Like a Wisp of Steam: Steampunk Erotica
Page 9
Lambskin-clad hands caressed Cecilia's breasts, and the girl moaned softly, her beautiful eyes closing at the sensation.
The kiss broke, and Cecilia stared into Trista's eyes with a hunger. "Such a deliciously filthy engineer you are," she said, making the words into a lover's poem, before a nearly feral, frenzied expression filled her face, and she came in for still more kisses.
The pair of shrill whistles might have been Trista's internal thermometers sounding off extreme temperatures, so it seemed only natural that Cecilia should spread her jack, should open her shirt, should bare her corset and skin. It seemed only right to undo Cecilia's blouse, one slow button at a time, each release eliciting still more passion from the boundless well inside that delicate-seeming woman. Not so delicate at all. Her teeth ran along Trista's shoulder, while those silk gloves unfastened the corset, and when it fell free, Trista sucked in fresh air as though she had never really breathed before. Tonight, the cool autumn air was flavored with honey and musk, an earthy perfume to be certain.
Cecilia pulled Trista's hand along her leg, under the skirts, slow and strong and guiding her up and up. Kisses did not distract from the pleasure of touching garters and then the bare skin beyond. The lambskin gloves would be soft on that skin, Trista thought, but that was not enough for Cecilia.
Further up, to the crux, to a golden warmth as yet unknown, hidden beneath a gauzy veil of lace, easily shoved aside.
Cecilia plunged two of Trista's fingers inside her slick sex, shaking and gasping and then moaning the first sibilant syllable of Trista's name....
And Trista moved her fingers slowly, in and out, using her thumb to pressure the sweet place, slow rubbing—still more circles! Love was a circle!—and taking delight in Cecilia's spasms at her touch. Now it was Cecilia, earthy and dominant to this point, who was at a loss to control her limbs. The golden-haired girl now gazed into Trista's face with a kind of naïve wonder and begged for more, faster, and it was Trista who held the power to acquiesce or deny. Trista, who leaned in to kiss as she played below, Trista who—
Trilling whistles penetrated the clouds in her head, puncturing the pleasant, passion-induced miasma.
Oh, thought Trista, dear.
The buildings were no longer below them, but towering around. All three emergency whistles wailed like unwatched teapots, and a new kind of flutter found its way into Trista's heart. Fear, this was.
"Don't stop," Cecilia whispered, "please!"
"But we're going to crash."
"Then let us crash as lovers crash!" Cecilia grasped Trista's wrist, to keep her hand firmly within her quim.
There was no helping it, Trista supposed. Crash they would, but if she could reach the venting lever, then perhaps the boiler would not explode when they crashed. Of course, whatever lay below would be soaked with the boiling mix—not simply water, the real science used mixtures of more toxic things to create the gasses necessary to power the technology. Simple water steam was for backyard hobbyists.
She reached her free hand for the lever, and found herself about three inches too short. She stretched, her fingertips brushed the lever, but then Cecilia yanked her back. Panting and grunting, she dragged Trista's fingers deeper still.
It was a difficult decision, actually, whether to try again for the lever or just give up and—
There was really no decision at all. Trista lunged for the lever, dragging her hand roughly from between Cecilia's legs with the sound of ripping lace—there went the doe-eyed girl's undergarments, alas, undoubtedly they were pretty—and Cecilia's whoop of surprise. Trista caught hold of the lever.
The sprawl was much larger now, the buildings looming over the airship. All too familiar, Trista half realized as she used all her strength to shove the lever.
The boiler began to vent its murk out the shunt valves, raining the stuff down on...
Oh, no. Trista realized just where her skyship was crashing.
Those fourteen-story buildings around her belonged to the Cog, Clockwork, and Steam Technologies School of Engineering, home for both herself and Cecilia. And Cecilia's father, headmaster Wayne Foglio. The venting had probably sent the caustic goop down into the University's central quad, which she now recalled had been cordoned off for a new presentation by prodigy student Byron Pedigrew.
