Carnal Machines

by D. L. King

  “And I’ll be bringing the genius who rebuilt a Carstairs machine into her court,” he added. He looked past me at the now-quiescent chair, and a slow smile spread across his face. He looked back at me. “My turn?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  DOCTOR WATSON MAKES A HOUSE CALL

  Essemoh Teepee

  Damn it, cabby can’t you stoke it harder?” Watson called out through the open window. Any reply was drowned out by the noise of steam hissing and six iron legs beating a drumroll on the road.

  The London train from Liverpool Street Station had been delayed. Watson had engaged a fast steam carriage from Bishop Stortford to his destination at Dunmow, hoping to make up the time. The Steam Steed hissed and clattered along the Essex Lane to Easton Lodge, the Countess of Warwick’s country house, as fast as its articulated legs would take it. Watson feared he was still going to be late. He sat in the cab behind the steam engine bouncing along the deeply rutted lane and held on to his bags. A brass-bound wooden box on the floor he trapped with his boot so it could not move around. It would not do to arrive not only late but with his equipment unusable.

  The invitation had come in to 221b Baker Street for Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. The Count and Countess of Warwick requested the pleasure of Mr. Holmes’s company and also had need of Dr. Watson in a consulting capacity. Holmes had dismissed the invitation,

  “They want me to perform at the dinner table, and you to demonstrate your toys in the bedchambers, Watson. You go if you wish; I do not feel like being a curiosity for the gentry.”

  Watson had a living to earn and the Countess of Warwick’s society house parties were famous. A previous case, that of the unfortunate Lady Annabella King née Lovelace’s empty box, had crossed Lady Daisy Greville’s path with that of Holmes.

  Watson had acquired something very special from Lady Annabella. She had scribbled a will before leaving the doctor tied to her bed and making her escape from his protection. Annabella must have known that Professor Moriarty would betray her. Knowing that she was probably going to her death, she had still gone in the hope of saving her lost husband. Watson looked at the box on the floor. The unique contents were fast making him his fortune in the months since that fateful day.

  Watson thought back to his studies of hysterical paroxysm with the great Jean-Martin Charcot at the Salpêtrière Hospital in Paris. The long days learning particular massage techniques had been hard. He smiled recalling the even longer Parisian nights.

  Meeting Holmes on his return to England had been fortunate. Sharing rooms at Baker Street had helped him get on his feet until his practice had picked up. Commissions from troubled women and their long-suffering husbands were now steady and lucrative. However, what was in the box was singular in his field and much in demand by those who knew of its existence.

  Watson enjoyed his work. He could not agree with some colleagues that the treatments for female hysteria were time consuming and tricky. He felt that if he could bring his patients a release from the grip of their affliction, then his ministrations were a satisfaction in themselves. That the fees were fat and readily paid was a matter of concern for no one else.

  Easton Lodge was very grand. Watson stood on the gravel drive surrounded by his bags and the box. Looking up at its ivy-covered façade, he felt a sense of history, Empire and money. The noise of the Steam Steed hissing and clanking away brought the butler to the big oak doors.

  “Dr. Watson? The Countess is expecting you.” The butler sounded huffy as he took one of Watson’s bags. “She has been waiting in the private drawing room.”

  “My train was unavoidably delayed,” Watson explained, only to receive a rude sound in response. Not a good beginning, Watson thought.

  “Dr. Watson, your Ladyship. He said his train was delayed.” The unpleasant butler sounded quite disbelieving.

  “Thank you, William, that will be all. I will ring if we require anything. See to it that we are not disturbed.” Watson thought that Lady Daisy Greville, Countess of Warwick, looked a trifle flushed and her voice sounded a little strained. He swore he heard the butler make another rude noise as he shut the door behind him.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes sends his regrets my Lady; he is otherwise engaged on a case at present and was unable to accompany me,” Watson lied.

  “Never matter Doctor; Bertie is not too happy with him in any case after the unfortunate events around Mr. Holmes’s last visit to this house. It was my husband’s idea to invite Mr. Holmes; it was I who invited you,” Lady Daisy said.

