SteamyPunk http://www.steamypunk.net Being the Fanciful Erotica of a SteamPunk World Sun, 07 Mar 2010 20:32:21 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.6 en Edward Lane’s Argosy: Chapter One http://www.steamypunk.net/edward-lane%e2%80%99s-argosy-chapter-one/ http://www.steamypunk.net/edward-lane%e2%80%99s-argosy-chapter-one/#comments Sun, 07 Mar 2010 20:30:21 +0000 Ian Ironwood http://www.steamypunk.net/?p=36 by Ian Ironwood
Chapter One: Tudley House
Edward did not like the looks of the old country manor, no matter which angle he saw it. It was dark and dreary, and it had been years—decades!—since anyone had maintained the place. A Tudor style, two-story affair, the decrepit pile of bricks was covered in vines and dirt. The lawn had not been tended, the windows were caked with coal soot from the Bloomfeld plant a mile away, and the once-stately slate roof looked like the hide of a dragon after a particularly rowdy fight with a vengeful knight. There was an air of misfortune and misery that hung over the place, as if great misdeeds and missed opportunities had accumulated over the years in layers as thick as the dust.
     Edward should have had a home like this himself, he thought with a sigh. Only not so dreary. His college friends, the cream of the realm’s aristocracy, had such places to spare: the accumulated inheritance of generations. This home could have been magnificent under his care, he knew, a worthy estate for a country gentleman or industrious peer. It was precisely the sort of thing he aspired to—had aspired to for years, actually. Only Edward Lane was without inheritance of any significance.
     That wasn’t quite true—his father had been a Brigadier in the Lancers, a career military man furthering the Empire in distant lands. Edward had only met the man three times in childhood, when he was home on leave and condescended to visit his wife and children. The last time Edward had been twelve years old, and had been very impressed with the gentleman, his uniform, his thick mustache and his commanding manner. He had seemed invulnerable, eternal. Then he had returned to foreign parts for the final time, succumbing to some tropical disease when Edward was fifteen, leaving a tiny pension for his mother and no sort of inheritance for his children. His salary as Brigadier wasn’t extravagant, but it was sufficient to send his only son to a decent school, and one of his leftenants overseas, a prosperous aristocrat whose life his father had saved, had generously ensured that Edward receive a decent education by getting him into college and paying him a small stipend until he earned his letters.
     There are limits to such generosity, though, and upon graduation Edward found himself without a home (his mother had died, his sisters had married), without money, without title, and without prospects. Having become accustomed to the life of the aristocracy, he had clung to the coattails of his college friends for a few years, pretending to an affluence he did not have, before he decided to take up a trade. And while he was intelligent enough to take the bar, canny enough to con himself a commission in the Army, and witty enough to continue sponging off of his college friends indefinitely, he was too lazy or proud to do any of these things. So he had condescended to take up a trade: Art thief.
     He was well-prepared for his new profession, having had a love of great art and jewelry since he’d been exposed to it. He was also adept at a number of subjects that are not generally taught in the finer colleges, such as picking locks and pockets, dissembling around suspicious servants, and lying to the face of police detectives, all thanks to the tuition of his mother’s half-brother, a Celtic n’er-do-well named Uncle Pete. Pete had occasionally arrived at their house unexpectedly, stayed for an unspecified duration, and vanished without explanation.
     But when he did linger for more than a day or so, he doted on his nieces and nephews. From the first time Pete had picked his pockets at nine, Edward had been fascinated with such sleight-of-hand and demanded to learn how it was done. Pete had been tickled to have such an apt pupil, and thereafter he would impart some bit of underworld knowledge to his beloved nephew. It had made him quite a name in school. He had become known as “Eddie The Dodger” for the adept way he seemed to be able to acquire things, from examination answers to the odd wallet. Always quick with a joke or a smoke, Edward had used his petty notoriety to insert himself into a social group far above his means—and he had Uncle Pete to thank for it.
     Edward had a touch of the man’s abhorrence to hard work, but didn’t share his penchant for gambling, women and drink, which meant that he retained far more of his ill-gotten gains than his uncle ever had. But when Edward had confided his despair at having any prospects to the man the last time he saw him, Pete had taken him on a seven-house burglary spree before sitting him down with a mutual friend, a squint-eyed fence named Lyle. Lyle had a better appreciation for Edward’s potential than Pete, recognizing his education and social contacts gave him access to great troves of treasure. So he embarked on his career that very day, and hadn’t looked back since.
     The key to his success for the last three years had been his patience and willingness to acquire lesser pieces from less well-guarded premises, avoiding risky situations at all costs. The result had been a string of unconnected robberies of low stature. His biggest take had been the reason he was now in the countryside: a magnificent antique gilded jewelry box belonging to the mother of one of his old classmates. It had been worth more than all of the junk jewelry within it, some three hundred pounds, but some pieces of sentimental value had caused the wealthy matron to pursue the theft with all the powers at her disposal. That made the city too uncomfortable, and so Edward had decided to pursue a few scant leads in the countryside. At the top of the list was this Tudor manor: Tudley House.
     He had no idea who the original Tudley had been, nor much about the current owner, one Lord Trey, a distinguished gentleman who spent most of his time abroad pursuing his varied interests—and a lot of native womanhood, by all accounts. He hadn’t been in the realm, much less at Tudley House, in more than four years. But his sources had mentioned the trove inside as being right up his alley. Odds and ends from Lord Trey’s adventures, some original Tudor-era artwork (which was a long way from Edward’s tastes in art, but no matter), and some even earlier pieces the distinguished old family had collected. Tudley House may have been a mausoleum, but it was one stuffed to the rafters with loot.
     Edward had taken the train to Bloomfeld—his resources did not permit a more stately and expensive airship, and the truth was Bloomfeld had no proper tower for one— and a room at the village inn for a few days, indulging in the inexpensive but comfortable digs and visiting a few friends in the area. It gave him a solid reason for being this far from his normal haunts, and a nascent interest in birding had made a tromp through the backcountry behind the manor a reasonable thing. Slipping unnoticed through the foliage that afternoon had been simple. The three hours of clandestine surveillance had been boring but rewarding for all of that. A caretaker seemed to live in the carriage house, and a maid left for the village just after dusk, but beyond that there didn’t seem to be anyone about Tudley House this fine autumn evening.
     He waited a further two hours past dusk before he made his way to the back kitchen door. He found it pleasantly unlocked, although the hinges were in deplorable state, and so he stopped to thoughtfully oil them to silence before proceeding. The dark stone rooms of the pantry and kitchen smelled of stale flour and moldy cheese, and a careful hand on the stove and a glance at the rubbish bin told him that the maid had cooked at least two sparse meals today.
     Satisfied, he climbed the narrow stairs up to the buttery, stopping to sneer at the poor vintages stored therein (but making an exception for an unexpected bottle of Port that he consigned to his bag for celebration later) before making his way out to the front of the house. He moved carefully and quietly, cursing the squeaking floorboards in his mind as they betrayed him. Still, he heard nothing else in response, and proceeded more boldly forward to the parlor where he expected to begin his spree. The big wooden double doors seemed more intimidating than inviting, but he soldiered on, turning the tarnished brass handle with a decisive click.
     “Hullo!” came a voice in the darkness, making him nearly jump out of his skin. His heart began beating furiously. “Is anyone about?” The voice was female, though he couldn’t determine the age or class.
     “I . . . It’s just . . . me,” he finally choked out, his throat dry. He hadn’t seen any signs of life within, but unless the woman was a ghost—which he didn’t believe in, despite the current fad for such things—he was nicked. As Uncle Pete said, a swift tongue can get you out of more dodges than swift feet. “Where are you?” he asked, putting on his best confused aristocratic idiot expression.
     “I’m here, in the chair,” the voice said, a touch of gravel in it. “Come join me.”
     “It’s . . . well, is there a lamp?”
     “I wouldn’t know,” the voice said, bemused. “And it would do me no good if there was. I am blind.”
     “I . . .” Edward said, his voice in his throat. Perhaps he wasn’t nicked after all! Thinking quickly, he struck a Lucifer from his pocket, splashing the barest bit of light into the room—and causing a cascade of macabre shadows to rush forth. He thought he glimpsed the woman’s shape in the gloom, slumped in a great over-stuffed chair next to the fireplace, where the tiniest of embers glowed. But more importantly he saw a candlestick on the mantle. The Lucifer went out, burning his fingers, before he gained it, but he had another, and in a moment there was enough light to see, dimly. He found three more candles and lit them, and the light was almost passable. “That’s better,” he sighed. “I’m afraid I’m no fan of the darkness.”
     “Either am I,” the woman quipped, drolly, and then added the briefest of laughs. “Now who are you?”
     “I? I’m nobody. Edward, Edward Lane,” he explained, one of the prefabricated explanations he’d prepared falling out of his mouth like the honest truth. “I’m a birder, and such a novice at the art of woodsmanship that I’m now hopelessly lost. I followed a stream expected to eventually encounter a bridge before nightfall, and thus a road and beyond that a house, but then I smelled the chimney smoke and followed my nose here. I didn’t think anyone was about, and planned on spending the night until I could orient myself in the morning.” It was a plausible explanation—the best ones were—and decorated with enough of the truth to pass as such.
     “Well, welcome, Mr. Lane, to my home. I apologize that I’m such a poor hostess—I don’t often receive visitors, and the maid has retired home for the evening. Still, it wouldn’t be Christian of me to deny you shelter on a night like this.” She nodded towards the tall, narrow window to her right. A brisk autumn shower was already starting—which Edward had planned on, to erase any incidental footprints his visit might leave.
     “I appreciate your kindness and generosity,” he said, bowing—and then realizing she could not see the courtesy. “And whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
     “I am Elizabeth, Lady Trey,” she said. “Although counting it an honor would likely be overstating it. And you are welcome to whatever little cheer I have. In truth, I welcome the diversion. It makes a welcome respite from my usual mode of evening entertainment.”
     “And that would be?” I asked, curious.
     “Sitting in the dark, alone, and drinking gin,” she said with a wry chuckle, raising her glass to him. “It is ever so much better to be sitting in the dark with someone else and drinking gin. Cheers.”
     “Cheers,” he echoed, absently. “Is Lord Trey not about, then?”
     “Lord Trey is at his estate in Beumonde, where he oversees his interests,” she said, emptily. “I have not had the pleasure of his company in four years. Please, have a seat,” she said, interrupting herself.
     “I’d love to,” he said, “but if you permit me, let’s stir the fire and take the chill off, shall we?” It was depressingly cold in the room, he noted, and Tudors had a justly-earned reputation for draughtiness. Lady Trey was enwrapped in several quilts, and while the air before her mouth did not quite turn to vapor, it was a near thing. She nodded and Edward proceeded to stoke the fire to the point where the flames provided more illumination than the feeble candlelight. When he turned back to face his impromptu hostess, he gasped. Wit the augmented light he could see her face clearly for the first time.
     “What is the matter?” Lady Trey asked. “Did you burn yourself?”
     “No,” Edward said, shaking himself back to reason, “I was just . . . startled. You are very beautiful. And much younger than I thought.”
     The laugh that came from the fair face and unseeing—but nonetheless gorgeous—blue eyes shook Edward for its hollowness and lack of mirth. “Beautiful? Young? I feel neither—and none has dared say such things to me since I lost my sight.”
     “That is a tragedy,” Edward murmured. “You are quite stunning.”
     Lady Trey dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “My maid brushes my hair twice a day, and helps me wash. Apart from that I am quite plain in my toilette.”
      “I beg to differ, madame,” Edward countered.
     “Well, you are gracious to say so. But I’ve already invited you in to stay the night, further flattery is unnecessary, Mr. Lane. But I do bid you join me in a drink.”
     Edward poured a second glass from the pitcher of gin and lemonade set near to Lady Trey’s hand on a well-appointed table, then took a seat on the settee opposite her. “Cheers,” he repeated, sipping the cool drink. By the size of the pitcher and what remained, Lady Trey was at least two sheets to the wind at this early point in the evening. And there was still plenty left.
     “I cannot help but wonder that you aren’t concerned for your safety, out here alone,” he mused. “Do not be,” the woman said, shrugging. “Sometimes I pray some ruffians will break my house and end my torment in some spectacularly savage manner. But we are too remote and humble to attract a better class of ruffian. Besides, Hampton, my groundsman, can hear me scream from here. “
     “Now, now,” Edward soothed. “I can see how your situation would drive one to melancholia—or drink, for that matter—but to wish for a premature end is, if I may say, unChristian.”
     “Oh, I’d be content if some hideous wretch broke in and ravished me,” she said, just flamboyantly enough to let Edward know the level of her toxicity. “Indeed, I’ve prayed for it. Is that not also unChristian, Mr. Lane?”
     “Well, I’m hardly a vicar,” Edward chuckled, warming to the woman. “And I would not presume to judge such . . . flights of fancy. They’re quite common. Propriety keeps me from mentioning a few of my own . . . wilder dreams. Perfectly normal.”
     “Does that mean you’re here to ravage me, then?” she asked, an eyebrow cocked.
     “I wouldn’t presume on my hostesses’ hospitality—and I assume madame is jesting.”
     “I haven’t seen my husband in four years, Mr. Lane,” Lady Trey said, sadly. “And he wants nothing to do with me. The last time I felt the touch of a man . . .”
     “Oh, dear,” Edward said, taken aback. He had thought her just a bawd—but there was true misery in her voice. “Is your husband blind, as well, then?” he asked, sincerely.
     “Flattery again!” she said, shaking her head. “What a rogue you are, Mr. Lane. My groundskeeper has grandchildren and smells of manure. My maid is more a jailor than a confidant. Yours is the first other human voice I’ve heard in years, since I stopped attending services, and you fill my ears with honey.”
     “I speak only the truth,” Edward sighed. “While I respect your infirmity, if I had no knowledge of it I assure you I would spare no expense or trouble to make your acquaintance across a crowded ball room.”
     “Where you would never see me. The blind are not known for their dancing. More the pity—I loved to dance, before my accident. You have a kind and . . . virile voice, Mr. Lane. “
     “Flattery!” Edward accused. She laughed at his joke, the first pleasant laugh he’d heard from her lips since he’d arrived. “But I’ll allow it only if you accept that I have a face like an overdone kidney pie. “
     “As long as your voice is handsome, that is agreeable,” Lady Trey said. “Then we can agree to this fiction together, and proceed with the ravishment.”
     “Another drink, first,” Edward demurred, pouring for them both.
     “So you think me . . . pretty?” the woman continued.
     “As lovely as a doe at dawn,” Edward assured.
     “Honey-tongue. Pray continue. Pretty enough to court?
     “Of a certainty,” he avowed.
     “Pretty enough to wed?”
     “If I had the station and expectation, you’d make a lovely bride for me.”
     “Pretty enough to . . . bed?” the woman asked, hesitantly.
     Silence hung in the air, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Edward tried hard to gauge the woman’s emotions—the eyes were not as telling as they were with other women, and he had difficulty judging how serious she was. He was on dangerous footing, here, and he knew it. But he was bold, at need, and this was such an occasion where boldness, not timidity, seemed to be called for.
     “You are a striking woman,” he began, hoarsely. “And I would be a liar if I said I was unmoved by your beauty . . . in a most uncomfortable way. Were you unwed, I would ply you with drink and flattery far beyond the feeble praise I’ve made here, and steal kisses at every moment.”
     “Go on,” Lady Trey said, breathily.
     “I would not stop until I had you alone, and I would do my utmost to put you in a compromising position at the first opportunity.” He hoped that sufficed. The poor, lonely woman was starved for attention—for simple conversation—and if he was planning on depriving her of her valuables, the least he could do was cater to her whim. “I would make passionate love to you day and night. I would cast aside all propriety and insist you perform like a doxy until we were both satisfied.” He wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard a moan emit from the heap of quilting. He elected to continue out of nothing more than a perversity to stir the passions of this woman. “I would teach you things to our mutual pleasure that a dockside whore would balk at for a purse of gold.”
     “Yes, yes!” Lady Trey said, closing her eyes. “That is entirely what I want!”
     “Yet—”
     “How, a ‘yet’? “ she asked, in frustration.
     “You are wed,” he pointed out. “And to a peer of the realm. Propriety dictates that such liberties are . . . sadly . . . forbidden. The scandal . . . ”
     “And what scandal there would be if lonely, blind, pitiful Lady Trey be discovered in such a position,” she said, dryly. “In truth there are maybe four aristocrats in the county who even know my name, Mr. Lane. Even the villagers rarely speak of me. There is no scandal where there is no reputation to break . . . and I am unnoticed. As far as my ‘dear husband’ is concerned, the night I lost my sight was the last night he cared to speak to me, much less touch me. And as far as my eternal soul is concerned, I tell you that I fear no damnation from such an act. My soul has been bound for perdition for years, I assure you. One more sin—or a lusty dozen—more or less will make no matter before the Throne of God. I’ve accepted my damnation, Mr. Lane, and not only willingly break my marriage vows, but actively seek to do it.”
     “Well,” Edward said, quite at a loss, “If I might ask—purely for the sake of conversation, I assure you—what form of vow-sundering ravishment plagues your tormented soul?”
     “For the sake of conversation,” Lady Trey said, amusedly, “let us say that the scenario you’ve described lives up to it quite nicely. I wish to be treated like a whore, Mr. Lane. I was but twenty when I wed, and my ‘dear husband’ was artless in the marriage bed. I barely knew what was happening before it was over. After my accident, my native urges did not vacate me with my sight. On the contrary, deprived of literature and art, boredom and ennui made my carnal longings that much more acute. But what could I do with them? People look upon me with pity or scorn, and neither one often leads to such illicit pleasures. I have been denied the pleasures of marriage, Mr. Lane. Of even a poor marriage. The most common peasant wife enjoys a more fulfilling life than I. And while my sight and usefulness is limited, I cannot help but think that, in the darkness of the bedroom, such infirmities are moot.”
     “ ‘All cats grey at midnight’,” Edward quipped, sipping his drink.
     “Precisely. A useless ring, a dusty old manse, and a bothersome title are poor recompense for this denial. And all in an effort to make me ‘comfortable’. So I ask you, Mr. Lane,” she said, nearly quivering, “would you care to bed me?”
     “I . . .”
     “Make me your whore, Edward,” Lady Trey’s voice commanded, firmly.
     “It’s just . . .” he stumbled.
     “For the sake of God, do not force me to beg!” she finally exploded.
     Edward was quite out of his element, here. He had plenty of experience with the carnal arts—since two of his fences were also pimps, he’d celebrated a hefty haul with an all-night indulgence a time or three. And he’d seduced his share of the aristocracy, too, as well as their servants. But this situation was unique, in her experience, and the dangers were subtle.
     But there was no denying the effect of Lady Trey’s plea on his manhood.
     Quietly, he rose, setting his drink on the table. He placed another few logs on the fire and stirred it while he thought. Then he returned to Lady Trey’s chair and studied her face, which was collapsed in an expression of despair.
     “If you’re going to be my . . . whore,” Edward said, quietly, “you will be spared nothing.”
     “I ask nothing less,” she said, simply.
     “There will be no screaming for help,” he instructed. “There will be no denial . . . of anything. Every depraved act will be mine to do at will. Agreed?”
     “For the love of God, yes!” she almost yelled.
     Edward grinned and silently unbuttoned his trousers, finally releasing his thick cock to the open air. It hung there, unseen, in front of her face and he felt a lewd charge surge through him at such a brazen display.
     “Say the words,” he commanded. “ ‘Cock.’ ‘Cunt’. ‘Fuck’. ‘Frig’.”
     “Hard, long cock, wet juicy cunt, long glorious fuck, and . . . frig me, dear?”
     He stifled a chuckle at that. “How about . . . suck?”
     “Suck?” she asked, curious.
     “It’s something the dockside whores do,” he informed her. “It’s when you take . . . oh, well, easier to show you, I suppose,” he said, and grabbed the back of Lady Trey’s head and pulled it forward. She resisted the sudden touch and startled—then his cock clumsily touched her face and she transformed. Hungrily, greedily, she took it between her lips, once she knew what it was, and for the next few moments Edward was the recipient of a lifetime of pent-up passion. She was clumsy and inexperienced, and several times she was more forceful than Edward’s manhood would have preferred, but the enthusiasm was so great that minor issues of technique were incidental to the experience. Edward reveled in the pure carnal satisfaction of the moment, and noted that his hostess’ eyes were blissfully closed as she passionately serviced his weapon.
     He was proud of his prick, of course, not just for its size—a full seven and a half inches—but for its form. He had a pretty penis, his friend’s sisters and scullery maids had often said. Well-proportioned and formed, it now delighted at the deft tonguing it was receiving. It was all he could do to avoid ending the evening prematurely, so ardent was Lady Trey’s fire.
     “Am I doing it right?” she asked, when he pulled away.
     “Exceptional,” he confirmed with a smile. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were an airship station whore servicing the five-fifteen from Luxley.”
     “Greater praise I’ve never heard,” she giggled drunkenly. “I cannot believe I actually put a cock in my mouth!”
     “You almost had more of the experience than I intended,” he confided, idly rubbing his length in front of her in a way that would have been lewd, had she been able to see him. As it was, it was twice lewd for her blindness. “Any more and I’m afraid I would have spilled my seed prematurely.”
     “Is it . . . healthful to do such a thing?”
     “Not if you are to get properly rogered,” Edward quipped. “But as far as swallowing the ejaculate—well, by all scientific accounts, it is not only completely untoxic, but many foreign lands see it as positively beneficial! There are whole barbaric lands where such a thing is not just common, but expected. Or so I hear.”
     “Then why spare me?” she asked. “Unless . . . that would end your play for the evening.”
     “Oh, I’m virile enough,” Edward bragged. “Two, three, even four courses in a night, if I’m of a mood.”
     “Then spare me nothing!” Lady Trey demanded, passionately. “Push your cock into my mouth until you release fully—I beg of you! Just swear to me that you’ll continue our interlude . . . or not . . . but I have never tasted a man’s seed, and if the residue on your instrument is this delightful then spare me not the rest!”
     “Well, if you’re certain . . .”
     “Are you always so polite with your whores, Mr. Lane?” she asked, sensing his hesitation. “When I invited you to use me, and swore that I would expect no less, I figured that you would be more . . . robust about the matter.”
     “Fortune favors the bold,” Edward said with a sigh as he pulled Lady Trey’s head back to his cock. For fifteen delightful minutes she pleasured him with her mouth, learning what aroused him the most along the journey. At some point her left hand stole out of the quilting and wrapped around the base of his shaft while she practiced tormenting the head with strong suction and an agile tongue.
     Taking her wish to be treated whorishly at her word, when he found himself once again close to climax he abandoned all pretense and grabbed her blonde locks, using them to propel his pecker deep into her mouth and into her throat. She struggled minutely as he did so, but soon abandoned herself to the depraved act. Edward fucked her face with long, glorious strokes, and she reveled in every moment.
     “At last,” he gasped, “I arrive!” and pumped a massive torrent of seed into her mouth. Lady Trey struggled at first, but then complacently accepted his offering, swallowing heavily.
     “That,” she said, as his cock slipped from between her lips, “was wonderful! I never knew one could perform so on a cock!”
     “Not many can,” Edward sighed, “and all too few do. Most wives find such sports . . . distasteful.”
     “They are idiots, then,” she sighed, contentedly. “If I had known . . .”
     “Oh, there are greater pleasures than that ahead of us—though I won’t mind revisiting the practice. Until then, there is still something that lingers high on the agenda.”
     “And that would be?”
     “Your cunt, my lady,” Edward said, kneeling before her chair, his cock still out and beginning to dangle as it enjoyed the post-orgasmic repose. “It needs tending.”
     “But did you not just climax? Surely you will need a few moments to recover.”
     “That is not the only way a whore’s cunt can entertain,” Edward said as his hands found Lady Trey’s slippered feet—and began climbing upward. She gasped at the shock of the cool air as much as the stranger’s touch on her limbs. But instead of drawing away, she spread her legs lewdly, reclining in the chair in such a way that her fundament was much closer to the edge of the seat. Edward’s hands slipped up her knees to her thighs, under her night dress, and was gratified to learn that under all of those quilts Lady Trey still maintained a girlish figure—and had seemingly forgotten her underthings.