Then, Cecilia caught hold of her hand once more and pulled it home.
As the brass and wooden construct slammed into the glass and granite façade of the Headmaster's Office, smashing its way through, Cecilia howled with orgasm.
Balloon lines sheared, and the flat, boat-like bulk of the ship slammed atop the headmaster's desk and then crushed it nearly flat. There was no explosion. However, Trista felt the sudden wish that there had been. Something fiery to spare her the many smaller explosions to come...
* * * *
"And they kicked you out for that?" Heck Lansdale was a flat-featured fellow with an infectious grin, a slight stoop to his posture, and the kindness to buy a lady a drink.
Not that Trista felt she was a lady at all. Ladies did not get themselves asked to leave one of the Nation's most prestigious institutes due to charges of Grand Destruction and the unacknowledged breach of proprieties with the headmaster's only daughter.
"Well..." Trista suddenly wondered just how much she might have divulged. She had hoped to gloss over several of the facts, keeping names (and, well, genders) out of the mess, but this wine was a little stronger than she was accustomed to. "Yes."
"So, then you came to Chicago?"
"Because of the World's Columbian Exposition, I thought I might be able to secure a patron to continue my studies..."
With the World's Fair showcasing so many architectural and industrial marvels, she had assumed that she might ride someone's coattails into a position of financial stability. While the schooling was now beyond her, short of some miraculous change of tempers, she could pursue the science as a dedicated hobbyist, which was how many of the advances in the steam-powered technologies came about in the first place. Alas, the task turned out to be even more monumental than she had assumed, due in no small part to the fascination with Nikola Tesla's alternating current electrical power, which lighted the entire affair. Her disappointment was made even more unbearable by the loneliness of knowing so few people in the city.
"Well," Heck Lansdale said, waving for another draught of wine, "it just so happens that you might have found an interested party after all."
Trista was no fool. This gentleman had only just met her, and though she had discovered just how uncomfortable she could be around the specifics of love, Trista knew well how some persons of low character might woo. Ah, to be with CeeCee, again! She would do so many things differently, if given another chance. But despite the looks of absolute adoration Cecilia had given her, Headmaster Foglio had a fit over the handling of his daughter, expressed through spiteful and thinly veiled metaphors regarding his broken desk.
"Thank you for the wine—"
"Let me assure you," Heck said, producing a folded paper from his pocket, "that my interests are legitimate. Your favors, while certainly attractive, hold a smaller level of interest for me than do your knowledge and acumen." Before she could stand up, he unfolded the paper, revealing it to be a poster for something called Lansdale's Traveling Show of Steam and Irons, with play dates in a variety of cities.
"You have a Wild West Show?"
He offered a placating laugh. "We're more than trick shooting, though there's plenty of that as suggested by the 'Irons' part. We are a traveling menagerie of marvels.
Demonstrations of the greatest entertainments I can find, and with all the wonders of Steamworks, these days. I would be remiss not to offer such attractions to the folks of the circuit that cannot see them on their own." He tapped a pictorial representation of a literally steely-faced man. With all the passion of a carnival barker, he said, "Behold Benjamin, the cogwork man." Then, he smiled to himself. "However, Benjamin requires a bit of upkeep, and my steam-engine
er has decided to pursue a career with another company." Was Heck's sadness more than proper for the loss of an employee?
Trista found herself wondering if Heck might not be hiding some deeper affection. "Sooo, I find myself in dire need of someone to keep ol' Benji running proper." His eyes met hers, and there was a sheen of wetness to them, barely restrained tears. "I can offer you a sum of twenty-five dollars a week, free board in our comfortably quaint wagons, and three squares a day."
The quality of the meals dubbed "squares," Trista figured, would undoubtedly depend on how well Heck's show did at any given location. A part of that required all the marvels and attractions working out. It was work she could certainly sink her teeth into, work made all the more enticing because her own savings were nearly gone.
Was this not everything she had hoped for?
Well, not quite.
But it would do.