  “The Prince of Wales is here, my Lady?” Unlike Holmes, Watson had only ever seen the Prince from afar and he was curious to meet him. Watson knew, like most of society, that the Prince and the Countess were closely acquainted.

  “Dear Bertie leaves later today; he is to be in Brighton tonight. The Palace is sending a dirigible for him.” Lady Daisy patted the chaise lounge and went on, “Come and sit beside me, Doctor, I want you to tell me how you knew poor dear Annabella. We were such good friends and I was surprised that she left you her, her device. She had told me all about it. The poor woman left me some of her books.”

  Watson saw that the Countess had been looking through a copy of Gilles de la Tourette’s remarkable line drawings of women in paroxysm. The three volumes of photographs of the same subject matter by Desire Magloire Bourneville were on a side table.

  Watson thought Lady Daisy’s cheeks if anything looked even brighter. The tip of her delicate pink tongue kept moistening her lips. He diagnosed that the Countess was greatly in need of his particular skills, not a cosy chat. He took her hand and felt it clammy in his; her pulse under his fingers was racing.

  “My dear Lady, you are discomfited, how may I be of help to you in your distress?” Watson knew perfectly well what the Countess needed, but there were niceties and protocols to be observed.

  “I am all of a fluster, Doctor; perhaps if you were to examine me you could give an opinion as to my ailment?” Daisy looked into Watsons eyes and a slight smile trembled on her lips.

  “But of course, my Lady. Your skirts, if you would be so kind?” Watson watched as with some alacrity the Countess leant and gathered her white frilly skirts and full petticoat in her hands and drew them above her waist. She was wearing white lacy stockings with her patent pumps. Red satin ribbons around the tops of her thighs held up her stockings; she was not wearing any bloomers.

  The Countess’ skin was alabaster white and the fine red curls on her pubis looked downy soft. Watson realized that he was holding his breath and tried to appear detached and professional. Her perfume and the musk rising from her clearly wet sex were exquisite; he felt his cock swelling against the front of his pants. Swallowing with some difficulty, he said, “A little wider if you will, my Lady.”

  Daisy spread her legs for Watson and leant back against the silk cushions. He thought he heard her sigh and saw that her eyes were closed. She was warm and soft to his touch, her labia slick with secretions that confirmed his initial thoughts. Lady Daisy was indeed in great distress. His forefinger slid readily into her sex. A low moan escaped her slightly parted lips as he explored her internally. The Countess was very wet but still quite tight. Watson decided that he would work her with his hand first before applying any instruments.

  Two fingers required a little twisting and easing before they could enter her fully. Daisy kept moving her hips slowly as though trying to press against his fist. He was surprised at her seeming maidenly appearance. According to all the society tales Daisy Greville, Countess of Warwick, was not inexperienced in matters of the bedchamber. Watson considered that perhaps this was part of her charms. Along with her beauty and sharp wit she was like a fresh young girl in bed. He wondered if the Prince of Wales liked his women to be tight.

  His examination found the sensitive area of her vaginal walls that lay at the base of her clitoris. His experiences in Paris had shown him that firm massage here had great efficacy. Daisy’s gasps and whimpers attested to his su
ccessful application of that knowledge. He worked his fingers in her harder and faster.

  “Oh, dear Doctor, I am about to faint!” the Countess cried out.

  “Allow yourself the release, my Lady.” Watson said quietly and she curled up around his penetrating hand, shuddering and sobbing in spasm. Watson slowly reduced the pressure of his fingers and gradually slid them out of her.

  A few moments later she opened her eyes and smiled up at him saying, “Oh, my word, Doctor, you are very good indeed. What else do you have that will ease my dreadful distress? Do tell, what is in the box?”

  Watson smiled and reached for the bag carried by the butler.

  “This device will help maintain a degree of stimuli my Lady, while I prepare. You apply it just here and squeeze this like so.” Watson guided Daisy’s fingers and showed her how to make the small hand vibrator buzz against her clitoris.

  “Oh, my! That feels most unusual, Doctor. Press just here you say?” Daisy asked.