     Her golden triangle slid closer and closer to Edward, who allowed his fingers to tug and play at her pubic hair. Her skin was shot through with goosebumps as he touched whole realms that had forgotten the feel of manly hands. Lady Trey’s spine writhed as he began his spiraling descent towards her womanhood, stroking first her knees, thighs, and belly while she shook and gasped. The pungent aroma of her arousal filled the room. Mixed with woodsmoke and the smell of gin, it was a heady odor, but one Edward found enchanting. He used one of his deft fingers, so used to picking locks, to fondle her mound of venus with all the skill he possessed. Then he bent his head and suddenly began licking her folds.
     Edwards experience with cunnilingus had begun while still in school, on one of those fortunate holiday outings he’d taken with his far more affluent mates. This one was to the seashore, where William Dover’s father, the Baron of Gorey, had a holiday estate the size of a small village. The luxurious quarters and dozens of servants had made a profound impact on young Edward’s ideas about good living, particularly when a comely lass three years older—the maid responsible for the guest rooms—had caught each others’ eye. The maid had seen Edward as a ticket out of her servile surroundings, and had succeeded in seducing the boy in short order. Once she learned of his diminished estate, she contented herself with showing him how to pleasure her properly. Edward had used that arcane knowledge on his host’s youngest daughter three nights later, and had won an admirer for life on that account.
     Since then he had practiced the art whenever the occasion warranted, although he rarely licked whores. Now Lady Trey had full benefit of his education, and she thrashed and writhed as his tongue pleasured her in a way no man had ever dared. Edward, mindful of his audience, did his best to ensure a long and delicious course before she came on his tongue—and when she did, eventually have a cataclysmic orgasm he expected her to cry for him to stop. When she didn’t—but put her left hand on his head and pushed him further into her nexus—he redoubled his efforts, sucking and licking and feasting on this neglected womanhood as if he were a starving man at a Christmas banquet.
     Over and over again he pleasured her, until he lost count of the number of times she had called on Providence and released a fresh gush of juices into his thirsty mouth. She was sweet and clean, tasting like a ripe pear. Her golden fleece was soon soaked with his saliva and her effusions. Only when his jaw ached as much as his prick did he finally relent.
     “It’s better for women, as I understand it,” he said as he caught his breath.
     “Oh, God in heaven, that makes up for many injustices to my gender!” she declared with a beatific sigh. “I have never . . . even with my husband . . . even by my own hand . . .”
     “Well, I can’t say I’m finished yet,” Edward sighed, rising on his haunches until his cock, erect and throbbing once again, lay nearby her seething, sopping cunt. Her juices had thoroughly wetted the skirt of her night dress, perhaps even staining the chair, and the smell of sex clung to the quilting like a pall. Edward lined up his cock with her opening and pushed forward boldly, filling her half way before he stopped and re-adjusted his stance. Then he was buried in her sweet, hot confines to the balls, and Lady Trey could not have been happier.
     “OH, God yes, fuck me, fuck me, Edward, fuck me like a common whore and make me your tart!”
     Edward didn’t comment—he was focused on plunging her tight recesses as fully as possible. While the angle left something to be desired, the unbearable pleasure of being surrounded by her buttery folds was too enticing to consider changing. He was taking his pleasure, now, taking it unmindful of her own—but despite his inattention, Lady Trey seemed to be drinking in the delicious thrusting like a woman dying of thirst. Her left hand clung to his neck as the blind woman sought to push her cunt harder and harder against his staff, sinking it deeper and deeper into her. Her mouth found his, finally, and they kissed, the taste of gin mingling with the taste of lust on their combined tongues.
     How long he thrust into her, he did not know. Her passion, her desperation fueled his own need to possess this blind beauty, and if the Imperial Guard had burst into the room with one of their magnificent rolling iron fortresses, Edward would not have likely noticed. He hammered away at Lady Trey’s neglected pussy until his knees ached and his back protested at the angle, but even as one roaring climax after another washed over her, he persisted in his duty. Only when she slid down enough to entwine both legs about his buttocks and force him fully into her did he finally succumb to temptation and fill her with spunk.
     He withdrew and nearly collapsed in her lap in one movement, so exhausted was he by his effort. She stroked his hair and cooed wordlessly as she, too, recovered from her reverie. It was only when Edward felt something cool and metallic touch the skin of his neck did he start.
     “What the hell?” he called in surprise. Lady Trey suddenly looked guilty, and hid her arms under the quilt. Confused and curious, Edward traced a line down her right sleeve until his hand discovered that her arm . . . ended just below the elbow. Not quite ended, he revised, as he felt the smooth, cool metal that continued, down to dainty metallic digits.
     Lady Trey raised her right hand slowly into the gloomy night, revealing a slender, feminine, but utterly mechanical prosthetic.
     “You have found me out,” she sighed. “My other infirmity. My sight was not all I lost in the accident. My ‘dear husband’ had the kindness to have this made for me. Pure silver, at least on the outside.” While she talked the hand whirred as the fingers moved. “He got the best clockwork maker in the city to build it. You remember the old Celtic story of King Nuada? The one who had a silver arm?”
     “I tended to stick with Classical literature,” Edward demurred. “But I think I’ve heard the name.”
     “Nuada was king of all the Celtic lands. Until he lost his hand in battle. Under Celtic law, he could not be king anymore. But his smith forged a brilliant silver hand in recompense for his loss. My husband tried to do the same. Now that I am . . . no longer fit to be a wife, he’s grafted this obscene toy to my stump in an effort to make up for . . . everything. He thought it was pretty.”
     “It is,” Edward admitted, his mouth slack with wonder. And indeed the device was a work of art in its own right, a delicate tribute to the master who created it. The fingers had been polished smooth, but the back of the hand and the palm were etched with elaborate geometric patterns.
     “It’s an abomination,” Lady Trey said, flatly. She held up her left hand in comparison. As dainty as her silver hand was, it seemed clumsy and awkward compared to her natural hand. “I despise it. But it has its uses. Seduction, however,” she said, wryly, “is not one of them. It inspires pity—moreso than my blindness. And it inspires a horrid fascination I’d just as soon be without.”
     “So . . . how did it happen?” Edward finally managed to bring himself to say.
     “If you want that story, Mr. Burglar,” she said, straightening up and reclaiming her dignity by smoothing down her quilts and the skirts under them, “then you will have to return tomorrow night.”
     “Burglar?” Edward said, trying to interject the proper note of confusion and denial in his voice.
     “A gentleman would have knocked, even if he was certain no one was home,” Lady Trey explained. “And come through the front door. A burglar, on the other hand, no matter how polite, would only use the back door and try to enter silently. Unfortunately for you, my hearing is adept since I lost my sight. I’m certain you’re some kind of aristocratic rogue, down on his luck, and found Tudley House an easy mark. My husband’s absence is well known, and my presence here . . . not so well known. The truth is, Mr. Lane—if that is your name—that I’ve been wondering how long it would be before such a lure proved irresistible. Not to the local footpads—they’d never try something like this. But a clever fellow from the city, he might.”
     “Madame, I assure you—”
     “Don’t bother lying, Mr. Lane, I can hear it in your voice,” she dismissed. “I don’t fault you for it. For all I know, this house is scattered with god and jewels—for all the good they would do me. No, here are the conditions of your parole: you will sleep here, tonight, in my bed. In the morning you will pleasure me again the way you did a while ago. By dawn’s light, however, you must escape back to whence you came, before my maid arrives. Return again at dusk, and make me your whore again tomorrow night. Afterwards, I will tell you the whole dreary story, and let you pick your choice of whatever shiny bauble strikes your fancy from my husband’s collection. Or . . .”
     “Or . . . ?” Edward asked, tacitly accepting her pronouncement without actually admitting he was a thief.
     “Or I can show you something really worth stealing. Something to make you as rich as an Earl, a dozen times over. Wealth, boundless adventure, a journey to the ends of the Earth. You won’t find it by ransacking the house, though, I warn you. So you will return tomorrow and fuck me soundly, and then we shall see about your future, Mr. Lane. Is that agreeable?”
     “How could a man ask for anything more?” Edward said, quietly.
     What had he gotten himself into?