"I am interested, Mr. Lansdale," Trista said, "Please tell me more."
* * * *
So began a life of work where Trista labored solely behind the scenes doing the difficult, thankless, and often grimy work of keeping up poor Benjamin, the world's oldest clockwork and steam-powered replica of a man, far from the more cutting edge of the New Science that she was familiar with. But it was among the ranks of Heck's crew that she made the acquaintance of Maggie Douglass, the Shooting Lady. "So skilled," ran Maggie's bill of introduction, "that both Wild Bill Hickock and Billy the Kid refused to spar with her, on account of fear that they might lose to a gal." That both these gunfighters were long deceased (and one had the gall to shuffle off this mortal coil before Maggie was old enough to hold a gun) had little real effect on the crowds. They were happy enough to hear the story, happy enough to pay their two bits to see her perforate papers or wear a blindfold while taking a pair of stacked apples off a "helpful volunteer's"
head. If a story is even remotely interesting, then most folks let the smaller lies slide (so long as no one's getting robbed blind or harmed).
Maggie was a brusque but kindly soul, a woman over thirty, with age lines around her eyes, weariness to her shoulders, and the pronounced inability to really smile. Her dark hair was touched with occasional strands of silver, and her face was that of a woman nearly twenty years older.
Upon first meeting Trista alone, she sized the younger woman up and said, "Get out of the business just as soon as you can."
"I don't intend to stay any longer than needs be."
"You need something firmer than that, my dear. Give yourself a time to mosey by, and if that time comes and you're still here, then make scarce. Don't make excuses."
"I was figuring on having it be one year," Trista said.
"Does that seem short enough?"
Maggie's considered this and nodded. Though she did not smile, there was a puckish light to her. An aura of humor.
"This life can wear a girl out, Trista."
"I figured."
"You look like a smart gal," Maggie said. "You figure a lot?"
"Not enough about this life I've been leading. Just when I think I have it rationalized away, it throws a curve into my plans. That's just plain rude, wouldn't you say?"
"I think we're going to get along just fine," Maggie said, and she was right.
In time, Trista came to discover that Maggie was what folks might call a "confirmed maiden," with no interest in men as anything other than business partners (Heck Lansdale) or associates (just about everyone else). Three months after the show carried Trista away from the chill, windy streets of the White City, she found herself warming to Maggie as they talked long into the night over glasses of amber liquid, learning the intricacies of firearms and...Maggie was not searching for a life mate, and yet Trista could more than empathize with the loneliness she talked about. They were like twins of spirit, and it was only a matter of time before she understood the degree of attachment she felt.
In the dark countryside en route to Arizona, Trista found a warmth in Maggie's arms that had been missing from her since that fateful night over (and, well, in) Fort Detroit.
The wagons were small affairs modeled after the colorful transports favored by Old World gypsies, made to house two but stuffed with four or more tenants. They were not places of escape, but mere spots to lay one's pillow for the night. But Maggie, as part owner and financier to the show, lived alone.
Her wagon had decorations from a lifetime spent as an entertainer, posters and memorabilia that she could expound on for hours in fascinating ways. Rich, crimson curtains hung across the windows, and the floor was tastefully decorated with a matching carpet. The place was stuffed to gills with the makings of parlor and bedroom, separable by a dark, sliding curtain should she wish to entertain polite company.
They were soused, not at all how ladies "should be," but in the fashion of frontier chums. Trista was talking about the night over Fort Detroit, painting rosy (and perhaps somewhat bawdy) pictures of the mishap. Maggie sat enraptured, showing perhaps an unhealthy interest in those bawdy aspects—she really could drag the most wicked confessions out of a girl—and Trista was lost in the telling, feeling those sensations all over again. Then, she offered to demonstrate (a joke, a joke!), and Maggie had surprised her by sitting up straight and inviting her over with a glance. That glance was one part enticement and one part ... vulnerability.