  “Quite so, my Lady.” Watson busied himself unpacking the box and setting up while the Countess rubbed and vibrated herself to several more paroxysms. He saw that her labia were now quite red and swollen. The vibrator was making wet sounds as she eased it in and out of her opening and he judged her ready for the next stage of treatment.

  “I am ready, my Lady,” Watson said, and he saw Daisy’s eyes open very wide as she looked at the engine clamped to a side table. Watson had maneuvered the table so that it was in front of her hips.

  “Is that Annabella’s ‘Vibrador,’ Doctor? It looks quite fearsome.” Daisy raised her eyebrows at Watson.

  “A Vibrador-a-vapor-cura-histeria, my Lady. The Lady Annabella had it modified to use the Faraday-Babbage fireless steam motor. This small brass ball is a tireless steam engine that drives the piston here.” Watson pointed out the elements of the device to the Countess.

  “Will all of that go into me, Doctor?” Daisy indicated the thick, realistically sculpted phallus attached to the piston rod.

  “I judge that you are in a condition ready to accommodate this particular size, my Lady. It will have a considerable effect on your affliction,” Watson explained.

  “I am sure it will, my good Doctor, I am sure it will,” The Countess murmured as she lay back once more. She hooked one thigh over the armrest and spread her other leg along the couch, opening herself very wide. “I am ready, Doctor.”

  Watson coated the head of the phallus with a little lubricating ointment and eased the round head between Daisy’s labia. Her gasp as it stretched her entry was as he expected. He noted with satisfaction the involuntary rising of her hips to aid the penetration.

  “I shall begin on a low setting, my Lady and we will see how you progress,” Watson explained and twisted a lever. The piston slowly extended from the mechanism and the phallus slid deeper into the Countess. Her moan became a soft whimper as the piston began to cycle slowly. The metal rod thrust the dildo in and out in a steadily increasing rhythm.

  “That is so very satisfactory, Doctor; a little faster perhaps?” Daisy sighed.

  “Of course, my Lady,” Watson said, adjusting the mechanism to speed up the thrusting and increase the depth of penetration.

  “Just there, good Doctor, just there. Ohh!” Daisy arched her back and pushed her hips onto the impaling phallus in time with its cycle. The vision of the shaft slipping between her spread labia, glistening with her natural lubrication, caused Watson’s cock to ache unbearably. He judged that her paroxysms would begin soon.

  “Oh, my god, Doctor. I am undone!” Daisy cried out and began shuddering repeatedly. Tears were squeezing from under her tightly closed eyelids. Watson allowed the Vibrador to massage the Countess for some minutes more as she repeatedly cried out and ground her hips around the thrusting piston. His hand furtively squeezed his stiffness through the cloth of his pants. No, Watson very definitely did not consider these treatments to be a time-consuming chore.

  “Come here, Doctor! I need your comfort!” Daisy reached for him as he approached. This too was not unusual in Watson’s experience; in many regards it was to be hoped for. He often found it calmed his patients even more to feel him intimately close.

  The Countess’s fingers fumbled at the buttons of his fly and he had to help her undo his pants. She grasped his erection in a firm grip and drew him closer. It was Watson’s turn to moan as he felt her soft lips engulf his penis and suck him into her hot mouth. He always allowed his patients to control the depth and speed of the fellatio; that way it was more proper he thought.

  Daisy was very skilled in the erotic practice, confirming Watson’s opinion of her attraction as a paramour to powerful men. Watson wondered what the Prince of Wales would think about sharing his mistress’s mouth with a mere consulting doctor. Then he had no thoughts other than the tension between his legs and Daisy’s hand stroking his testicles as she sucked on his glans. He was close to ejaculation and thought it best to say so.

  “My Lady, I am about to spend!”

  Daisy sucked on his cock all the harder and swallowed his shaft to the very back of her throat. He felt her sweet nose crushed against his pubic hair. Then he spurted his semen down her throat with a deep growl in his own. The Countess seemed to take no small pleasure in sucking every drop of his seed and licking him clean.