]]> http://www.steamypunk.net/edward-lane%e2%80%99s-argosy-chapter-one/feed/ Got A Screwdriver? http://www.steamypunk.net/got-a-screwdriver/ http://www.steamypunk.net/got-a-screwdriver/#comments Sun, 07 Mar 2010 19:51:18 +0000 Elizabeth McKay http://www.steamypunk.net/?p=28 by Elizabeth McKay
“Alright, Mags, it looks like the last of them have left. I think it’s time, hmm?” Cora’s petticoats whispered as she moved across the room to Maggie’s desk. It was the first night of summer recess, and the halls of Cape June Ladies’ Academy still echoed with the bustle of students moving out, and giving emotional farewells to their classmates. The only light in the whole building was in the workshop, where the two had hidden themselves.
     Maggie sat up and blinked a few times, setting her pen down. She yawned and arched her body into a luxurious stretch, leaning back onto Cora. “I didn’t think it would ever end. I finished the last of the adjustments to the device a week ago and I’ve been dying to try it out!” Cora ran her hands over Maggie’s hips and rubbed her cheek on her black curls, breathing in her lavender perfume.


     Maggie hopped off her stool and lead Cora through the workshop, both of them giggling. On a thick oak table was a massive structure, draped with a red cloth tarp. “Well, what now Mags?”
     “Now we test our creation. Are you ready?”
     Cora shivered and hopped up and down impatiently “God yes, let’s go!”
     They yanked the cloth off and admired their machine. In the lamplight it was beautiful – all brass fittings, polished till they looked like silk. The seat was large enough for two, covered in flocked velvet and leather. All manner of attachments were suspended from a frame above it. Vibrating devices, dildos, plugs, clips and clamps; restraints and stirrups; long, round, oblong, egg-shaped, flower-petal forms in beautifully polished wood, marble, and leather. All were connected to a central motor, which boasted a panel of dials and switches, labeled to control intensity, direction, and frequency of motion.
     Maggie pushed her pince-nez farther up her nose and turned to Cora “Do you think it’s safe? Seeing it all done…I mean, we really did put an awful lot on there. It may be top-heavy…”
     “Oh, darling, don’t worry, it’s fine. Remember, too much is too much, but way too much and you’re just getting started!” Cora swept Maggie up into her arms and kissed her passionately.
     “Alright, I won’t be intimidated. It’s only technology, engineering, and physics.” Maggie blew gently on Cora’s neck as she started unlacing her dress, licking and nipping at Cora’s small, freckle-dusted breasts, pulling her bodice down to kiss and suck her nipples. She sighed and moaned into Cora’s skin, rubbing her lips around each pink little candy, licking and biting by turn.

They pushed and pulled at the endless layers of skirts, sleeves, and bodices, Cora making small groans of frustration as she tore at Maggie’s stays. She dug her fingers into the round swell of Maggie’s hips, clawing at the flimsy cotton drawers as the other woman shuddered and moaned. Cora could feel Maggie start to grind her pussy against her thigh, her scent rising like incense.
     Finally they were free. Maggie got up onto the seat and pulled Cora on top of her, pushing her legs to either side, kissing her deeply and running her hands over the smooth curves of Cora’s ass. She grabbed a handful of her silky red hair and pulled her up for a moment.
     “What should we try first?” Cora smiled and bit her lip, letting her fingers trace up and down Maggie’s soft belly. “Hmm? What does my girl want?” Cora shook her head loose and twisted around to examine the control panel.
     “Umm, there’s the Oscillatrometer…or, ooh, the Dodson’s….no, no wait, where’s the Duchess’ Delight? I know we put it on here somewhere?” Cora leaned back to sort through the collection of wires and devices, arching over farther and farther until she lost her balance. She landed on the floor with a scream, followed by a shower of cogs, gears, and attachments.
     “Oh god, Cora! Are you alright?” Maggie hopped down, “are you hurt?”
     “No, no, I’m good. But what did I do to our machine?”
     They stood up to inspect the damage. Several dildos had fallen off, and the nipple clamps were tangled in the main gear, but it seemed intact. “Got a screwdriver? I have to get these things out of here before it can run again.”
     Maggie rifled through the pile of her clothes, until she found the toolbelt hidden in her skirt. “Flat or cross, sweet?”
     “Cross” Cora knelt on the floor, beautifully pale in the lamplight. She threw her hair back over her shoulder and started to take apart the mechanism to free the delicate chains.
     Maggie collected the scattered toys as she watched Cora, feeling a heavy pulse in her pussy. She licked her lips and sighed, unable resist the full curves of Cora’s bare ass, the tension in her back as she worked the heavy gear loose…Maggie grabbed a ruler off the shelf and landed one swift smack on Cora’s skin, causing the other woman to gasp and moan.
     “Oh, you’re evil. Just when I have my hands full of metal and grease…” Maggie giggled and swatted Cora’s rump again and again, leaving bright pink marks. Cora lifted her ass, leaning into the blows, opening her thighs to show her plump pussy glistening. She stretched her hands out in front of her, letting her breasts rub the cold stone floor, her nipples aching with sensation.
     “Mmm, don’t stop, please…”
     “Please what?” Maggie reached down and slid her fingers over Cora’s lips, parting them to rub her clit slowly, putting her thumb just barely inside her. “Please what?” Smack after smack rained onto Cora’s skin as she writhed and moaned, trying to ride Maggie’s hand.
     “Please - Oh god don’t stop!” Cora threw her head back and cried out.
     “Get this thing working again and I’ll do whatever my girl needs.” Maggie whispered as she slid her thumb into Cora’s dripping pussy, and leaned down to kiss each and every mark on her.
     Maggie stood up and watched Cora, still on all fours, still dripping with honey. “Mags,” Cora turned her head to look at her, dazed, “Mags, have I mentioned lately that I hate you?”
     “You’ll get over it. Need the pliers?” Maggie held out the tools to Cora, as she licked her sweet juices from her other hand, winking down at her.

“Alright, Mags, help me up. I think I’ve finished now.”
     “I suppose we should test this out before we get too wrapped up again.”
     “Right, where’s the power switch?”
     Maggie waggled the switchbox at her “Here goes nothing!” The entire machine powered on, whirring and clicking. Steam started to leak from the base as it grew louder, and the whole mechanism shook gently. Cora placed her hand on the central casing to check the temperature. “We made a good choice on that insulation…feel this. It’s like a warm bath.”
     “It’s splendid, really. A bit loud, though.” Cora put her arm around Maggie’s waist and kissed her shoulder.”
     “I wouldn’t worry about that, love.”
     Maggie reached up to reattach the fallen dildos to their cables while Cora worked the last of the knots from the clamps’ chain. Soon enough they had the entire device back in working order.
     “I believe you owe me something now, Maggie.” Cora tapped her finger on the base of the nearest vibrator and smiled at her.
     “The ‘Duchess’ Delight’? We had to order this all the way from Shropshire! And have it shipped secretly inside a crate of alembics! My girl has expensive tastes.” Maggie climbed back up onto the chair, patting the expanse of velvet between her legs. Cora followed suit and leaned back into Maggie, handing her the gadget. It was small, curved to fit a cupped palm, and polished smooth with a satiny glow.
     Cora tucked her feet into the dangling stirrups and ran her fingernails lightly over her belly and the smooth skin of her thighs, shivering with the thought of what Maggie was about to do. Maggie turned up the dial on the device until it hummed softly, touching it to Cora’s nipples. She jumped and moaned, grabbing Maggie’s knees to brace herself. Maggie ran it over Cora’s neck, following with her tongue, drawing patterns and leaving tiny bite marks on her shoulders.
     She circled the toy around and around each of Cora’s breasts, then down farther until she reached the soft patch of curly red hair, shining with Cora’s wetness. Maggie ran the toy down the cleft of Cora’s pussy, both of them shuddering and groaning. Cora kicked and squirmed as Maggie teased her, sliding the dull head of the vibrator between her lips and then back out again. Every time she grazed Cora’s clit, Maggie bit down on the soft flesh of Cora’s shoulders and roughly pinched her rosy nipples. The whole machine shook with the force of Cora’s writhing; the springs in the chair squeaking, the metal gears grinding on one another, the steam hissing out of the base every time she bucked.
     Maggie’s arm ached with the tension, but she held on. She felt ready to come herself, watching the sublime sight of Cora shaking in ecstasy, ankles held in silk-lined leather, sweat tracing down her temples, her breasts bouncing, growling and moaning like a wild thing. Her climax shook her whole body, and her wails drowned out the mechanical clanking and puffing of their machine. Cora clawed at Maggie, panting, licking her lips…
     “Please, I…Mags…let me…”
     “I know what you need now,” Maggie freed Cora’s legs, and turned her over, gently placing her on her knees “will you let me? May I come inside?” Cora nodded hungrily, still unable to speak, wrapping her arms around Maggie’s waist, nuzzling the soft mound of Maggie’s pussy.
     Maggie flipped a different switch on the controls and a small door opened, revealing a glass dildo fastened to a sturdy base. Cora bent forward again, centering her pussy over the dildo, just barely grazing the tip of it. She looked up at Maggie, beaming, “You’re too good to me, you know that?”
     With that, Cora spread Maggie’s legs and dove into her pussy, licking first the dark curls of her outer lips, and working her way inward towards her clit. Maggie gasped and swore, clutching the controlbox tight in her hand, and digging her nails into the seat with her other. Cora’s expert tongue flicked up and down the tender rose skin of Maggie’s pussy, lapping up every drop of wetness, sucking on each tender inner lip by turn, then swirling over Maggie’s clit again and again. Now it was Maggie’s turn to let go – her head falling back, hair streaming down the cushion, her breasts shaking, nipples perked and throbbing as Cora pleasured her.
     Cora eased one finger then another into Maggie’s pussy, pushing up against the tight, hot little wall, dripping wet, searching for that one spot that would make Maggie melt. She crooked her fingers slightly and rubbed at it, licking Maggie’s clit faster and faster. Just as she started to come, Maggie thumbed the switch and the dildo quickly plunged into Cora, sliding on her wetness, making her scream with pleasure into Maggie’s pussy.
     Together they came, Maggie grinding her pussy onto Cora’s mouth, riding out her climax, and Cora coming a second time, bucking with the rapid motion of the dildo.
     When her ecstasies finished, Maggie peeked down at Cora, both exhausted and weak. She fumbled with the off switches and shut it all down. Cora gently pushed the dildo back into its compartment, and Maggie hung the Duchess’ Delight back on the rack. Cora climbed back up and they curled together, holding each other tightly – gleaming with sweat, smelling sweet and musky. Maggie kissed the pulse on Cora’s neck and smoothed her hair as she lay in her arms. The machine itself gradually slowed its motions, and became quieter as they lay curled in reverie. Except for a strange creaking noise. Maggie and Cora looked around warily…
     “What the hell is that? God I hope noone’s here…”
     Maggie’s eyes grew wide as she looked up at the attachment rack, which was leaning lower and lower, all the gadgets and devices swinging, “We’re going to have to move!”
     As soon as the words left Maggie’s mouth, the rack and all its accoutrements crashed down, sending each and every last device flying over the workshop floor. They froze for a moment, then dissolved in laughter.
     “‘Too much is enough’? ‘Don’t’ worry darling’? Cora what the hell happened? My shop is covered in erotic gadgets! It looks like a brothel exploded!”
     Cora wiped the tears streaming down her face and kissed Maggie’s cheek. “Well, Mags…got a screwdriver?”


