Like a Wisp of Steam: Steampunk Erotica
Page 5
"Ooo, lookit ' er! Pipe, the grand lady lost 'er shoes! Don't she got funny toes, then!"
"Shut your gob, Peablossom! She's loverly, she is! That's a real lady, there. Ooo, I'd love ter give her a great big kiss, so I would!"
"I'm goin' ter giver 'er a kiss! There! I done it! Right on the lips, I kissed 'er!"
"Greedy! I want one meself!"
Dodgson had retreated behind his engine, operating it with dramatic flourishes and quick, precise movements of his hands. It lunged forward and back, lights snapping, clouds of steam rising from it. "Lovely, yes," he said, his voice muffled by the black cloth draped over his head to help him focus the shots. "Ah good. Yes, yes."
Fairies crowded squabbling on Amelia's shoulders and in her hair. One massaged her nipple through the thin material of her dress until it stood up like a thumb, at which point the fairy mounted it, rubbing its minute sex against it with hilarious squeals of pleasure. Amelia received innumerable tiny kisses and was pinched and tickled mercilessly on every inch of exposed skin. She had to stand still for every moment of it. After a time her nervousness evaporated, replaced by the teasing sexual heat she had felt earlier.
She knew the daguerrographs would come out well. They would show Miss Amelia Lessington, noted author of fairy stories, smiling and laughing rapturously, at play with her creations. It would undoubtedly help sales, which would please Edward and her publishers, and eventually herself.
And I'll walk out of here today with stiffened-up tits and a sopping quim. She glared at Mary Ann, who was laughing and applauding the spectacle of her mistress's torment.
Later, indeed. Very much so.
* * * *
"Good afternoon, mum. Come in, then, don't stop in the doorway."
Amelia regarded with some surprise the young woman who answered her knock. The girl was several years her junior, and might well have been the youngest daughter of Ma Cullen, the old bawd who normally ran the house. Her suit was cheap but well-tailored, her manner brisk but entirely sympathetic as she bustled Amelia in for tea and a chat. Mary Ann was pleased to be given an entire plateful of crystallized lemon peel. Within perhaps fifteen minutes Amelia's still full cup was taken from her and she was ushered into an acceptably clean upstairs room.
"Here I am taking my boots off again," she observed.
"I hope he's lovely," was Mary Ann's only comment, but it was fervently made. When the door opened moments later, her eyes widened. Still munching lemon, she whispered, "Oh."
The chimera was a Raphael model, a dark-skinned boy of nineteen with an obscene mouth and obsidian eyes. The clout of purple cloth hung on his narrow waist barely hid a sizable erection. He stepped into the room and shut the door behind himself. Raphaels rarely smiled, but this one cocked his head and made a soft, yearning sound that made Amelia's bones itch.
"Like him?" she asked Mary Ann. She herself certainly approved, and she did tend to be somewhat particular. She was pleased that she wouldn't be disappointed this afternoon.
"Mmn. He is lovely."
"Have him, then. I'll join you shortly. I don't want to rush but there's no point in letting him cool down meantime."
As she removed the last of her clothes she watched Mary Ann go to work. The chimera simply trotted up to the Raphael and stripped away his loincloth. A moment later, without undressing herself, she began sucking his formidable prick.
"Try his bollocks."
"Mmn?"
"His bollocks," Amelia said, pointing at them. "See what lovely great dangling eggs he's got? Like ripe fruits they are.
See if you can get one in your mouth. Give it a good suck."
"What, all of it?" Mary Ann asked dubiously. But she applied herself willingly to the challenge, and soon the Raphael was gasping, bracing himself against her shoulders.
Amelia liked that. Male chimerae were often a bit on the dull side, and it excited her to see the Raphael react so strongly to her servant's ministrations. It also bode well for the rest of the session.
"Lick it while you suck it. And grab his arse; squeeze it with your nails. Yes, that's right, dig them in, hard as you can."
