Carnal Machines

by D. L. King

  “You can come in,” Madame says. “She won’t bite you.” She laughs and leaves the lamp to go to the far wall and the switches there. She throws them, one at a time, and light floods the room.

  I hear him gasp, and I know what he sees. The ceilings in this room are high, and although they try to hide it with draperies, you can still see the machines that tower overhead, disappearing into the shadows above the lights. The machines hum and churn, gears half the size of a man moving in the eternal dance that gives me life. Occasionally they release puffs of fragrant steam into the air, making the entire room warmer than would normally be considered comfortable. There is very little furniture in the room, most of it covered with drapery against dust and future need. And then there is me. Shining silver and chrome, gleaming brass and copper, I lie in wait, reclined on the wide couch as might a goddess whilst she awaited her worshippers.

  “But…it’s clockwork!” he blurts out, stepping into the room. He looks around, expecting to see a living woman. But, of course, there is no one else in the room.

  Madame sniffs slightly. “Of course she is. I did explain that to you, did I not?”

  Lord Hathaway has the grace to look embarrassed, “You did, but…the others all look…alive. This one…” He gestures wildly.

  “She was the first, created by my late husband,” Madame says, walking over to my couch. She brushes her nails over my shoulder and continues, “The others came later, and I refined the forms to make them more…approachable. Despite her form, the Succubus is the most complex of all the automatons.”

  “How can that be? It looks like a statue!” He takes a step toward the couch and points at me. “It is a statue!”

  Madame runs her fingers over my gleaming silver skull, “Oh, this is just the focal point, Your Lordship. The Succubus encompasses this room.”

  He looks around, his eyes wide. “The whole room?”

  “The whole of this floor, actually. As I said, she is very complex.” Madame makes her way back to the wall and stands near the bell-rope. “Now, it is customary for the first appointment to be with the Succubus. Did your brother not tell you this?”

  Lord Hathaway shakes his head. “All Reg told me was that I would not believe what I found here. He wouldn’t say more.” He swallows, looking nervously at the figure on the couch and then back at Madame, “Is it safe?”

  Madame laughs. “My dear sir, you’ll be as safe here as in your own mother’s arms, if that is your desire.”

  He looks at her sharply. “What does that mean?”

  Madame just smiles. “You’ve seen what we offer. Surely it’s no surprise to you that there are some who prefer an element of risk. Don’t you agree?”

  He does, although I doubt that any would see it but me. His breathing quickens, ever so slightly. The flush in his cheeks heightens, just a touch. He looks at me again, studying me, silent. After a long moment, he turns back to Madame. “What do I have to do?”

  She draws from the reticule that hangs from her wrist one of the shining silver collars, the black lock dangling from the end. She smiles at my soon-to-be paramour, “Take off your clothes.”

  He balks, of course. They always do. Disrobe in front of a woman? Unthinkable! Even though the woman is the proprietress of the most exclusive brothel in London, they simply can’t. I think that Madame enjoys their discomfort, and that is why she does it. Eventually, she tires of his protests and rings for one of the silent servants.

  “Lay your clothing there,” Madame says and points to a chair near the door. “The servant will guard the door and make certain that you are undisturbed. And I will have a room made up for you.”

  Nigel looks startled. “Will that be necessary?”

  Madame smiles. “The Succubus likes to take her time.” Then she leaves, and the door closes behind her with a soft thump. Nigel stares at the door for a moment, then starts to unbutton his waistcoat, turning away from me in what must be an automatic gesture. He has already removed his tie and unbuttoned his high collar so that Madame could lock the collar around his throat.

  A voice is nothing but air through valves. I can have any voice I choose. This time, I choose a girl’s voice, light and gentle. “I can still see you,” I say softly. “You needn’t try to hide. I like to watch.”

  He spins, startled, looking for the owner of the voice. “Who…who said that?”

  I answer, “I am the Succubus. And my eyes are throughout this room. So you need not try to hide from me.”

  “You speak?” He starts edging toward the door.

  “I do a great many things. Isn’t that why you’re here?” I pause, and he stops moving. Good. Time to begin. “Do you enjoy being frightened, Nigel?”

  “No!” he says quickly. “How do you know my name?”

  “I know many things about you, Nigel,” I keep my voice soft and low. “I know you seek an escape from the madness that your life has become since your brother died and you assumed his title. I know that you wish for a return to the carefree days of being the younger son. Your life has become structured, regimented. You want excitement.”