]]> http://www.steamypunk.net/got-a-screwdriver/feed/ A Cold Night In New Barcelona http://www.steamypunk.net/a-cold-night-in-new-barcelona/ http://www.steamypunk.net/a-cold-night-in-new-barcelona/#comments Sun, 01 Nov 2009 16:59:08 +0000 Dimitri Markotin http://www.steamypunk.net/?p=19 by Dimitri Markotin
It was raining outside, pouring down in cold sheets, the kind of rain that keeps even children indoors. It was raining inside, too. Just a soft drizzle from the few dozen leaks that peppered the soda-can-shingle roof, and a soft spray as the wind blew in through the holes in the walls.
     James stood in front of his favorite of those holes in the wall. Floor to twelve-foot ceiling, it was a jagged scar of exposed brick and torn wiring. It looked out over the rest of the city splayed out below. Candles were lit in windows nearby, like starlight. Electric lights glared in the skyscrapers downtown, high-powered beams shot out from the police airships tethered to the tallest buildings. An abandoned warzone lay between the two.
     A figure on a bicycle crossed through the no-mans-land, slowing to dodge potholes.
     James broke his vigil when the rider made it through the barricades and was safely back in New Barcelona. She’d be fine, he told himself. He walked down the seven flights of steps to unbar the door, then back up six to put a kettle for tea on the woodburning stove (book-burning stove, he would admit sometimes. But then, when one lived in lawbook depository in a society without law?). He went into the bedroom to check to see that the bed was made, then put on incense. He changed his mind about the incense and doused it, lit the oil lamp. He checked on the tea water and pulled out jars of chamomile and lavender. A short moment later, he returned them and pulled out two of his last teabags of rooibos, an import.
     He paced between the makeshift kitchen and the bedroom, separated by bookshelves of fiction, books he would not be burning. He sat for a long time waiting to hear the bells on the door that he’d wired to ring throughout the house. Finally, he went to the washroom to brush his teeth. It was then, of course, that Nepenthe arrived. He spit into the bucket, rinsed, and finally let a nervous smile creep across his face.
     He went to the control panel set into the wall in the stairwell and pulled a lever, releasing the bars on the doors below. Then he stood, waiting for her. He changed his mind and sat. Then, as he changed his mind again and stood back up, she walked in the room, grinning and drenched.
     James wasn’t a large man. He was five-foot-seven and thin, with the wiry muscles of the underfed and overworked. No one had enough to eat, not really, not since Downtown outlawed and then burned their gardens, not since the war began. He wasn’t a large man, weighed a few pounds less than Nepenthe, but it still caught him off guard when she picked him up and spun him in a quick circle before putting him back down.
     Most nights he would have lost himself in her embrace, but she was freezing and wet and her touch startled him. Pleasantly, though. Her sleeveless black shirt was soaked, clinging to her body.
     “Do you want some red tea?” he asked her.
     She nodded and he poured them each a cup, then sat down on a metal folding chair.
     “You look good,” Nepenthe said, standing over him.
     “You’re still alive,” he replied.
     “Thanks,” she said, and sat down on his lap, her legs straddling him, soaking his cotton dress.
     He reached a hand up and felt her neck, running his long nails slowly under her chin, causing her to smile. He sat up straight and kissed her, softly, his lips against hers, their mouths barely open.
     “It’s getting worse out there. More people are staring at me, more people are second-guessing me. Tonight someone tried to kick my bike out from underneath me.” Nepenthe massaged the back of her neck.
     “I’m sorry,” James said. He put his hand on her hand on her shoulder and then withdrew it. “Is there anything I could do?”
     Nepenthe laughed. “Probably.”
     “Well, do you want to get out of those clothes? You must be freezing.”
     Nepenthe stood up, smiling, and stripped. Her shirt went over her head, revealing her small breasts—nipples erect—, her slight belly, and beneath that, muscle. She glistened from the rain, and James longed to touch her, to caress her, to fuck her before she dried.
     She kicked off her shoes where she stood and, one hand braced against the table, she pulled off her pants and underwear. Her legs were thick, strong, and somehow soft. Her pubic thatch was inviting and at eye level.
     “Are you nervous?” Nepenthe asked, reading James’ demeanor, his awkwardness.
     “Yeah,” he admitted.
     Nepenthe stepped closer to him, reaching out to place her fingertips behind his ear. “Do you want to talk about it?”
     James thought for a moment before he responded. “No. I want to kiss your belly.”
     “Then do it.”
     James did so.
     “I want to touch you,” he said, running his nails lightly up the outside of Nepenthe’s thigh.
     “I’d rather you licked me,” she replied, and James, holding onto her hips, knelt down on the floor.
     Nepenthe stepped forward and took a wider stance so that James could find her cunt with his mouth. First he licked the outside, then brought his tongue up between her labia, up the length of her until her found her clit.
     She took hold of his hair with both hands and pulled him up against her roughly. He moaned. It had taken months to work up to where he was comfortable with her grabbing him like that, but it was, very strongly, what they both wanted.
     James tasted her for a moment, then stood back up—which she let him do. He took her hand and led her into the bedroom, where the oil lamp, set against mirror shards, cast a soft but wildly flickering light.
     “Push me on the bed,” Nepenthe suggested.
     James pulled her past him and down onto the large mattress that lay upon shipping pallets stacked four high. He hiked his dress up above his knees and straddled her waist, running his nails across her chest, flicking her nipples, massaging her collar and neck.
     He kissed her, then, on the lips, and she responded by pulling his head into hers. He pulled away, smiling, then moved down her body with his mouth. After her neck, he said, “You’re usually so salty.”
     “It’s the rain.”
     “You tell the rain that I get to lick your salt off.”
     Nepenthe laughed, more from ticklishness—his lips and his soft beard had just found the side of her waist—than from the bad joke. “What, are we monogamous now?”
     “Well, I suppose it’s alright,” he conceded. He put the pad of one fingertip against the base of her wet cunt and pushed it in just past the lips, causing Nepenthe to breathe in sharply.
     “Will you just fuck me?” It was as much a plea as it was a demand.
     “Alright,” James said, and let his forefinger slide into her. He pulled it out and added the middle finger, turning his hand so his palm faced up.
     “Thanks,” Nepenthe said, and gasped as James curled his fingers and brought them up inside of her.
     James lay down on his stomach between her legs and started to lick her clit, his middle and ring fingers fucking her.
     There wasn’t a trace of nervousness left in him, he realized. With his free hand, he massaged her breast. She moaned happily. His cock pressed against the bed, and all his body knew was desire.
     For minutes, at least, he licked her, lapped her, fucked her with his mouth and hand. Her excitement grew, and he could taste her getting wetter.
     He knelt for a second, switching hands, and met her gaze while putting a cunt-soaked finger into his mouth. Nepenthe whimpered, and he lay back down and licked her cunt in response, his tongue moving circles around her clit, then simply up from his fingers to the top of her hood. She brought her knee up, found his cock beneath his dress with her foot, pressed against it with her toes.
     “James,” she said, “fuck me.”
     He let his fingers push farther into her.
     “More,” she said, and he added his index finger.
     She started to talk, but words fell noiselessly from her mouth and she gripped his head between her thighs. He licked her harder, let his fingers stay inside her for longer before pulling them almost completely out each stroke.
     And then she shook, starting somewhere from her shoulders, each shiver running down into her hips, shaking his head, making him fuck her harder.
     “I’m going to come,” Nepenthe said.
     James kept his fingers inside her, pressed up nearly against the inside of her belly, and she gasped faster as orgasm went through her. She screamed in staccato bursts and clutched his head tightly in her legs.
     Slowly, it passed. First her panting subsided, then her shivering, and she pulled James up by the hair to kiss him, tasting herself on his lips and in his beard.
     He watched her face, the stress melted away, her eyes a bit glazed. It was rare that she smiled these days, had been ever since the war. The war was supposed to be over. But war never really is, of course.
     “Mmmmm,” Nepenthe said, after staring at the ceiling for perhaps a minute. “Found any condoms recently?”
     “No,” James said. Somewhere in the city, there were still people making condoms, but the embargo usually kept them out of New Barcelona.
     “We’ll just have to be creative then, yeah?” Nepenthe reached in between the pallets beneath the mattress and pulled out an antique cigar box. She opened it and pulled out two dildos.
     “Glass or wood?” she asked. Each was handmade by New Barcelonian crafters.
     “Wood for me, glass for you?” James reached out and stroked the head of the wooden cock, roughly sized to his own. It was sanded smooth and kept well oiled.
     Nepenthe smiled and set the glass one down on the bed for a moment. James lay on his back, and she straddled his waist. She brought the wooden cock up to her mouth and ran her tongue up its shaft slowly, holding eye contact with her lover. She then stroked his cheek with it, brushed it against his lips.
     He opened his mouth, and she slipped her cock in, slowly. It tasted cold in his mouth for a moment, until his spit soaked first the tip and then the shaft. It filled him, but not uncomfortably, and he ran his tongue along the carved head. Having Nepenthe’s cock in his mouth brought his own cock to full erection, where it leaned against the top of her ass.
     Her cunt was warm and wet against his waist.
     Nepenthe left the cock in his mouth for a moment, half of its length inside, and then picked up the slightly smaller glass dildo. Some days, she liked nothing more than James’ cock inside of her, but most days she liked something more reasonable. She ran the glass dildo up his thigh, rubbing his taint, then placed its flared base on his pelvis, covering his pubic thatch.
     She met his eyes, took hold of the glass cock, and slid down onto it. Once it was held down by her weight, she spit on her hand, reached behind herself, and grabbed his cock in a firm grip. With her other hand, she took hold of the wooden cock in his mouth. Then she slowly worked her way up and down the glass cock inside of her.
     “Now,” she said, everything in place, “fuck me. Fuck the hell out of me.”
     James bucked—gently at first—against her with his hips, her wet hand sliding down his shaft, her cock filling his mouth and moving in and out ever so slightly. All but the base of the glass cock disappeared into her waiting cunt and stayed there as she matched his motions, riding him.
     Already turned on from watching her come previously, his mind quickly blanked. His only thoughts were of the fire that ran through his cock, of the wood in his mouth, of the tilt of Nepenthe’s head as she threw it back to moan.
     She began to move her hand up and down his cock faster than he rocked up against her, letting her fingers tighten around its head, letting her thumb press up against his urethra when his hips reached full height with each thrust.
     He reached up and took the cock out of his mouth. “Can I come on you?” he asked, overwhelmed with desire.
     “I want you to come on me, but not yet. If you can help it.” She dropped the wooden cock on the bed to slow him down.
     So he kept fucking her, paying more attention to her moans than to fire that coursed through him. He alternated from hard thrusts to vibrating his hips so that the cock inside her shook, and she dug the fingertips of her free hand into his neck, his collar, then his mouth, pulling against his teeth.
     Then she thrust three fingers into his mouth, towards the back of his throat, and he dutifully sucked them. She pulled them out and put her hand on the outside of her cunt, rubbing her clit.
     He breathed faster, and she followed suit.
     “Fuck me. Come on me,” she said, moving from full, deep thrusts to letting the tip of the glass cock almost emerge from her cunt.
     She re-wet her hand and renewed her efforts on his cock, sliding up and down its length furiously. Then she pressed it against the top of her ass with her wet palm, letting him rub up against her back, and soon he was bucking uncontrollably.
     He thrust as high as he could, pushing against the base of the cock inside of her, then came, his cum shooting into her hand and up against her back. Spasms went through his body, he shook side to side, breathing hard and sporadically. He looked up into her face to watch her smile and then pull her face away in that near-pain of pleasure.
     He finished coming, letting his whole body shake, and when he collapsed onto the bed, she collapsed onto him as well. She let go of his cock, but kept the glass one inside of her.
     They lay for moments, then Nepenthe wiped her hand clean on James’ chest, grinning. Eventually, she pulled the cock out of her and set it next to the wooden one on the mattress.
     “How did it go?” James asked her.
     “What?” Nepenthe looked confused. “It was fucking wonderful. How do you think it went?”
     “No, no. The mission. How did the mission go? Did you find out anything interesting?”
     “Oh!” Nepenthe sat up in bed, recovering. “No one was home. And I didn’t feel like waiting around in, in the open, in that fucking rain. I just wanted to be here. I guess I’ll try again tomorrow, if it looks safe.”
     “Ah,” he said.
     The rain beat down on the makeshift roof and dripped loudly into pans on the floor of the story above them. Outside, the world was going to hell, if it wasn’t already there. Inside, it smelled like sex, and the two lovers lay holding one another, grinning like idiots. Tomorrow would certainly come, of course, but that never really matters.

]]> http://www.steamypunk.net/a-cold-night-in-new-barcelona/feed/ SteamyPunk now in zine form! http://www.steamypunk.net/steamypunk-now-in-zine-form/ http://www.steamypunk.net/steamypunk-now-in-zine-form/#comments Wed, 13 Aug 2008 20:48:47 +0000 admin http://www.steamypunk.net/?p=17 Anyone who has caught up with Strangers In A Tangled Wilderness at a bookfair or other tabling event has probably seen our little steamypunk zines. Well, we’ve finally taken the step to print out a whole bunch (with offset-printed covers done by one of our collective members!) and have offered them for sale at the tangledwilderness.org Mail-Order Page. You can buy the set of two Margaret Killjoy stories and three Dimitri Markotin stories, five zines for five bucks! Unfortunately, we’re not really sure if we’re allowed to send this stuff overseas, so at the moment this is for steamypunks in the USA only.

]]> http://www.steamypunk.net/steamypunk-now-in-zine-form/feed/ House Of Glass & Pearl http://www.steamypunk.net/house-of-glass-pearl/ http://www.steamypunk.net/house-of-glass-pearl/#comments Tue, 29 Apr 2008 23:28:18 +0000 Robert Monroe http://www.steamypunk.net/?p=16 by Robert Monroe
Warning: Contains no explicit sex scenes! This is a work of romance.
The brick house at 1723 Reed Avenue does not normally draw the attention of any passerby. The house stands silently, quiet ordinarily, like the house to its left and the house to its right. Curtains of thick white lace obscure the view inside and not a sound can be heard slipping from within the house. It is a house of completely unremarkable normalcy, with the exception of its eerie silence.
     But there are those who know what to look for, those who see the streets of London with very different eyes, eyes that drift to the shadows and the alleyways. Eyes that know what is there, waiting. It is with those eyes that the visitors of 1723 Reed Avenue spy the peculiar tabby sunning on the house’s walkway steps.
     The tabby meows at the visitor, rolling its head back to gaze up at the looming figure. “Hello, puss,” the visitor says in a projected whisper. The cat meows again, as the hazel eyes flicker, an instant of opaque brass, before returning to its lazy sunning.
     The visitor waits, eyes following the vines climbing the brick walls of the house and reach up with green fingers to the second floor windows. A faint rustle brings the visitor’s attention back to the door as the lace curtains part faintly, a pale eye appearing in the small, ornate glass panel. The door cracks open, an eye appearing in the sliver.
     “Billy? Is that you?” a hushed voice asks. A familiar voice, like every man’s older sister.
     “It’s me,” the visitor says, smiling wide, removing a ragged cap so that the eye may see the visitor’s face clearly.
     The door opens wide, the cool air of the house’s interior pouring out, washing over Billy’s face. “My Lord, it’s been ages, Billy Bramley,” exclaims the woman, pale as a seashell and dressed in the uniform of a domestic servant—although her sleeves and skirt show no wear. She smiles wide and holds her arms out wide, beckoning Billy inside.
     “It’s good to see you too, Sylvia,” Billy says, stepping into the house and into Sylvia’s embrace. The woman hugs Billy tightly, with a strength that takes the visitor by surprise. Sylvia releases Billy and quickly closes the door. “Look at you,” she says, her perfectly blue eyes sizing up the figure before her. “You’re all dusty! And your clothes are falling apart at the seams,” Sylvia gasps, picking at the sleeve of Billy’s canvas jacket.
     Billy nods, suddenly embarrassed by the poor repair of the clothes. “I must look like a mess.”
     “That you do,” Sylvia says, her voice softening, “but what else can we expect from Billy Bramley, pirate and pickpocket extraordinaire?” She pats Billy’s cheek kindly. “I’ll see to it you have a bath drawn. And we’ll see if I can’t find you some more suitable clothing.”
     “Is Elizabeth…?” Billy begins, suddenly breathless.
     “Oh, of course,” Sylvia exclaims, tapping her forehead. “Where was my mind? She’s been waiting for you, day and night. She’s been locked in her room for weeks, pining away, the poor thing. Let me show you to her right away.” Sylvia places a hand along the small of Billy’s back, guiding him out of the foyer.
     As they step into the main sitting room, Billy is surprised by the presence of three men, each fat and old, laughing merrily, each with their members dangling from their trousers. Around them are a half dozen young woman in various states of undress, some servicing them men, some simply lounging, all pale and beautiful. One woman sits in the corner, caressing a haunting melody from the glassharmonica, her breasts displayed above her corset. The woman’s eyes meet Billy’s and she mouths a soft hello.
     “Ho, boys, look!” shouts a red-haired man sitting in the tall-backed chair in the center of the room, his face flushed with drink and arousal. “More company!” The girl kneeling between his legs turns her head to Billy and waves her fingers in a small greeting.
     A pale, bird-faced man on the divan glances to Billy and Sylvia, his feather-like eyebrows raising. The woman servicing him does not deviate from her task. “Will you be joining us today, young thing?” the bird-faced man asks, his voice shaking.
     “Billy has business upstairs,” Sylvia says harshly. “And I would appreciate if you mind your own, Mr. Sullivan.”
     The bird-faced man nods, closing his eyes in obedience. “Yes, mum,” he says with an inebriated giggle.
     At the foot of the divan, the pair of nude women pull their lips apart and turn their heads toward Billy. “Liz will be so happy to see you,” says the girl with straight black hair and haunting crystal eyes.
     “She’s been talking ever so much about you,” says the other girl, red ringlets framing her face. The bearded man sitting near the lamp clears his throat. The girls, in unison, giggle and apologize and return to their performance. The bearded man shoots a spiteful glare at Billy as he begins to again massage his freckled member.
     Sylvia takes Billy’s hand tightly. “This way. Come now,” she says, excitement in her voice. She guides Billy to the main staircase. “Elizabeth is in her room. I trust you remember where it is.”
     “Never forgot,” Billy says softly.
     “Then go,” Sylvia says, whispering into Billy’s ear. “Your fair lady awaits.”
     Billy climbs the stairs, the creaks and the smooth mahogany handrail evoking memories of past accessions. The smell of lavender and orchids drifts down the stairs, washing away the stench of tobacco and sweat that soaks the sitting room. Billy’s pace quickens to a jog and then to a sprint. Lunging up the final steps, Billy turns, races down the hall and grabs the handle to Elizabeth’s room. The door flies open with Billy’s force.
     And everything stops dead.
     She lies on the bed, her long black hair framing her face and fanning out like a halo. Her nude skin is flawlessly white, glowing faintly with the late afternoon sunlight. She turns her head towards the door slowly, warily. But upon seeing the face of her visitor, her eyes open wide and she sits up. “Billy?” she says, her voice faint with hope and awe.
     Billy says nothing, only rushes to Elizabeth. The girl pulls Billy into her arms, embracing with a strength that can only be found in jasmine and lace. Billy kisses the girl’s face and coughs. “Too tight, Liz.”
     Elizabeth releases Billy, who breathes in deeply. They stare into each other for what may have been hours before Elizabeth breaks the silence. “I’ve missed you, Billy. My love. My queen.”