Amelia's experience in such matters was practical; it came entirely from visits to ladies' pleasure-houses such as this one. Perhaps that was the reason she was so particular—unlike many a respectably married woman, she was familiar with possibilities of the body, and understood exactly what delights could be hers for the asking. She had been called on by gentlemen since she was fifteen, and had had many suitors, but marriage had eluded her, or she it. It was a lack in some eyes, but not one she felt a need to dwell on. Her stories had given her a career, respect, and money, and those things afforded her between them everything else she might desire.
She dropped the last item of her clothing to the ground and padded naked over to the pair of grappling chimerae. As Mary Ann continued to tongue and suck the Raphael's balls, Amelia took his cheeks between her hands, pulled his face to hers and kissed him deeply. She bit his lower lip in her teeth and tugged sharply at it.
The Raphael gasped, moved his hands from Mary Ann's shoulders to Amelia's. He had some typical male aggression bred into him, an urge to dominate; but there was passivity there as well, in consideration of customers who might require it. It was one reason Amelia had chosen this model, and a good thing, too. Had she requested a Herakles or a David, she might not have been able to deflect those grasping hands as easily as she did. After the afternoon she had just endured, she herself had no interest in being passive.
"Lie down," she told the Raphael, not unkindly. "On the bed there, go on. Spit-spot."
The chimera pouted at her, then at Mary Ann, who was still busily at work on his balls. Finally, reluctantly, he broke away and went to the bed. A moment later, Amelia joined him.
"I'm going to enjoy this," she told Mary Ann. She spat into her palm and swiftly lubricated the Raphael's cock. He spread his long legs for her, sliding his hands under his arse and pushing his middle upward, making his phallus a more appealing target.
Amelia climbed onto the Raphael. Slowly, gingerly, hissing, she impaled herself.
Oh God. Oh sweet lord Jesus, that's good, it is. It was: the grind of the rough-silky thatch of pubic hair and bone on her clitoris, the painful but delicious sensation of being filled.
Chills wracked her body as she rode the Raphael. He lay with both hands under his arse, smiling beatifically at her as he was fucked.
Mary Ann came up behind Amelia, kneeling in the little space between her and the Raphael's legs. She put her arms around her mistress and nipped her bare shoulders, squeezed her nipples and twisted them like dials. She still hadn't removed her own clothes, probably out of sheer laziness. She couldn't have known how oddly pleasurable the roughness and softness of her dress made her embrace to Amelia.
"Harder. More, do it like that." Amelia forced herself to keep her hands away from the itch on her breasts, concentrating on making the sensation spice the pleasure of fucking the chimera's prick. She set her own hands on the Raphael's chest, dug her nails into the smooth skin.
Mary Ann's small fingers stroked and tickled and scratched her breasts and belly and sides. Her mouth with its tongue and small hard teeth bit and sucked at her shoulders and the nape of her neck. It was heaven and it was maddening. The delicacy of it drove Amelia on, jerking herself back and forth on the Raphael, as though he were a steed she was riding to some unguessable destination.
She felt the orgasm approaching, like a light-filled cloud she could barely see. Sobs wracked her as she fell forward, her hair falling into the Raphael's face, making them seem, for a moment, one merged ecstatic creature.
* * * *
"It's ruh-really appalling, isn't it? About Huh-her Majesty, I mean..."
Amelia, enjoying the smooth motion of the boat, managed a properly concerned frown, and a brief nod that managed to convey agreement without encouraging further chatter. She understood that Dodgson was only making polite conversation, but lately t
he royal death at Buckingham Palace was all anyone talked about. It had become rather tiresome.
And the afternoon was lovely, a sunny July day, absolute perfection. She was glad now that she had accepted the daguerrographer's hesitant invitation to join him on an outing, though it had taken her nearly a week of shilly-shallying to make up her mind.
"Did she really choke on a chicken-bone?" Mary Ann inquired, munching an apple. The chimera had accompanied them on the picnic at Dodgson's suggestion, to lend the afternoon a certain air of propriety. Remembering the afternoon with the Raphael, Amelia had to smile. Mary Ann was not quite the ideal chaperone, she thought, if in fact that was what Dodgson had in mind. Well, perhaps she'd give her servant a chance to demonstrate that to their earnest, gentlemanly host. A bit later, perhaps.