  In actuality, I know none of these things. I do know that he is the younger son, much younger than his brother. Younger sons are allowed some leeway in their dealings, and it is all overlooked since they will not bear the title. And…he is here. If he were looking for a mistress, he would be at the opera or the theater. If he desired a simple coupling, a push-in-thedark-here’s-a-farthing-never-see-the-girl-again, he would be in Whitechapel. He wants neither of these. He wants some excitement, but something that carries no risk of scandal. I can tell now that he needs something more than a simple tryst.

  The chair hits him right behind the knees, and he sits down hard, the breath exploding out of him. I have him in a trice, bindings snapping closed around his legs, waist and chest. Cables catch his wrists and pull them into position for the bindings that fix his arms to the chair. He is mine.

  He struggles for a moment, opens his mouth to protest, and his breath catches when he sees the mechanical arm rising from the floor between his feet. The knife blade at the end shines in the harsh lights, the edge glittering as I move it this way and that.

  “It is very sharp, I assure you,” I say. “Do not struggle.”

  “What are you doing?” he whispers, looking like a bird facing a snake, his glassy eyes never leaving the blade.

  I don’t answer, lowering the knife back toward the floor. I wait a moment, letting his breathing quicken, then slip the blade into the leg of his trousers, brushing against his skin before I begin cutting. His fine trousers part easily as I work my way slowly up the seam, tracing lightly over the inside of his thighs as my blade travels up each leg. He moans, closing his eyes and trying oh-so-valiantly not to move or even to breathe as the blade lays his skin bare. His arms are ticklish, and he yelps as I cut away his fine silk shirt and trace the blue veins under his skin. When I am done, his skin is shining with sweat, his breathing quick and shallow. His cock, freed at last from its linen and wool prison, stands proudly like a soldier at attention.

  I pitch my voice so that it seems to come from behind him, and add a puff of air so it seems to Nigel that I am whispering in his ear. “I see that you appreciate my handiwork.”

  My dear Nigel’s only answer is a whimper; his eyelids flutter open, then he gasps in surprise to see the knife a scant inch from his nose. He swallows and struggles to control his need to pull away as I stroke his cheek with the knife, then move lower, tracing the pulsing vein in his throat. I prick his collarbone lightly, not even enough to raise a welt, then gently brush the blade over one of his erect nipples.

  That is all it takes. Nigel wails like a girl, thrashing in his bonds while his seed splatters over his chest and legs and onto the floor. Then he goes limp, his eyes close, and his head lolls back as his chest heaves. I pull the knife arm back into the floor and consider my next move. I hadn’t expected him to spend quite that quickly. As Madame said, I like to take my t
ime. I don’t think that I’ve even come close to exploring the full range of Nigel’s possibilities.

  I release his bonds and at the same time tip the chair forward, spilling him onto the ground like a child’s rag doll. He lies there in the remains of his clothing and makes no protest when I lift him off the floor, holding him with a multitude of strong metal arms. I steady him and move him across the room; he does not notice until it is too late that I have a destination in mind. By the time he is aware of my purpose, I have already bent him over a table and drawn his arms back, wrapping his wrists in steel and binding them behind him. He struggles for a moment, but I hold him tightly in a lover’s embrace and keep him in place. Nigel starts to shiver, whether from fear or the chill of the metal table I cannot tell. He closes his eyes tightly, and his cock twitches, starting to rise once again.

  “Well,” I murmur. “I certainly can’t leave such a responsive toy unattended.” A hose rises from the floor, and the end clamps around Nigel’s semierect member and begins sucking; Nigel lets loose a high-pitched whine and thrusts his hips forward as much as my grip will allow.

  It is times like this when I wish I had the ability to smile. “You enjoy fear,” I say, my voice low. “How do you feel about pain?” I raise another of my arms, this one bearing a slender cane, and swish it experimentally over his head. His eyes shoot open, and he cranes his neck to see behind him, lifting his shoulders from the table.

  “Now, now. None of that, my darling,” I chide gently as a slender arm rises from within the surface of the table; it hooks into his collar and pulls him back down. He shivers more violently and squeezes his eyes closed again.

  He screams at the first strike of the cane, pulling away from me so violently that I think for a moment that I have misjudged him. I hesitate and am pleasantly surprised when he shifts his hips, pushing his lovely bottom out as much as he can.