Billy’s fingertips trace the subtle floral design etched into Elizabeth’s porcelain skin. Cold, even after the act of love. Billy presses her open palm against the back of her lover, faintly detecting the tick-tock vibrations of Elizabeth’s inner workings. Her heartbeat.
     Elizabeth turns over, her clear eyes sparkling with bits of blue sea glass. “Is something wrong. Billy?”
     Billy shakes her head and smiles shyly. “No,” she says, caressing Elizabeth’s cool cheek. “I just missed you, that’s all.”
     “No, it is not all,” Elizabeth says.
     Billy pulls her hand away from Elizabeth and looks away, to the glass pane door leading to the small balcony.
     “It is because I am an automaton,” Elizabeth continues, her wispy voice unwavering.
     “No,” Billy says, still looking away.
     “Do not lie to me, Billy Bramley. I have never known you to distress over anything else,” Elizabeth scolds. “You sometimes wonder if I truly love you. After all, I was created only to love and pleasure men.” She pauses. “And women.” Elizabeth raises herself to her knees, pulling Billy to her breast. “But now you wonder if it is a perversion to love that which has no flesh or blood or beating heart.”
     Billy gasps, the truth suffocating her. Elizabeth holds her tighter. “How do you always know what I am thinking?” Billy asks, looking into Elizabeth’s glass eyes.
     “Because, compared to the inner workings of the Professor’s automaton’s, human beings are quite easy to understand. Especially when one assumes love to be the root of the… malfunction.”
     “The Profession sure did a bang-up job piecing you together,” Billy says, leaning towards Elizabeth for a kiss.
     “Billy…” Elizabeth begins, pulling away. The automaton’s face is blank before a sudden click triggers a wide smile. “I think the Professor would like to have a word with you.”
     “What about?” Billy asks. She has never met the Professor, the creator of Elizabeth and Sylvia and the rest of the artificial girls living at the house at 1723 Reed Avenue. The girls speak of the Professor with adoration, reminding clients to thank the Professor for providing them with this exotic, 20th Century service. And yet the Professor never shows up to receive this gratitude personally.
     Elizabeth takes Billy’s hand, holding it tightly in her mechanical grip. “I believe the Professor wishes to discuss with you a perversion of a different variety.”

Elizabeth leads Billy from the room, down the hall, stopping before a small stand that holds a bust of the poet Goethe. With a small laugh, Elizabeth pulls upward on the bust’s beard, the head folding back on a hinge. There, now exposed, is a keyhole. Elizabeth holds out her left arm, rotates her thumb, and, with a small, mechanical pop, a panel of her porcelain arm slides away into itself. From the small compartment, Elizabeth removes a key.
     “Aren’t you full of secrets,” Billy says in wonderment.
     “I don’t suspect I will be for much longer, love,” Elizabeth says, sliding the key into the keyhole and turning.
     With a slight shutter, the wall before them pulls inward on itself, creating a small hallway. “Come on, now,” Elizabeth says, pulling Billy into the recess. Their bodies press together, so close that Billy can hear the whirring of her lover’s gears and springs, and considering the strange circumstances, she finds the sound quite calming.
     Without warning, the floor begins to sink. Billy watches as the passage to the hallway is lifted away from them, the light pulled up before suddenly blinking out. They ride in darkness, the lift cab shuddering only slightly, the sound of machinery growing below them. Elizabeth presses tighter to Billy. Their lips find each other. Billy’s tongue slips into her lover’s mouth, finding the perfectly constructed synthetic tongue and caressing it. She must remember to thank the Professor for that feat of modern science.
     Without warning, the lift is suddenly flooded with a green light and the roaring sound of gears and steam engines. Billy breaks away from the kiss, crying out in surprise. Elizabeth only smiles and takes Billy by the hand.
     Together they step from the lift into a wide cavern filled with massive machines, like the guts of a hundred Big Bens, shifting and clanging on a constant, deafening rhythm. Bellows of steam roar periodically from pipes lining the cavern walls. It is incredibly hot.
     “The Professor is this way,” Elizabeth shouts over the din, guiding Billy through the labyrinth of clockwork and steam. There is no obvious reason for the massive machinery filling the cave, roaring like a thousand lions, no clear purpose or product. “What is all this?” Billy asks. “An engine?”
     “More like a factory,” Elizabeth shouts, leading Billy every onward.
     Eventually, they reach the rear of the cavern, where a curtain of red velvet hangs, its rod bolted into the rocky wall. Drawing it back, Elizabeth reveals a small laboratory, lined with tables filled with vials and beakers of various bubbling fluids of every imaginable color. On the opposite side of the laboratory hangs another curtain of red velvet. Elizabeth leads Billy inside, releasing her hand near one of the laboratory tables. After pulling the curtain back into place, Elizabeth gently presses a switch on the nearby wall. With a sudden clang, a wide steel door slides out of the cavern wall, sealing the laboratory away from the roar of the engines.
     “Ah! I see that you’re here finally,” calls an eerily mechanical voice. The voice, not unlike a parrot heard over a phonograph, is distinctly female.
     Billy glances around the room, looking for the speaker. “What in heavens?”
     “Over here!” the voice squawks.
     Still confused, Billy looks to Elizabeth. The automaton smiles knowingly and points to a worn phonograph horn protruding from the cavern wall. Billy approaches the horn cautiously. “Professor?”
     “That’s right,” the voice answered loudly. “It’s nice to meet you, Billy. Elizabeth has told me all about you.”
     “It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Professor.” Billy says into the horn, confused by the strange means of communication. “I suppose I should thank you—”
     “No, don’t do that,” the Professor interrupts. “In fact, it should be I thanking you.”
     “Why’s that?” Billy again glances to Elizabeth for explanation, but the beautiful automaton only shrugs and smiles.
     “Because it was you who showed me the error of my ways. The gross misapplication of technology that has until now been my greatest achievement. To think, I create artificial life and what do I waste it on? Pleasuring bankers and landowners! Clergy and Parliament! What a fool I have been.”
     “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand,” Billy says, her voice straining against her confusion.
     “You see, Billy, the girls upstairs are not simple automatons who know only how to provide physical gratification. I did not know that until you began to come here. You always requested to be with the same girl. Elizabeth. It was fairly obvious that you had become emotionally attached to her. That is to be expected, quite frankly.”
     “Professor!” Elizabeth exclaims.
     “There is no fault in taking pride in one’s work, Elizabeth,” scolded the voice. “But what I did not expect is that Elizabeth began to feel the same about you. This was not something I had designed, in fact, had I known to expect it I would have most likely put together a means of preventing such a reaction. But there it was. Love.”
     Billy looks to Elizabeth, who, had she blood and cheeks of flesh, would be blushing.
     “Somehow, within the chemicals used to create her thinking and reasoning brain, I had pieced together that which facilitates the most mysterious process of all: the soul.”
     “You mean that—”
     “Yes, Elizabeth has a soul. She is as human as you and I, even if her flesh and bones are made of porcelain, pearl and steel. But the human mind is nothing more than a series of chemical reactions and the soul is the result of those reactions.”
     A sudden roar of steam and grinding steel fills the chamber, howling from the depths of the caverns.
     “Sorry about that,” the Professor’s voice says calmly. “I suppose that was quite loud on your end.”
     “What is this all about?” Billy asks as the faint vibration of the machinery grows slowly, shaking the solid stone room.
     “This,” the Professor begins in a sing-song voice, “is about absolution. For myself and for those fat bastards upstairs.”
     “Absolution?”
     “Elizabeth, please bring Billy into the silo.”
     Softly, Elizabeth loops her arm around Billy’s waist, escorting her towards the far side of the laboratory. Pulling the curtain aside, Elizabeth ushers Billy into the further depths of the caverns. Where the caverns before the laboratory were filled to the brim with machines of all sorts, grinding and twirling, this cavern, deep and expansive, stands empty as a void. The path curves along a steep cliff, illuminated by the soft green lights of phosphoresce.
     “What is this, Elizabeth?” Billy whispers, slowing her pace. “This is mad!”
     Elizabeth smiles and pulls Billy along the path. “Of course it is, Billy. Only through madness can the world change.”
     Billy pulls away from the automaton in protest, refusing to be lead into the depths of the earth on the wishes of some lunatic professor. Billy’s feet slide out from under her, her weight pulling backward, towards the void. Her throat closes as gravity takes its hold, pulling her towards the cavern floor. She becomes weightless.
     Digging into the cliff wall with her left hand, Elizabeth reaches out, grabbing the lapel of Billy’s coat, pulling her back to safety. She holds Billy closely as her lover gasps, dizzy with adrenaline. “This is madness,” Elizabeth whispers. “A heart that loves is a heart gone mad. Suicidally dependent. Seeking sweetness at the risk of everything. At the risk of sanity.” The automaton pulls the her hand away from the cliff wall, the porcelain finger tips shattered where they had dug into the rock, revealing the chromium of her skeleton. She holds the broken hand before Billy’s face. “This make us even more mad. My flesh is pearl and alabaster. My blood is steam. My nerves are copper wires. And yet, in my madness, in your madness, this machine has found humanity. Do you understand?”
     “Completely,” Billy says lowly, her eye fixed on the chromium fingertips, scuffed by friction against the stone wall.
     “Then you should know what those who are sane would say about our madness. What they would do to prevent this madness from spreading. That is the greatest perversion.”
     Billy nods. “Let’s go.”
     Hand in hand, the two journey further into the cavern, along the cliff path. As they navigate through the cave, the roar of machinery grows, the vibrations in the stone increasing steadily. They hold onto each other tighter as the shaking builds, Billy’s heart racing against Elizabeth’s ever-calm body.
     And, as they round a corner, hugging the stone wall, they see it. Standing taller than the America’s great statue of Libertas, a massive golden figure of a warrior goddess fills the cavern. Its face, blank with determination and power, stares into the blackness as if in preparation for a great battle. Its armor, designed with an ancient Roman aesthetic, shines in the phosphoresce. In the hulking, metallic being’s right hand is a sword, its blade plunging into the darkness of the cavern floor.
     “My God,” Billy gasps. “What is this thing?”
     “This,” shouts the disembodied voice of the Professor, echoing in the expanse of the cavern, “is the Sentinel. My atonement. My gift to the world. Where I had misused my talents and my creations to service monstrous kings and priests, this creation, this warrior goddess, will set that straight.”
     “What are you planning, Professor? What is the purpose of this giant?”
     “Why, to destroy Parliament, of course. And the Church of England, along with the Bank of England and any other fraudulent institutions along the way,” the Professor says, nonchalantly, her voice seeming to originate from the head of the great statue.
     “What?” Billy shouts in dismay. “You will wage war against the British Empire? That is—”
     “What is it, Billy? Madness? I suppose it is, but you know what they say about madness. As for war, I realize it is a very ugly thing, but like a splinter, the rulers of this land must be removed quickly and, for the most part, painlessly. What can I say? I am a woman of action now. But let us also be fair, Billy, it has always been a war, has it not? Every time you sneak into the house you feel like a spy, slipping in shadows behind enemy lines. You live your life afraid that your secret, your great love, your very essence will be exposed. This is about ending that war. And I want to thank you for helping me realize that.”
     “Professor—” A sudden quake takes a hold of the cavern, silencing Billy with its roar. Opening her eyes after the quake fades away, Billy finds the Sentinel has turned to face her, its golden facade strong and motionless.
     “Go upstairs now, Billy. Elizabeth’s room should have an excellent view of the festivities.”
     The Sentinel turns away, moving as smoothly as any of the automatons in the house above, stepping forward into the darkness of the cavern. Elizabeth pulls at Billy’s arm, but the woman remains still, watching in silence as the hulking form of Athena disappears into the inky black of the cave.

From Elizabeth’s window, Billy watches the Sentinel lay waste to the final standing tower of Westminster Palace, its massive blade rending Big Ben in twain. Sirens sound and men shout from the streets below. On the bed behind Billy, Elizabeth affixes a new, pristine left hand with a satisfying click. Billy chuckles to herself.
     “What is so funny, love?” Elizabeth asks, slowly waving her new fingers.
     “There’s an old poem: ‘O England praise the name of God that kept thee from this heavy rod! But though this demon e’er be gone, his evil now be ours upon!’ And, well, it looks like that heavy rod finally found its way back to Parliament.”
     “Do you think the Professor has made a mistake?”
     “Perhaps,” Billy says, turning to her lover and smiling. “But we’ll have to wait for the morning to see. Until then…”


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]]> http://www.steamypunk.net/house-of-glass-pearl/feed/ Emerson & Adalia Rob A House http://www.steamypunk.net/emerson-adalia-rob-a-house/ http://www.steamypunk.net/emerson-adalia-rob-a-house/#comments Fri, 25 Apr 2008 08:11:04 +0000 Dimitri Markotin http://www.steamypunk.net/emerson-adalia-rob-a-house/ by Dimitri Markotin
Of course, it caught Emerson by surprise when the young gentleman stepped into his office and up to his desk, slipped a hand behind his neck, and kissed him full on the mouth.
      Emerson stood with a start, knocking papers to the floor before regaining his composure and studying the interloper’s face more carefully. “Adalia?” he asked. He looked the guest over. Her breasts must have been bound, her hair swept up into her bowler, but he was certain it was her. His Robin Hood, the burglar he had met amorously weeks prior and not seen since.
      “At your service,” she said, doffing her black hat. Her smile, with her ever-so-slightly crooked teeth, lifted his heart instantly.
      “What are you doing here?” he asked.
      “Two things,” she said, sweeping his remaining papers onto the floor and sitting on his desk. “One, to break you in. Bring you along tonight, show you the ropes. I’ve got a house in mind, should be easy.”
      Emerson felt perverse as he stared at Adalia in her suit and trousers. She was handsome still, he realized. “Whose house?”
      “Mr. Edward Stoney. Railroad designer, works for your dad. Man’s house is brimming. Ripe fruit just begging to be snatched from the tree.”
      “Stoney? But he lives in the city; his house isn’t exactly a manor.”
      Adalia laughed, so loudly that Emerson feared she might be overheard. “Your father poisons the whole of England with his coal and gets treated like royalty for it. I don’t mean to slight you, but let’s just say that between the two of us, I’ll be the judge of wealth, yeah?”
      Emerson leaned back in his wooden chair and said nothing, pondering the situation. Her point was valid. Still, he knew that if he was caught burglarizing his father’s own employee, there would be no end to the scandal. His life, as he knew it, would be forfeit. He looked at his office, his desk, his paperwork, and his commanding view of the streets below. Then he smiled.
      “For adventure,” he said, sending Adalia into another fit of laughter. He pretended as though it didn’t bother him.
      “Lend me the key to the office door?” Adalia asked as she opened the top left drawer of his desk—how did she know where he kept it? —and withdrew the key herself. She walked to the door and locked it, swinging her hips with intention. She went to the windows and closed the shutters, casting the room into near-darkness.
      “Now then, get me out of these dreadful clothes,” Adalia said, casting her hat to the floor.