"A ch-chicken bone, yes, s-so they say," Dodgson said, shaking his head sadly. "Hardly suh-seems possible. The world will change now, y-you know, in all sorts of ways."
"Have I complimented you recently on those daguerrographs of yours, Mr. Dodgson?" Amelia said lazily.
"They really are delightful, and Mr. Roxby tells me they've exceeded all his expectations in terms of spurring sales."
Dodgson looked genuinely pleased. "Ah, you're tuh-too kind, Miss Lessington."
"You're a man of considerable talents. You know, I wonder that you don't try your hand at a fairy story."
Dodgson shook his head ruefully. "Nuh-not my line, I'm afraid. Oh, I've suh-set down a fancy or two, for the chuh-children of fuh-friends, but I'm much better at puh-puzzles.
Problems of muh-mathematical logic, you see. For example,"
he continued, with the unmistakable air of one preparing to mount an endlessly-ridden, well-loved hobbyhorse. "If one were to take a train from London to Edinburgh..."
"No," Amelia said suddenly.
The daguerrographer managed to keep his oar-strokes smooth, but he turned startled, stricken eyes on her. "I buh-beg your...?"
"I find puzzles most abominably boring." Amelia smiled, scooping up a handful of water and letting it trickle through her long fingers. "Ah, you see, I'm determined to be naughty.
You must tell me a story. I want one this afternoon, of your own invention, for my very own."
"Oh, of, of course. Well..." Dodgson cleared his throat, his brow knitting. "There were once thuh-three luh-little girls who lived in a well..."
"Not a children's story," Amelia said quickly. "A story for ... grown-ups." She smiled again and bit her finger. "If you know what I mean..."
Dodgson stared at her, blushing furiously. Then he laughed, a loud laugh that might have been meant to cover up embarrassment, but which also seemed to have a great deal of pleasure in it.
He isn't sure if I'm serious quite yet, she thought. But he would be. Because she was. The world truly was different now. Victoria was dead, and the tides of the world were fast changing.
Hysterical Friction
Thomas S. Roche
Victoria Barker shifted nervously in her seat in the waiting room. She could hear her husband's booming voice as he spoke to Dr. Fitzmartin.
"She's a wreck," Arthur Barker was saying. "If I knew what to do, Charles, I wouldn't be coming to you. At the best of times, you see, she's rather a jittery woman. But lately it's nerve-wracking to be around her! The slightest little thing might set her off!"
Victoria heard the low, seductive rumble of Dr. Fitzmartin's voice. Dr. Charles Fitzmartin was a dear, dear friend of Victoria's father, as well as the family doctor. In fact, Victoria had had quite a crush on him when she was younger, though she never would have admitted it, then or now.
"Describe her symptoms, Arthur. Tell me what you mean when you say something sets Victoria off."
Victoria quivered with sudden nervousness as her memories came flooding back to her. It was as if she were mentally predicting what her husband was about to say. She remembered the nervousness, the depression, her tendency to fly into a rage about the slightest things. It had been months—perhaps years—since she'd felt normal. Truth be told, she never felt normal any more—certainly not since the marriage. For a time Victoria had thought it was the stress of running the household. But now she knew it had to be more than that. It was like some horrible nervous disease, eating away at her.
But what Arthur told Charles was this: "She's so damn nervous all the time." Arthur seemed to be struggling with a difficult description. Then, all of a sudden, he burst out with,
"She's like a cat that's been buggered something fierce!
Pardon my French."
There was a long pause as Charles Fitzmartin assessed the meaning of Arthur's salty phrase. Dear Arthur's time in the service had left him with a profound vocabulary of rather off-color phrases, though of course he would never have used such language in his wife's presence. But then again, Arthur's booming voice always carried much further than he realized, so Victoria had certainly heard more than her fair share of his naughty talk. Truth be told, she thought it was kind of appealing, in a masculine sort of way. One of the few things she found masculine about Arthur. As a matter of fact, it caused a curious sensation to grow near the back of her brain— but of course that was unacceptable. Victoria ignored the sensation, feeling her hands shake as she did. It simply wouldn't do to be thinking of things like that at any time—least of all when she was at the doctor's to be treated for this profound nervous illness that seemed to be taking her over.