Trista was aware that poor, lonely Maggie offered up her heart in that moment. If she had a desire or spiteful nature, she could easily dash it to the floor. Ruin that heart and thereby, through the special connection they shared, ruin Maggie. There was something undeniably beautiful and meaningful in the moment. In the offering.
She did not ruin her friend.
Trista leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth, instead.
Maggie's lips were not soft like Cecilia's, but there was a pleasure in the roughness. Her kiss was nearly shy, startled.
Then, the Shooting Lady's strong arms came around Trista like a blanket, and her mouth opened, their tongues met, and...
The uncertainty came to Trista again.
What were these limbs for? What were they meant to do?
"I don't," she admitted, between kisses, "quite know what..." Their mouths would not part for long, as though that might shatter what delicate bond they shared. "To do."
"What you're doing," Maggie said, through the same interruptions, "seems fine with me."
No gloves today. Trista's hands found the soft skin beneath Maggie's vest and blouse, found the tender flesh of her lower back, dotted with expectant sweat. Maggie's clothes came away beneath her fingers, and her own garments—the suede pants and rough cotton shirt that served her for tasks other than working on Benjamin—parted and fell under Maggie's more practiced touch.
The air was oddly chill, despite the warm candles in the wagon, and this only brought their bodies even closer together. Skin on skin led to a lovely friction, their mouths could not stop meeting, though they took to nibbling or suckling other offered flesh. They soon found a warmth that not even the naked flames of candles could touch. A heat that existed only between them, something to banish the skulking cold.
There was sweetness to the taste of sweat rolling slowly down a body, followed from throat down between the breasts, down to the slight rise of the belly, in a winding pathway around and past the indentation button of Maggie's birth, down to the glistening fur below, down ... The Shooting Lady's prized trigger fingers played through Trista's curly hair, as the steam engineer offered gentle pecks and then languorous tongue caresses to that bastion of warmth and honey between her legs. Maggie's gasps were heartfelt and soft, but with each moment of Trista's affectionate attention, they came louder. Words, sometimes. Nonsense, others. Both urged Trista on, urgings she could not deny ... As Maggie finally spasmed, she caught hold of Trista's hair and pulled, wrenching face up and away from her, staring into the engineer's eyes with such a frantic hunger that Trista felt a ripple of dread.
Then, Maggie leaned in, panther-quick,
and the kiss was just as hungry as that expression. Her teeth caught on Trista's lower lip, not breaking skin but pinching for a moment, as the Shooting Lady guided Trista beyond the curtain, and then down on the coarse sheets.
She slid a hand below, tickling Trista's quim and sending such shivers through the engineer that any words springing from her lips were of a primal, guttural language unknown to the civilized world. All sense of limbs vanished under waves of a kind of heat and warmth and love that must have stemmed from the chaos that spat forth the world in days long forgotten, that flowed from the nexus of all time and space, from the mouths of gods. Trista was flying, despite the weight of her arms and body. She was among the clouds and aloft, as delicious pressure built inside her. She had to moan, to release that pressure, but even giving it voice, expelling it as sound was not enough. Still it built within her, under Maggie's hand and kisses. Was the Shooting Lady kissing her down there, now? Or were her rough, ruby lips on Trista's nipple?
Or nuzzling the soft hairs of her sex? Or somehow all of these and more?
Trista's toes curled, as sensations flooded her, and when that pressure grew to be too much, so much, she caught hold of the sheets firmly enough that she thought she must be ripping them. She leaned forward, not sitting up, not capable of that, but lifting her head so that she could stare wide-eyed at Maggie's hair and eyes. She whimpered as the waves of that beautiful moment coursed through her, carrying her to some place past the rude world of flesh and blood and steam and pain. Through to the realm of ideals.
It was as though the top of her head was gone. It was as though she had been thrown forcefully from her own body. It was nothing less than the most incredible release she had ever experienced.
Then, Maggie lay beside her, still full of kisses and stroking hands. Her lips and tongue had a heavy flavor, richer than chocolate or wine; my honey, she realized, this is the flavor of my honey.
They lay together, lost to all but the moment and each other.