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/ Chaos Theory 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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]]> http://www.steamypunk.net/chaos-theory/feed/ Homecoming, Part One http://www.steamypunk.net/homecoming-part-one/ http://www.steamypunk.net/homecoming-part-one/#comments Tue, 12 Feb 2008 23:00:12 +0000 Victor Chablon http://www.steamypunk.net/homecoming-part-one/ by Victor Chablon
She’s my tinkerer.
     I’ve called Lill that for the ten years I’ve known her. Oh, it’s a presumptuous thing to call her, particularly because she is most certainly not a tinkerer—she’s a master clocktocker and steamer.
     But it’s an especially presumptuous thing to call her, because she’s never been mine. Lill’s always been her own master, a tenacious controller of her destiny. Even after we married and our fiery wooing slid into a few well-worn patterns of domesticity, she was never anyone’s but her own. I loved her for that, for that untamable side of her. Lill, my wild woman with the goggles and the gloves. My tinkerer.
     We met in the borderlands, back when it was safe to be there, in a plankdive where the local beer was called “blear” (after a mug of the stuff, you’d understand), and the low-juiced ketenergy lights flickered like horizon lightning. That evening began with laughs, and it ended with us tangled and panting, licking and screwing like mad.
     Last week, I stood in the smoking crater that had been that tavern. The borderlands brought us together. The borderlands tore us apart.
     She was my tinkerer, and I was her doc, and when the war finally came back to the borders three years ago, I was pulled away from my life here, in this improbable warehouse in which we worked and lived. I wasn’t mending fractured arms for countryside farmers anymore. I wasn’t smearing my cooling salves on Lill’s smooth, pale skin—after all, nicks, bruises and burns are her constant occupational hazard. I took care of her. And oh, how my fiery, brilliant woman rewarded me for my tender care….
     But no. No farmhand splints. No Lill and the raucous music her machines made. Just war. War and blood. In my soul’s soul, I know it was Lill’s letters that kept me sane, and safe.
     The war is over, for now. Today, the zeppelins carried us from the front lines to our towns. After all the fighting, the victory was sudden; I couldn’t even write to Lill before they put us on the airships. The generals had decided their warriors deserved a speedy return. They reckoned three years away from family was far too long. They reckoned right. But today’s walk from Sota’s airstrip to the countryside felt longer than the years that had passed.
     And now, here I am, standing before the tall doors of our improbable home. I’m dust-covered and trembling. I haven’t seen her, haven’t spoken to her, haven’t touched her in three years. I place my grit-crusted hands on the door handles, wrap my fingers around their carved metal.
     My greatest fear is that she won’t want the man I’ve become. The man who’s seen such terrible things.
     I pull open the doors, and the afternoon light rushes into the cavernous interior. My god, so much is the same—the enclosed quarters near the entrance (the meals we made in its kitchen, the passion we’d made in its bedroom), the wide space of Lill’s workshop, the enclosed bathroom off to the side (and what a grinning arsepain that had been, walking from bathroom to quarters, traversing her gear and contraptions and grease-covered tools). But the differences were here, too, impossible to ignore—Lill’s inventions were larger and noisier than ever. Blocky machinery, as tall and wide as four men, throbbed and hissed. Ah, and in the air, the coppery scent of spent ketenergy.
     I smiled. From clocktocking to keteneration. That’s my girl.
     And there she was: my tinkerer, my Lill, her back to the door, a wrench the size of a chairleg in her gloved hands, tugging at a troublesome bolt on the machine. The afternoon light swept across her. She started.
     She turned slowly, and even from where I stood thirty feet away, I could see every nuance of her form. She was leaner than I’d last seen her. Even beneath the grease-stained overalls and ragged undershirt, I sensed the flatness of her belly, the lilt of her perky breasts, the sensuous curves of her hips. The muscles in her arms were taut from her work. Her neck glistened with sweat. Her face and arms were covered in soot and mechanic’s grease, as they’d always been.
     Ah, this was new. Her hair was magenta. My grin grew into bona-fide smile. I must’ve looked like a vagabond madman.
     Sunlight glinted from the goggle lenses on her face. Her brown eyebrows perked up, inquisitive. The wrench clanged to the floor.
     We met in the middle, tinkerer and doc, and clutched at each other, wordless, disbelieving, our dirty hands rushing across each others’ body. Is this real, I wondered, is this real, is this real, my god, is this real.
     I will not tell you what was said there, the words that echoed in our sunlit cathedral. There were questions, and tentative answers, and tears, and disbelieving laughter. We didn’t talk about my war, or her new inventions. But as we finally pulled ourselves away from each other, the silence of three years took hold. Her green eyes looked up into mine. I gazed at her. Shuddering, I told her my greatest fear.
     A smile emerged on her lips. She pulled off her gloves and goggles, tossed them recklessly to the floor. She tugged off my dusty satchel, and unbuttoned my overcoat. Those, too, fell to the stained stone.
     ”We’re not going to be afraid now,” she said. “We’re going to wash this all away. Get reacquainted. Come with me.”
     Her hand tugged at mine, and we walked across the workshop, toward the bathroom.

I adore this woman. I had thought the running water and warmer she’d built for the tub in this small room had been more than adequate for our needs. But Lill has never been content with adequate. In the years I’d been gone, her mind had concocted modifications and improvements. The warmer was now half the size of than the one I remembered, and strange vertical piping sprung from one end of the tub, taller than either of us. A nozzle-shaped thing perched on the pipes’ ends—it reminded me of a overturned colander.
     ”You’re going to love this,” Lill said. She adjusted a knob on the crate-sized warmer, squinting at its brass-encircled gauges. Needles ticked and twitched. Lill looked over her shoulder at me. The rogue oil-smear beneath her left eye hopped merrily as she gave me a wink. She wrapped her fingers around the warmer’s metal lever and pulled it downward.
     The machine groaned, and the piping on the tub trembled. Water streamed from the nozzle-thing. Steam quickly surrounded us. Lill stood, and reached out and touched my chin. She pulled it away from the new contraption—I admit, I was a bit mesmerized by the sight of this new thing—and back toward her face. My eyes followed. She winked again, and unsnapped the buttons on her overalls. The straps slid from her shoulders. The tough fabric fell off her body.
     ”I call it a ‘thunderstorm,’” Lill said, nodding toward the water. I was barely listening. I was watching her. She stepped out of the clothing bundled at her feet. My eyes drank up the sight of her, from the floor up: her painted toes—something she’d always called “an impractical indulgence”—the matching tattoos on her pale calves, her slender thighs, the gray panties covering her sex. I spotted a rogue pubic hair curling against her thigh, and exhaled. It had been so long. Goddamn, so very long.
     I felt my cock swelling. It pressed against my pants, wanting. I let my eyes go further up, past the waistline of her panties, up to the ragged, thin fabric of her tight undershirt. Emblazoned on its chest was the worn logo of the local clocktocker’s guild she’d created five years ago. Her breasts were perfectly shaped, and pressed against the sheer cloth. I could see the outline of her stiffening nipples, spotted the dark outlines of the tattoos on her chest. My cock pressed harder now against my pants. My hands slid to my belt, completely on their own.
     I didn’t stop them.
     My eyes continued their ascent to Lill’s slender face, to her lips—a small moan escaped me as she licked them knowingly—up to her soot-stained cheeks and nose, into her eyes. I’d once told this woman her eyes were oceans. I’d been wrong. I gazed into them, twin emerald planets, completely lost in their newness.
     My fingers tugged at the leather at my waist, and as my tinkerer watched me, her head lowered slightly, gazing at me with a hunger I’d never seen before. I heard my belt buckle’s clink of metal against metal. Lill pulled the undershirt off her body. She grinned as my trousers finally slid from my hips. I stood there, self-concious of my stiffening prick and the bulge in my underpants.
     ”Take off your shirt,” she said. She glanced down, past her beautiful tattooed breasts, to her panties. “I’ll take care of these.”
     I fumbled at the buttons on my shirt, intoxicated by her. Lill leaned forward to pull the panties from her hips. She stopped halfway, her back in a semi-arch. She reached out and pressed her hands against my chest. Electric. Her fingers slid toward the center, between my pectorals. She ripped the cloth apart, buttons cascading to the floor. I moaned. She placed her hands on her hips, her back still in that half-arch … and as she pulled the fabric down her thighs, her lips and tongue slid down my chest, kissing and licking and nipping at my flesh. I shuddered.
     Finally, her panties were down past her knees, and her mouth was kissing my underwear fabric, pulled taut by my cock. Her hands free again, she tugged down my underwear.
     She said nothing. The seconds were hours now.
     Lill slowly slid her mouth around my prick. I gasped as her lips slid further and further down my shaft, soaking it with saliva, her tongue sliding against its underside, until her nose was buried in my pubic hair and her lips were sucking at its base. She inhaled deeply through her nostrils as she sucked my entire length.
     Three years is a long time. It was exquisite.
     She slowly pulled away from my now-glistening cock (when my swollen head emerged from her lips, there was a quiet, nearly-whimsical pop), and pulled herself tall again. She gently grabbed my wrist and guided my hand between her breasts, down past her navel, to between her thighs. My fingers curved around her body, my fingers seeking her slit. Goddamn, she was so very wet.
     Lill gave a husky chuckle and pulled my hand away. She shot a glance at the spraying water, at her thunderstorm. “We’re already wet,” she said. “Let’s play in the rain.”
     We stepped inside the tub, and was I tickled by the fingers of water hitting my dirty skin. The sensation was amazing, new—but it was secondary to Lill’s body before me. Our hands slid over each other, marveling at the togetherness we were experiencing. Her eyes and fingers asked questions at the new scars on my chest, my arms, my back. As she stood before me, her back facing me, her ass pressing against my cock, my hands soaped and slipped down the canvas of her back. I took in the new art she’d had inked between her shoulder blades—a long, thick clocktocker’s wrench. It aligned perfectly with her spine, lanced down to the middle of her back.
     I washed the sweat from her skin, the block of soap gliding down her arms, down her spine, my hands reaching around her body to lather her breasts, the soap clipping against her stiff nipples. She was sighing now, pressing her backside harder against my cock. I leaned my head forward, tongue extended, now licking the back of her neck. Lill’s body stiffened, and now her back was against my chest, and her fingers encircled my wrists once more. She brought one hand up to her left breast … and the other, down to her pussy again. The soap clanked against the basin, forgotten. As I pinched her flesh and sucked at her neck, my fingers slid between her pussy lips and pressed and rubbed her slick, stiff clit.
     Lill was groaning now, her arms extending upward, hands tangled in my wet hair, pressing my face against her neck. I kissed and sucked and licked, and my hands found the rhythm at which her body was grinding. Three years without her, and yet here I was, with her, knowing these places on her body, never forgetting, greedily sucking and now fucking her with my fingers.
     Her fingernails pulled at my hair, her moans louder now, louder still. One hand was away from my head now, now between her ass and my belly, fingers wrapping around my quivering cock. I was finger-fucking her and she was pumping me and the steam was enshrouding us, our noises bouncing off the tiled walls, and…
     … I pulled away. Lill turned around to face me, her green eyes glazed—and a little pouty.
     ”Why?” she asked. Her hands were sliding down my belly as she said this, wanting to touch me again.
     I grinned slyly. “We have to finish washing this stuff off you—and me,” I said. We looked at each other’s. There was still some spots of mechanic-funk on her skin, and much of my chest still needed washing. Our hands had been craving something other than cleanliness. “And then we’ll feast.”
     I squatted down in the streaming water, and picked up the block of soap that had landed between Lill’s feet. But as I went to stand, Lill’s hands slipped onto my shoulders and pressed downward, keeping me there.
     I glanced up. Her face looked down at me, her smile ravenous now.
     ”Feast now,” she said.
     That’s my tinkerer. Never satisfied with adequate.
     My eyes slid past her lips, past her breasts, past her navel, to my eye-level. Just above her thatch of pubic hair was her favorite tattoo: an image of a single clockwork gear, perfectly rendered and shaded. This one, I had done myself.
     My tongue quickly found her clit, and I licked and lapped and sucked. Lill cried out, clutching at my head and hair.
     But our re-aquaintence was just beginning.

Lill did not come as I’d licked her, but she had hissed my name over and over, teeth clenched, her fingers pinching and pulling at her nipples, her knees leaning into my shoulders, the inked gear above my nose fluttering as she gasped. Finally, in a voice both ragged and reluctant, she told me to stop—she simply couldn’t stand on her feet any more. I pulled my fingers from her pussy (so tight and throbbing around my middle and index fingers, so wet, so close), and I stood. My eyes were lost in hers, again.
     She trembled, wanting more, knowing release wouldn’t come here, and yet she she brought her wet body toward mine, her fingernails sliding down my scarred back as she kissed me. Her belly pressed against my hard cock. Her tongue swirled around mine, intoxicating and sweet and not at all gentle, no—we were too far gone for anything tentative now. My arms encircled her; I was on fire for her, I was fearless. She gyrated, gasping, her lower belly grinding against my prick.
     I moaned, and found myself pressing my cock forward, between us, to the rhythm of her body. I felt its sensitive flesh tugged taut, then slack, over and over—Lill was jacking me off with her body, with our bodies. I felt a hand’s worth of fingernails leave my back. I noted the absence, fleetingly….
     …and then Lill was sucking my bottom lip, biting it, and her hand now cradled my balls, squeezing them to the timing of our thrusts.
     The sound that came from my lips was not that of a man’s. It was primal, a snarl. My own fingernails dug into Lill’s shoulder blades. They carved scratches down her clocktocker’s wrench, past more ink on her lower back, finally gripping her ass. I pressed her closer to me. I wanted. God, I wanted. My mind devolved. Want.
     She bit my lip again. I thrusted. Want.
     She massaged my scrotum, smirking. I thrusted.
     Want.
     She pulled away, leaving me rattled and craving her. She stepped out of the tub. I gasped as the thunderstorm sprayed fully onto me, onto my throbbing cock. She pulled the warmer’s metal lever upward, and the rainstorm ended. We stood there, panting, our eyes locked. She did not reach for the towels hanging from the hooks by the door. No.
     Lill smiled, and ran.
     My bare feet squeaked against the tub’s surface as I bolted after her, laughing. Perhaps a man more concerned with discretion would have felt awkward dashing through that doorway, into a grease-stained warehouse, naked, dripping, steel-veined cock bouncing with each footfall. I wasn’t that man three years ago. I wasn’t that man now.
     My tinkerer is strong and lean and ferocious, but my legs are longer than hers, and I snatched her arm at the heart of this enormous room, at the place where Lill created her metal miracles. I whirled her around to face me. Her smile was brilliant, her face glowed amber in the waning afternoon light. I tugged a rogue slice of wet hair from her pale cheek. I brought my lips to hers. She wrapped her arms around my neck.
     I slid my hands down to her legs and scooped them upward, off the floor. Lill chuckled against my lips and slid her legs up my thighs, locking her feet behind my back. We stood there, kissing.
     And then I strode forward, finally placing her ass on the worktable behind her. My Want, three year’s worth, slid inside her.
     We gasped together. It began.
     ~ End of Part One ~




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]]> http://www.steamypunk.net/homecoming-part-one/feed/ Emerson and Adalia http://www.steamypunk.net/emerson-and-adalia/ http://www.steamypunk.net/emerson-and-adalia/#comments Sun, 07 Oct 2007 23:44:49 +0000 Dimitri Markotin http://www.steamypunk.net/emerson-and-adalia/ by Dimitri Markotin
It was obvious to Emerson—and likely most every guest of the garden party—that the raven-haired beauty bore no invitation. Certainly, she was well corseted, bustled, and dressed; her gown swept the stone pathways, its neckline revealed gorgeous collarbones. But her hair was not done up and came only to her bare shoulders. She wore no hat and her skin was tanned to olive. She was not society.
     Yet her demure smile defeated Emerson at a glance. So taken with her was he that he immediately sought her arm and walked her through the aisles of rose and hedge to the fountain and the dancing. Assuming his lower-class companion to be something of a lark, the society eyes turned quickly away. Of more interest to them was the remarkable airship that floated above their heads and fed their aristocratic jealousy. The finest, the newest. The fastest, and of course, the most expensive.
     The stranger could dance, Emerson realized, though she barely spoke a word. So dance they did, and always, under his arms, he felt she was waiting to break free of the rigid waltzes and minuets. They stepped in time, his hand pleasantly on the small of her back, her brown eyes gazing up at him with wonderment.
     Dusk became night and many couples—married or no—filtered away to explore the grounds of his father’s manor, away from the gaslight braziers that lit the party proper.
     “Would like you like to come with me, down to the river?” he asked as they continued to dance.
     She shook her head, casting her loose hair about in way that was both unladylike and remarkably attractive.
     “Then perhaps you’d like to see the Journey Apostle? It’s my father’s ship, and I can take us aboard.”
     His dance partner stared penetratingly at his face for several moments before she replied with a smile. “Yes, I would like that.”

