I not have?
     Christopher unrolled the mattress and she went onto all fours, her mouth near my thigh.
     He began to fuck her again, slower this time, from on his knees behind her. She reached up and grabbed my ass, supporting herself by holding me, fondling my dick with her mouth. She rocked to the rhythm of his thrusts, now screaming in earnest, her cries waking every creature imaginable.
     She scooted forward, sat up a bit more. I never realized, but sex with three people is remarkably complicated, physically speaking.
     He sat down on his heels, his knees out before him, and she sat back onto him. She put my dick in her mouth, grabbed the shaft and jacked me off while she fucked him.
     For one moment I saw a look in Christopher’s eyes, one of pure love for Sand. The way he held her hips while she rocked on him, the way he watched her back… a simple love.
     Then Sand switched hands on me, intentionally slobbering down the base of my cock, and I threw my head back. Fire coursed through my veins. I found myself fantasizing that it was me behind her, fucking her. Then I found myself in reality, and my dick was in her mouth, and her beautiful lover was fucking her, and I watched the muscles in his chest and I watched the look on his face, and I fantasized that I was fucking him.
     She pulled off of me to scream near-climatically, then was back to sucking me, and I moaned a final time, my hips shaking as I shot cum into her mouth. Her whole body was shaking—as was my own!—and she tightened her grip, pulling from base to tip, squeezing out the last of me.
     Afterwards, she spat discreetly and the two of them lay on the mattress, making love in a more traditional manner. I watched, enthralled, even as my erection shrank.
     Not long after, Christopher stood up and stepped towards me, shaking, his hand on his cock. He smiled, kissed me, and shot his load onto my belly.
     “Thank you,” he whispered into my ear, his voice wracked still with orgasm.

That night we ignored the tent and slept on bedrolls near our kitchen, counting on the woodsmoke to keep the bugs at bay. I lay on my back between them, each with their head curled onto my breast. I looked at the stars and fell asleep, dreaming of chaos.

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