Despair flowed through Victoria and she began to whimper nervously, as if in prequel to a burst of tears.
"Bugger?" came the calm voice of Dr. Charles Fitzmartin, in quizzical response to Arthur's rather earthy assessment of his wife's condition. "A cat that's been buggered, you say?"
There was a long silence.
"Oh, for the love of God, Charles, you're not implying—you can't possibly mean—certainly—that's not at all what I meant!
Such a thing would be totally unthinkable, even you have to admit!" Arthur lowered his voice, which was terribly unusual.
But he was unable to lower it so much that Victoria didn't understand what he said. "Not that I haven't—I mean, Charles, you have to understand, I've been in the army, and on numerous hunting expeditions, it's simply not proper to do it the usual way and risk certain ... conditions. But with my wife? Never! Well, what I'm saying is, Victoria would never go for such a thing and you really oughtn't to make such assumptions from everything I say, do you hear me?"
Dr. Fitzmartin laughed. "Of course, Arthur. I meant no offense. I wasn't implying your relations with Victoria were unnatural. Of course such a thing is unthinkable."
Victoria burst into tears, choking back sobs as she quivered uncontrollably in the hard-backed chair.
It was then that the sobbing Victoria noticed Dr. Fitzmartin's assistant—Chloe was her name, wasn't it? Clara, Chloe, something like that. Her last name was Waters, or Rivers, or something similar. The young woman had been moving about the room restlessly—rearranging things and dusting the furniture, that sort of thing. And the girl—Chloe, Clara, Carla—kept pausing in her work to glance over at Victoria and offer a faint, nervous little smile. The first few times it happened Victoria had thought nothing of it. She thought it was just the friendly gesture of a concerned health professional. But as Victoria's breast quivered with the unstoppable onset of tears, she noticed that this time the receptionist—Chloe, Clara, Catherine—was not looking away.
She looked about to say something, but did not.
Victoria took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes as the receptionist returned to her filing. Victoria noticed for the first time that the starched white dress the girl was wearing was just a shade too tight for propriety. It clung quite noticeably to the girl's ample hips, and tugged with some effort across her breasts. Victoria was quite certain the girl wasn't wearing proper undergarments—the outline of her breasts was disturbingly evident, and the girl was blessed with perhaps more bust than was typical for a girl her size.
Vic
toria imagined that the poor girl must have a hard time keeping herself clothed on receptionist's wages, and this too-tight dress was the result. Victoria experienced a wave of sadness for the girl, which set her quivering and sobbing all over again. Oh, to be so poor that you were forced into too-tight garments ... without the means to afford proper undergarments ... The horror was overwhelming.
"There, there," sighed the receptionist—Victoria suddenly recalled that her name was Clara. To Victoria's dismay, the girl was now standing before her, but try as she might, Victoria could not stop her wave of sobbing.
Victoria almost gasped as the girl put her arms around her.
Victoria collapsed into a series of sobs, giving in to her nervous agony. The curves of the girl's body pressed against her through that too-tight dress—damn that dress—and Victoria realized with horror that she could actually feel the tiny nubs of the woman's nipples, noticeably hard under the thick white material.
"Let me comfort you, my dear," Clara was sighing. She was a girl of perhaps nineteen or twenty, just a year or two younger than Victoria, and Victoria, despite her nervousness, got the sense that this girl could understand her feelings.
"What's got you crying, darling? Tell me all about it."
Victoria realized that this manner of speaking sounded more like something coming from the madam of a bordello than a doctor's receptionist—not that Victoria would know about such things.
But Victoria gave in to her pain and wept bitterly as Clara cradled Victoria's head in her arms.
"There, there," sighed Clara. "The doctor will make it all better. Charles is a genius at making people all better. And I'll do my part, too, you dear woman."