That night found Emerson naked in his four-poster bed, alone with his thoughts in the bright glow of mantled gas lamps. Adalia—her name as she had told him—had shyly bid him good evening and walked alone through the gate, where he was certain no carriage waited. She had promised to see him again, but he doubted her.
     His hand was around his cock, his thumb applying pressure to the base of the top. Adalia. A shy city girl, he told himself, a quiet young woman who dreamed of a finer lot in life. Her mother may have been a lady’s maid, he conjectured, to have known what dresses to wear.
     He massaged the muscles of his groin with one hand while the other moved slowly around the tip of his dick. She had wanted to go to bed with him, but had been too shy.
     He lazily fantasized about his lowborn dance partner, dreaming of how he could escape his dull life of privilege and she her menial labor. Perhaps she was a washwoman. They would steal the Journey and escape to the stars. They would make love under the moonlight on the deck of the fabulous ship while the crew slumbered below.
     Yes, she would moan, be on top of me. Hold me down—
     His fantasies were interrupted by a glint of light outside the window. He turned and saw a figure silhouetted in the moonlight. Emerson thought to yell frightfully until the figure’s face moved closer to the glass, where it was illuminated by the gaslight. It was Adalia, in black pants and blouse, suspended by a rope.
     She moved a finger to her full lips, signaling him to stay silent. And then she smiled, a coy smile.
     Emerson lay on his back, his head turned to the near stranger outside his third story window, his hands pleasing himself.
     His fantasy lay shattered, but there was Adalia, and he stroked himself with a new fervor. Thoughts left him entirely; only his hands and the vision of her smiling face occupied his mind. She was staring intently, alternating between his masturbation and the pleading look he bore on his face.
     He saw her lick her lips and he spasmed, but did not come.
     She made a sign with her hands that he did not comprehend and then began to climb the rope, out of his sight. A moment later the rope itself snaked up past his window, and he lay sweating in the warm summer night, his mind swimming.
     As a precautionary measure, he opened his window.

He was roused not fifteen minutes later by a firm knock at the door.
     “Who disturbs me?” He asked coyly, hoping for Adalia.
     “It’s Charles, m’lord.” An older servant of the household spoke through the closed door. “I’m just up to warn you; there’s been a guard who says he’s seen someone come over the wall. Now, I’m certain it’s nothing, and I’m certain it’s handled, but I just thought it proper to tell you.”
     “Thank you,” Emerson said, irritated. “I’ll be on my guard.”
     “Excellent, sir. Sorry to disturb your rest, sir.”
     Adrenaline seeped unnoticed into Emerson’s veins as he sat up in bed, pondering the night. Adalia was en route to steal the Journey Apostle, he was convinced. He banished thoughts of his father’s wrath from his mind and gathered the courage to join her at its mooring. All at once he stood and walked towards the magnificent wooden dresser to gather his hunting garb.
     But no sooner was he out of his bed when Adalia came diving through the window, hitting the floor with a thump and an acrobatic roll, a knapsack cradled in her arms.
     Mindless of his nudity, he rushed over to help her stand.
     She shrugged away his hand as a nuisance and deftly regained her feet. The clueless villager he had taken her to be was gone forever, and Adalia stood before Emerson with a fierce confidence and a wild glint in her eyes.
     “I told you I was coming back,” she said, stepping towards him and looking up to meet his eyes. “Do you have music?”
     “I’m sorry?”
     “A symphonion? A kalliope? A celesta?” Adalia looked around his crowded room at a strangely frantic clip, dropping the canvas knapsack onto the wooden floor. She opened drawers with abandon, shut them with a fervor.
     “I’ve a roller organ, if that’s what you ask.” Emerson walked to a small wooden box on his dresser and opened it, revealing the latest in self-playing music machines.
     “Put it on, then, put it on. I’d have music!” Adalia grew excited and continued to pace. “You folk have the finest!”
     She acted so much like a wild animal, Emerson thought, that he was reminded of his trip to Africa. He selected a cylinder of Diederick Meer, the mad German, and the roller organ began to play.
     A hand came from behind and caressed his bare hip. He turned, and Adalia stood on her toes to kiss him. Her breath tasted lightly of wine and of something more mineral—of rust—but he was enchanted.
     She led him to the bed, firmly but not roughly, and pushed him onto it. Once he was seated, she kissed him again, taking his neck in her hands. Her fingers were rough against his growing stubble, and it came as a bit of a shock to realize that her hands would have no reason to be as soft as his own.
     “Lie back,” she commanded gently.
     He did as he was told, and she straddled his waist fully clothed. She leaned down to kiss him again. He opened his mouth and lightly licked her teeth. At this, she kissed him harder, her hands cradled behind his head, holding it above the goosedown pillow. Never had he felt such passion, never had a kiss driven adrenaline into his veins.
     “Why did you come here, if not to steal the Journey?” Emerson asked when she sat back on her knees and began to knead his chest. She took no break from touching him, exploring him. She hadn’t been still for a second since she had landed in his room.
     “I came here for you, sir prince.”
     “Bollocks. You didn’t come here for me, and I’m no prince.”
     She was reaching behind herself so that her hands ran along the outside of his upper thighs, gently stroking him with fingernails while the music box played its quiet, incessant tune. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re handsome. I’ll wager you know that, I’ll wager you’re told all the time. Yet I’ve thought about this since you took my arm.”
     ‘You’ve robbed my father, haven’t you?” His tone was more curious than accusatory.
     “And who hasn’t your father robbed? A coal baron isn’t rich of their own sweat, never was.” Her hands moved onto his cock, running one fingernail down lightly from tip to base.
     “Don’t get me wrong,” Emerson managed between sighs, “I’m glad you’re here.”
     Adalia leaned forward and kissed him again on the mouth, her full lips luscious against his own, and Emerson dropped any objections he might have had.
     She stood playfully on the bed, ducking her head below the hand-painted tester and striding a quick lap around him. She reached his feet and went back to her knees, laughing.
     “Quiet, or you’ll be caught!” Emerson whispered.
     “I’ll be no such thing.” Adalia ran her palms up Emerson’s shins, over his knees, up his thighs. Her upper body trailed shortly behind, and soon she reached his cock, poising her mouth above it.
     She seemed about to take it in her mouth, when she looked up to meet him in the eyes. “You want this?”
     “Yes.”
     Adalia ran her tongue up the underside of his cock and he felt still more blood rush to fill it. Her tongue reached his urethra and played with it—sending fire through his loins—before she pursed her lips, opened her mouth, and began to suck his dick.
     She bobbed her head almost playfully for a short moment, then paused to lick her hands and jerk him off slowly.
     Emerson stretched, his hands grasping at the headboard, his mind a scattered mix: frightened of discovery, frightened of Adalia, and enticed and pleasured beyond all reason.
     He began to move towards climax, unconsciously thrusting his hips, and she let off and rose to her knees. With both hands she unbuttoned first her lace-less blouse and then her plain, utilitarian chemise.
     Emerson rose up in bed, and sat cross-legged in front of her, his hands reaching out to touch her breasts. They hung slightly low, unaccustomed to daily corseting, and her nipples were large and dark.
     “Kiss them,” she said, and he did, one after the other, savoring the feel of their softness against his lips
     “Bite one gently,” she said, and he did, feeling the nipple grow hard as he released his teeth.
     He eased her onto her back, and she lay down with her legs together. When he tried to place his own legs inside hers, she resisted.
     “No?” he asked, surprised.
     “No,” she said. “I’ll undress, and you can look—I want you to look—but you won’t touch me. Don’t ask me why.”
     Emerson nodded, acting as nonplussed as he was able. Certainly, there were greater mysteries to the night than this new one.
     She reached down and unbuttoned her pants at the front, sliding them down over her quite generous hips. Such an hourglass figure she had, even uncorseted. Emerson rose to his knees and stared at the curve of her body. Unconsciously, one hand went to his groin and he touched himself.
     He watched as she rolled over slowly, showing her body to him. He stroked himself, longing to touch her.
     Adalia sighed pleasure at the sight of his arousal and opened her legs, revealing a beautiful, large-lipped cunt. The smell made Emerson ache to be inside her, to reach behind her and take her ass in his hands while he fucked her, and he jerked himself still faster.
     Adalia began to rub her cunt, opening it voyeuristically and arching her back, putting her weight on her feet and shoulders. He heard her moan softly, her eyes closed, and Emerson was floating somewhere, lost in her beautiful form.
     Not touching, they both began to quiver slightly, both finding a strange rhythm, Emerson sliding his saliva-wet hand up and down his shaft while Adalia spread her lips open and rubbed her clit.
     “Straddle my waist,” she said, and Emerson did, still kneeling.
     Adalia licked her hands and took over for him, quite clearly delighting in his pleasure. She rubbed spit on the skin between her breasts and brought his dick down between them. She pressed her tits around his cock and put a hand on top of his dick, guiding it. He fucked her chest and she propped her head up on a pillow. He closed his eyes in pleasure. So easy it was to imagine he was inside her.
     He felt her tongue opened his eyes. He saw the head of his dick in her mouth, and he quivered and jerked. Suddenly her other hand was on his ass, pulling him further forward. Her finger, wet with spit, pressed hard against his asshole, sending electricity all through his body.
     “I’m going to come,” he said, panting, driving hard through her breasts and into her mouth.
     She pushed harder on his ass and her finger slid in halfway to the first knuckle. His whole body shook violently, and he came into her mouth, his mouth a silent scream of pleasure. After a another tremor went through him he collapsed onto her, spent and happy.
     After a moment, she forced her way out from underneath him with remarkable strength. She looked at him, smiled, and spit his cum onto his remarkably expensive bedsheets.
     The roller organ still played, the same five-minute tune.

An hour later, she was still in his bed, wearing only her black canvas pants. He was curled up naked against her, running his fingers through her now-tangled hair.
     She was staring towards the window at the first hint of morning light. “You know high society, through and through.”
     “Of course.”
     “Help me then. You can get me invited to the finest manors.”
     “For half the money?”
     “I don’t keep the money,” Adalia’s spoke as though her mind were far away, wandering the woods of a distant land, “it goes to the poor.”
     “If I help you, will I then be able to touch you?”
     Adalia looked at Emerson quite seriously. “No.”
     Emerson didn’t hesitate: “I’ll do it anyhow.”
     Adalia absentmindedly ran a finger down Emerson’s neck. “Thank you.”
     A long moment transpired, as Emerson pondered the new life ahead of him, before Adalia spoke again: “For whatever it’s worth, I’ve never done this. I’m not using you,” she seemed to be struggling to find the proper words. “I did what I did because I wanted you, prince.”
     Dawn peeked through the window, and Emerson watched as Adalia stood and dressed herself. He meekly met her eyes when she kissed him farewell, and he said nothing as she hefted his family’s fortune in jewels onto her back and climbed out the window.


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]]> http://www.steamypunk.net/emerson-and-adalia/feed/ A Pirate of Both Day & Night http://www.steamypunk.net/a-pirate-of-both-day-night/ http://www.steamypunk.net/a-pirate-of-both-day-night/#comments Thu, 27 Sep 2007 17:23:44 +0000 Margaret Killjoy http://www.steamypunk.net/a-pirate-of-both-day-night/ by Margaret Killjoy
I can’t sleep with you, you know that.” Ulian ran a few fingers up Neh-te’s collarbones as he spoke. Her striped sailor’s shirt, already wide-collared, was stretched open to expose her deeply tanned shoulders.
     “I know,” Neh-te whispered mournfully, “I remember.”
     The bamboo dock beneath them creaked slowly as the waves of low tide splashed against its posts. Behind them, on the mainland, a bamboo windmill beat the time slowly, churning in the ocean-side winds.
     Soon enough the morning would come, and Neh-te would be back on her steam-rowed boat. Ulian would return to his wife, to whom he had promised near-fidelity, and the would-be lovers might not meet for another moon at the very least.
     “So,” Neh-te said as she took a hold of his hand and placed it at the top of her high-waisted pants, below her generous ribcage. She undid the two parallel rows of buttons and folded the top down to expose her slight, soft belly. “You can’t sleep with me. But what can you do?”
     Ulian stepped in closer and pressed his mouth to her neck, hard. Ulian smiled, lifted her well-defined chin, and placed her hand on the small man’s back.

The next day, Neh-te was perched on the deck of her ship, gazing lazily towards the land. In still air, the Fiercest Gull could outrun, and overpower, any merchant vessel that ran the routes from Angeline to its outlying towns. The Gull’s sixty oars were fueled by the boiler in the aft of her belly, which fed on the combustible soil of The Great Waste. The Great Waste, of course, was far, far inland, and the train lines ran infrequently, so Neh-te was captain of one of only a handful of steam-rowers in the Ocean. Captain and sole sailor, as a matter of fact; the ship was completely automated.
     Most days, Neh-te docked to a floating platform, living peaceably amongst her fellows Of The Sea. But when the clouds were gone and the wind was dead, she drifted just out of sight of Angeline and struck at any wind-vessel unlucky enough to come into the view of her spyglass. It was a good life, and often a lazy one.
     She had slept a few hours in her hammock, and from morning till midday she relaxed nude on the deck, her war clothes close at hand. She let the sun massage her as she stretched slowly, meditatively. After a bite of fresh fruit—a rare spoil of war—she did slow push-ups, enjoying the feel of her muscles at work.
     No ships were on the horizon, and the Gull’s engine was idle. Neh-te loved the serenity of solitude, with only her ship, the sun, and ocean for company. From time to time a school of flying fish would skim across the surface of the water. She sat with one leg out and reached forward to grab her toes. While her muscles stretched, one of her small breasts grazed against her thigh, and she smiled. She slowly began to massage her foot, her ankle, her shin.
     When her hand reached her thigh, Neh-te began to work her thumbs in slow circles towards her crotch. She lay on her back and brought her left hand to her mouth, casually brushing the backs of her fingers along her belly and across her breasts. With her right hand, she massaged the edge of her brown-haired pubic thatch, running her thumb from the base of her hipbone to the outer lips of her cunt, but she went no further.
     She was only teasing herself, Neh-te knew. She stood up slowly and surveyed the horizon. Far away, she saw a few porpoises, but no sails. Grinning still, she walked across the deck into her cabin.
     The Fiercest Gull was built of thick bamboo timbers, but her hull was reinforced by old steel, stained and painted to keep reflections to a minimum. Thirty meters long, there were fore and aft porches, but the middle was enclosed; there was no need for a mast, and indeed, one would give her presence away quite readily, poking out above the horizon.
     The upper deck contained her living space—with its bare wooden desk, hammock and larder—as well as storage for the bounty of the sea; trade goods from Angeline that kept her ship fueled and filled the bellies of many Of The Sea. The deck below held thirty pair of oars and the steam-heart of her beloved Gull.
     Neh-te walked into her cabin, her gait as gay and light as her mood, and opened the icebox. Removing a bit of smoked eel, she strolled back out into the sun to eat. She put the spyglass to her eye while she stood, calmly munching, and this time she spotted a sail, sagging in the dead winds of the day.
     The brass spyglass went back to its place in the deck-chest, and Neh-te pulled on her war clothes: a jerkin of thick leather, steel gauntlets and a short, armored leather skirt. Each had quick release straps in case she went overboard, and truth be told much of her lay unprotected, but she didn’t fret overmuch. She bore a bandolier with three brace of powder pistols, a saber at her side and a hatchet at the small of her back. She doubted the merchants would give a fight. In fact, she hadn’t drawn a pistol or a blade in conflict on the sea for four years now; her infamy kept her victims from resisting. Infamy and a terrifying array of automatic ballistae, torch-guns, and cannon, of course.
     She brought the engine to life with the levers set into the deck, and the ship rumbled beneath her feet.