  The machine was still pounding her, making wet sucking sounds. The Countess’s hips were riding the shaft with some determination. Watson reached down and fingered her damp curls. He found the slippery pearl of her clitoris and rubbed it hard with two fingers. Daisy flung her arms wide and her head back at his expert touch. Her voice rose higher and higher in a keening cry that ended in a yelp as he pinched his thumb and finger together. The Countess gave a small scream as she convulsed on the chaise lounge. She fell back in a seeming swoon and Watson hurriedly went to still the machine.

  Luncheon was served on the terrace under white canvas awnings. White linen tablecloths dazzled the eye under gleaming Irish crystal glassware and antique silver cutlery. Equally glittering houseguests thronged the tables consuming the gourmet fare with near gluttonous gusto. Doctor Watson ate quietly, watching the interactions of the social elite. He was fascinated by the presence of the overweight figure of the Prince of Wales at the head of the table. The women guests hung on his every word and all laughed uproariously at his slightest bon mot. There had been a brief introduction to His Royal Highness before lunch.

  “Dashed shame about that Babbage woman and her box of secrets, Doctor. Your Mr. Holmes should have been a sight more careful of that Faraday Babbage thing if you ask me,” the Prince had said.

  “It was very sad, Your Highness, that the Lady Annabella was so brutally murdered by Moriarty’s henchmen,” Watson had replied.

  “Quite so, quite so I’m sure. If we only had her damned secret of fireless steam we might’ve stumped cousin Willhelm. Mama doesn’t think he’s a threat, d’you know; she won’t be told.” The Prince spoke more to himself than Watson.

  “I am sure that the Queen will do what she thinks is right for the Empire, Sir,” Watson said as diplomatically as he could. but the Prince had already begun walking off toward the tables.

  Watson thought of Holmes and his misgivings over the secret of the little brass ball falling into anyone’s hands. The doctor trusted that his friend knew best in such things. The destruction of the secret was probably for the best. He still had the little ball with its impenetrable formula and at least it was doing some good in his hands. The doctor noted that the Countess seemed much calmer now, with almost a glow about her complexion. She was in very animated conversation with a woman who kept glancing down the table toward Watson.

  The meal came to a sudden end when a hissing clatter in the sky grew ever louder. The houseguests rose in a group to see the arrival of the Royal dirigible. The huge red and gold torpedo sailed slowly through the sky trailing smoke from its high-pressure steam aeroboilers. Fine coal dust blown into the furnaces superheated the steam driving t
he spinning aerovanes. Watson loved dirigible travel as much as Holmes hated it. The doctor thought it had more to do with the incident over Paris than any fear of heights.

  The Prince and his equerry climbed aboard to whistles and salutes from the Airnavy crew clinging to the rigging.

  “Impressive sight, what?” a guest said to Watson. “Makes one proud of Empire, what?”

  “Yes, I suppose it must,” Watson replied as they watched the airship rise into the air again. It slowly spun on its center line and turned its prow toward the south. Thick smoke poured out as it moved away ever faster. The Prince would be on time for dinner in the Pavilion, the grand folly a previous prince had created to impress his mistress. Nothing changes, Watson thought.

  Watson spied the Countess talking animatedly with a group of the ladies who had been paying court to the Prince at lunch. Some of them kept looking in his direction and covering their faces coyly with their hands. He sighed when the Countess took the hands of two expensively dressed women and drew them in his direction.

  “Doctor Watson, these are my two most dear, closest friends. I have told them all about you and they want to consult with you, in private.” Daisy Greville, Countess of Warwick, gently ushered the two blushing, giggling women toward Doctor Watson.

  “Of course my Lady, it will be my pleasure to attend to their every need,” Watson said. It is going to be a busy afternoon and likely the night also, he thought to himself as the four of them made their way indoors.

  THE TREATMENT

  D. L. King

  I tell you, Harold, the woman is pure evil. You know they call her the dragon lady, don’t you?”

  “Rufus, please. Aren’t you being just a tad overdramatic? After all, you claim any woman who manages to excite your—baser instincts—is ‘evil.’ Don’t you think that’s a bit old-fashioned?”