The merchant ship had spotted her, for they added sail in quite a rush, but it brought them no benefit in the still air. Soon, the Fiercest Gull drew alongside.
     “A fine afternoon, are we agreed?” Neh-te stood with one foot on the rail of her ship, hailing the merchants with a practiced nonchalance.
     The merchant’s ship was two-masted schooner, and though it was half again the size of the Gull, it was clearly unequipped for battle.
     “Neh-te, I hoped I’d never meet you.” The captain of the schooner was standing on the deck, clearly un-armed, a portly fellow in his early forties. He wore the uniform of a civilian captain out of Angeline; a leather vest dyed red, a tri-corner black leather cap and un-dyed buckskin pants. He looked a bit pasty; he most likely commanded his ship from the generously sized cabin and rarely took much sun. The servants did most of the work, in Angeline.
     “Well, I’m sorry to break your string of luck, but I’ll be overseeing the transfer of your cargo to my ship. And you will stay inside your cabin; your crew shall assist me.”
     “We carry supplies and medicine for Sanosia, you know that, don’t you? You say you’re some big hero, but you are a scoundrel.”
     “Any town that bends a knee to Angeline, that supplies its vast cruelty with food, is deserving of any hardship it may endure. Now, you will be to your cabin, where you shall remain. If I see you again I shall shoot you dead. If any of your crew moves to defend you, they shall lose a limb.”
     The captain looked as though he was about to curse her further, but ducked his head, resigned, and moved towards the glass door of his cabin below the poop deck.
     Neh-te leapt the meter-wide gap between the ships and landed gallantly on the deck of her prize. “Now then,” she spoke to the half-dozen ship hands, “one of you will stand guard over your captain, and the rest of you will help me.”
     A handsome young woman—with the burned-red skin of one Of The Gear who had been introduced quite recently to life at sea—volunteered with some haste to keep the captain in his chambers. She practically skipped to the rear of the ship, her straight black hair bouncing as she ran, and Neh-te watched her graceful stride and near-bare legs for a long moment before turning to the work at hand.
     The remaining servants, nearly enslaved to the captain by Angeline’s rigid class system, were happy to oblige, and within a half an hour the Gull was overflowing with machined parts, books, glasswork and mechanical toys. There was no medicine aboard. There never was.
     When the work was done, Neh-te thanked the sailors and offered them sanctuary: “You may come with me, if you would like, and I can take you to any place along the coast. Or if you would like, join us Of the Sea upon the ocean.”
     Most of the sailors mumbled about loved ones to attend to, but the eager woman with black hair spoke up. “I got nothing I wouldn’t wanna leave,” she said, “so I wouldn’t mind.” Her voice was remarkably low, and for all that she might have been near thirty, she looked quite like a clean-shaven, effeminate man of twenty.

That night found them drifting well away from the trade routes, alone at sea. Josenna, the rescued woman, wore a thin wool blanket draped over her vest and sailor’s shorts, but the night air was pleasant and she didn’t appear cold. Neh-te had served tea from ornate, stolen stoneware, of sea-water distilled and heated by the engine of the Fiercest Gull.
     “I’ve never had much of a taste for men,” Josenna told Neh-te as she sipped at the tea.
     “Have you ever seen two men fucking?”
     “No. Sodomy’ll get you strung up, where I’m from.”
     “You’re from a terrible place. I don’t always have the taste for a man inside me, but to watch two men, one inside the other…” Neh-te savored the thought before continuing, “to watch one take the other firmly in hand, and jack them off… watching a man lick the cum of another man from his mouth…”
     “Ahg, gross.” Josenna put down her tea and sat back in her chair, the moonlight reflecting off her glossy black hair. “Not that two men might love one another, but just… thinking of their cum…”
     “Of course, of course,” Neh-te drained the rest of her cup and then stood, offering her calloused hand to Josenna. “Sit with me awhile?”
     “Sure,” Josenna smiled, and allowed herself to be led a few feet away where the two sat cross-legged, watching the moon over the water.
     “It’s fucking gorgeous out here. I’ve been a deck hand for six months, and I haven’t gotten over how beautiful the sea is.” Josenna put her hand on Neh-te’s thigh, stroking it lightly with her trimmed fingernails.
     “I’ve been sailing for ten years, and I haven’t gotten over it yet either.” Neh-te took the other woman’s hand and brought it halfway up her thigh. Josenna’s fingers were almost absent-mindedly rubbing Neh-te’s skin, sending chills up the pirate’s spine.
     “Can I kiss you?” Neh-te asked, still gazing out over the water.
     “Of course you can. Why ask?”
     “Out here, it’s a different world.”
     Neh-te put her left hand on Josenna’s far shoulder and turned the black-haired woman around to face her. With her right hand, she gently grasped the back of Josenna’s head and kissed her, closed-mouth but hard.
     Josenna pulled back after a short moment, studying her rescuer’s face for a moment before she kissed her back. Josenna gripped Neh-te’s thigh tightly and lapped her mouth like a cat.
     Neh-te gently pushed Josenna down on the wool blanket, her legs together, and the pirate straddled her hips, kneading her thighs.
     “Can I take off your vest? Kiss your breasts?” Neh-te met Josenna’s eyes as she asked.
     Josenna laughed incredulously, an earnest and thoughtless laugher that shook through the still air and stung a bit into Neh-te. “Why are you asking? I don’t want you to merely take off my vest, kiss my breasts. I want you to fuck me.”
     For a moment Neh-te felt lost, and she stared heavenwards, as though she could navigate her way back into the moment the same way she navigated the sea by the stars. Instead, it was cold hands creeping up under her shirt that brought her back. Josenna rubbed Neh-te’s left nipple between forefinger and thumb, and Neh-te looked back down at her.
     “Hey. I don’t know you very well yet, and I’m sorry I laughed. No one’s ever asked before, that’s all. I’m just nervous.” Josenna said in her tenor.
     The wind began to blow lightly as Neh-te unhooked the two wire catches that held her new lover’s vest shut. With a careful grace, she opened the garment, and Josenna sat up enough to pull her arms free.
     Josenna’s full breasts lay flattened against her thin chest, her pink nipples hard, as much from the ocean wind as from excitement. Neh-te gaped happily at the moonlit woman who lay beneath her, savoring the sight.
     Neh-te then shifted her weight to lay nearly on top of Josenna, taking a breast in her hand and mouth, nudging her knee between legs and up against the clothed cunt. Josenna gasped suddenly at the pleasure and arched her back, and Neh-te smiled to herself.
     With the growing wind came the sound of waves lapping against the hull, and the boat began to rock a little. “We might retire to my cabin, if you prefer,” Neh-te said, pulling her face away from Josenna’s chest.
     Josenna nodded readily and the pair stood. Neh-te battened down the sea chest and picked up the remains of dinner and tea, carrying them inside. The black-haired woman followed, the wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
     Neh-te lit a hurricane lamp and closed the cabin door. She turned and faced Josenna. “No more asking?”
     “No more asking.”
     “Any rules, then?”
     Josenna thought for a moment as she pulled off the blanket, her breasts hanging down slightly, enticingly. “I don’t want anything in my ass.”
     Neh-te nodded, and then commanded: “Strip.”
     Josenna twisted beautifully at the waist as she reached to unlace her shorts on either side, and balanced one hand on the desk as she pulled them off each leg. Her tan line was drastic, but not unattractive, and her black pubic hair was untrimmed and unruly.
     Neh-te smiled, and walked closer. “Lay down,” she said softly, and indicated the four-corner hammock, “your legs over the edge.”
     Josenna did as she was told.
     “Hrmm… not very comfortable?” Neh-te asked, sincerely concerned.
     “No, there’s nothing to put my feet on.”
     Neh-te picked up a length of rope, ran it through two of the ceiling eyelets that supported the hammock, and tied a loop into either end with practiced speed. She gently hooked the loops around Josenna’s ankles, so that the nude woman was able to lie at the edge of the hammock with her legs supported.
     “Are you comfortable?”
     “For a while.”
     Neh-te knelt between Josenna’s legs and began to lick the tops of her thighs. The smell of her unwashed cunt was strong, nearly overpowering, and Neh-te breathed it in happily. Every woman smelled differently, of course, and this one smelled delightful. Neh-te stretched Josenna’s labia open with two fingers and soon was running circles with her tongue across the clit.
     Josenna moaned, loudly. Much more loudly than Neh-te had expected, but the noise drove her on. Still spreading the cunt open, she licked her vagina for a moment, exploring the few centimeters that her short tongue allowed, before returning to the clit.
     Neh-te’s own cunt was growing wet and happy as she ate out the beautiful stranger, and Josenna’s heavy breathing and whimpers turned her on incredibly. A good life, she thought to herself, as she rubbed the bridge of her nose in Josenna’s vulva.
     “Do you come this way?” Neh-te asked after a few minutes, pausing with her mouth but continuing with saliva-moistened fingers to rub and fuck.
     “I don’t know.”
     “No?”
     “It’s never happened before.”
     Neh-te put her face back between Josenna’s thighs and slowly brought her to near-orgasm. Josenna screamed, clutched at hair, shivered and threw her head back, but Neh-te never felt the final shudder of orgasm, and after many long minutes her pace slackened and eventually she stopped.
     Josenna pulled her legs free of their supports and sat up on the hammock, a giddy smile across her face. “You’re still fully dressed,” she said.
     “If it bothers you, do something about it.”
     Josenna stood and pulled Neh-te’s shirt over her head without ceremony. The pirate was a good hand’s breadth shorter than her, and she leaned down to kiss her, open-mouthed. Then Josenna knelt to unbutton the long tight pants, which she pulled down quickly. As she rose, she reached out a hand and rested it firmly on her rescuer’s warm, wet cunt.
     “You’ve got no tanline,” Josenna noted.
     “It’s nice to be a pirate.” Neh-te pulled the hurricane lamp off its hook. “Let me show you something.”
     The two walked gracefully through the rocking boat, past crates of ill-begotten goods, to a spot near the ship’s aft.
     “The floor is warm,” Josenna said.
     “The boiler’s right underneath us, idling. This is the warmest part of the ship, and it’s where I sleep come winter.”
     An un-dyed leather mattress lay on the floor, perforated by several brass ringlets that shone in the dim glow of the lamp. Next to it sat a low, cluttered table and nearby, a bank of four levers emerged from the planks of the floor.
     “When the ship’s engine is running, when I’m after a prize, I don’t want to waste any power. When I stop the oars, it takes some time to let the engine run down, so I let it wind up springs, to store mechanical force. If I run short on fuel, I can run for an hour on this wound-up power.
     “But when I want to do things that take much less force,” Neh-te pulled the first lever in the series and a brass phallus—about the size of the average man’s—emerged vertically from an eyelet in the bed, “I can change the gear ratio something drastic and use a little bit of the power for other things.”
     Neh-te hung up the lantern, lay down on the bed and warmed the phallus with her hands. She reached to the table and pulled down a small tin of lubricant, which she spread across her cunt and onto the head of the machine. She positioned herself so that rod was perpendicular against her lips, and touched herself a little before pulling the second lever, which set the machine to a slight vibration.
     “Shit,” Josenna swore, “I’m amazed.”
     “Then come here.”
     “Is it safe, in me?”
     “Pirate’s honor. But come here, sit on my face for a moment. You taste amazing.”
     Josenna straddled Neh-te’s chest, facing the machine, and then bent down to rest her cunt against Neh-te’s eager mouth. She supported herself on one hand and massaged her host’s thigh with the other while she let out short gasps of joy as her cunt was licked.
     A minute later, she sat up and turned around. Very carefully, she grasped the stationary vibrator in one hand, as it emerged a few centimeters above Josenna’s thighs, and eased it into her waiting cunt.
     Neh-te was grinning as she wiped the juice from her face, and looked up to see the gorgeous woman riding her machine, the same apparatus that was sending bits of fire through her body. The waves outside lapped against the boat and the flickering shadows of the lamp played across Josenna’s face, and Neh-te was sublimely happy.
     She must have looked distant however, because Josenna’s fingernails digging into her hipbones brought her back to the present.
     “Can it go deeper?” Josenna asked, already breathing quite heavily.
     Neh-te pulled the first lever a notch further and the phallus went another two centimeters into Josenna’s cunt.
     “Thank you,” Josenna managed to say, her face lost in pleasure, her mouth slightly open, her front teeth showing the tiniest amount. For a moment their eye’s met, and the pleading look of love was exchanged before each was driven back into the solitude of sexual pleasure.
     Josenna reached down to rub her own clit while the brass hummed inside of her, taking a bit of lube from Neh-te’s fingers. She threw her head back as she rode the vibrator, her hair falling down her back, her chest pushed forward and her nipples erect. Then she leaned forward, resting her hand on Neh-te’s belly, her black hair obscuring her face and chest, just a glint of an eye peeking through. She moaned loudly, squeezing Neh-te’s thighs between her knees.
     Neh-te was relaxed, occasionally touching herself, but mostly she was caught up in the sound of Josenna’s pleasure. She stared openly at the beautiful cunt that rode her vibrator, easily as turned on by the sounds, smells and sights as she was by the wondrous vibrations against herself.
     Josenna kept riding, seeming to work out her anger, taking out her frustration and fury, and she worked herself up to come. She screamed quite loudly, raked Neh-te’s sides, threw back her head. The shudder went slowly through her entire body, and she kept riding for at least a minute afterwards, her breath coming in pants as she slowed herself down.
     Neh-te smiled as Josenna collapsed across her. She moved one lever, and then the other, and the vibrator slipped back into the bowels of the ship, its evening’s work complete.
     “Can I stay with you?” Josenna asked as she cuddled up to Neh-te, who lay on her back.
     “Not forever.”
     “A month?”
     “We’ll see.” Neh-te gently stroked her lover’s cheek as she thought about the future. She was already fond of Josenna, yet knew nothing about her.
     “I’ve thought about this, you know. I’ve thought about you rescuing me. The infamous Neh-te, scourge of tyrants and friend to the poor. And I’ve thought about you fucking me. Though of course, I didn’t even know what you looked like.” Josenna pulled her head away a little bit to look at Neh-te. “You’re more handsome than I’d hoped.”
     “I never know how to take that.”
     “I’m one of thousands, aren’t I?”
     “You’re not the first.” Neh-te grew melancholic as she spoke. You’ll not be the last, either, she thought, for all the good it will do me when you leave. The only lonelier life than that of a pirate was that of a pirate’s consort, and Josenna would surely grow restless and leave. Sex and violence will only take you so far, Neh-te knew.

The two stood out on deck, despite the night’s fierce winds. Clouds had marred the perfect sky, but the big dipper and the north star were as yet uncovered.
     “That star up there, that’s…” Neh-te started.
     “The north star, yes, I know. I am a sailor.”
     “Yes, yes, of course.”
     They stood together, Neh-te with an arm around the taller woman’s waist, Josenna around the pirate’s shoulders.
     “I’m glad you asked,” Josenna said, “it just caught me off guard. No one’s ever asked before. But heaven’s knows there are times when I would have told men no.”
     A wave broke against the prow of the ship.
     “Yeah.”
     “How do you get away with this? All of Angeline could comb the seas and find you with ease.”
     “I’m not proud of the answer to that.” Neh-te rested her hand on the railing. “But I learned this as I learned the pirate’s trade—Angeline won’t search too hard for me or my fellow pirates, because we keep prices high. The foolish and the murderous they’ll catch, but me? I fit into their market.” Neh-te spit over the railing, the wind taking it far out to sea.”
     Josenna was silent for awhile, musing. Eventually, a smile crept into her eyes. “One more question, then; what are the other two levers for?”
     Neh-te smiled. “I’ll show you tomorrow.”


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