  “More…more, please.” His voice is harsh, and he moans as I trace the back of his knee with the tip of the cane.

  “Of course, my darling. How could I refuse?”

  He screams and moans as I lay a pattern of stripes over his buttocks and thighs, leaving livid red welts that promise to leave him unable to sit for any length of time, for days. I follow the cane with a velvet flogger, trailing the long, soft tails over his enflamed skin, then letting it fly to land with solid thumps against his ass, making him choke and gasp and beg for more. All the while, I tease him beneath the table, gently sucking and blowing on his cock, alternating pressure levels and suction, never letting him go long enough to reach his peak.

  When at last he falls still, drenched in sweat, too exhausted to beg or struggle, I let the flogger tails trail over his limp fingers and whisper in his ear, “Shall I finish you, my darling?”

  He moans and nods, twisting his wrists slightly and croaking out a single word: “Please?”

  All he has to do is ask; I increase the suction and send another arm, this one wielding a rabbit-skin wand, to caress his bollocks and then slip between his legs and run up and down the marks on his thighs. His body tenses, like a harp-string wound far too tightly. When he finally releases, his climax is splendid: he pulls violently at his bonds, screaming his pleasure in his ruined voice. I drink his essence like the finest champagne, and call for the silent servants to come and collect my now-unconscious Lothario.

  Three of them come, armed with blankets and baskets. I release Nigel to them, and two of them bundle him into a blanket and carry him away. The third collects the remains of Nigel’s clothing, the better to salvage his personal possessions. They will put Nigel to bed in the room Madame has ordered prepared, and in the morning, Nigel will breakfast with her and go on his way. In a week or two, I fully expect him to return. But I will not see him again. I know this; they never come back to see me. Nigel, I presume, would visit the Cruel Schoolmistress, or perhaps the Grand Inquisitor. They will provide him with the pleasures that he seeks, without the uncertainty of having to bow down to a machine that thinks and that enjoys toying with her paramours.

  As for me, the silent servants will come in the middle of the night, clean the room and polish me until I shine. They will turn out the lights that illuminate the room, and they will leave me alone. The fourth floor will again be quiet, and I will wait, alone in the dark, until Madame again brings a gentleman to call.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  JANINE ASHBLESS is the author of five books of paranormal and fantasy erotica published by Black Lace. Her short stories have been published in numerous Cleis anthologies including Best Women’s Erotica 2009, Sweet Love and Fairy Tale Lust. She blogs about Minotaurs, Victorian art and writing dirty at janineashbless.blogspot.com.

  Award-winning author KATHLEEN BRADEAN’s stories can be found in Spank!, The Best of Best Women’s Erotica 2010, EPIC Winner Coming Together: Against the Odds and Golden Crown Winner Best Lesbian Fiction 2008. She blogs weekly for Oh Get A Grip and reviews erotica monthly at EroticaRevealed. com and Erotica-Readers.com. More at KathleenBradean. blogspot.com.

  DELILAH DEVLIN is an award-winning author with a rapidly expanding reputation for writing deliciously edgy stories with complex characters. More at DelilahDevlin.com

  KANNAN FENG lives next door to Lake Michigan. She has previously been published by Circlet Press. Feng can be found at kannanfeng.wordpress.com.

  JAY LAWRENCE is an expatriate Scot who currently makes her home near Vancouver, Canada. She is the author of various erotic novels and short stories that have appeared in publications on both sides of the Atlantic.

  RENEE MICHAELS is interested in history, the paranormal, and the quirks that make us human. This is why she writes in several genres. She is widowed, with a daughter in college and a teenaged son who keeps her hopping.

  TERESA NOELLE ROBERTS writes romance for the horny and erotica for the romantic, with a special love for paranormal tales. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies, including Sweet Love: Erotic Fantasies for Couples and The Sweetest Kiss: Ravishing Vampire Erotica. Her latest novel is Foxes’ Den.

  LISABET SARAI believes she was Victorian in a previous incarnation, given her lifelong attraction to turrets, corsets and laceup boots. She has published six erotic novels including Victorian-themed Incognito, and dozens of shorter works. “Her Own Devices” is her first attempt at steampunk. Visit her online at lisabetsarai.com.

  ELIZABETH SCHECHTER is a stay-at-home mom who lives in Central Florida, where she enjoys seeing the looks on the faces of the other playgroup moms when she answers the question “What do you do?” by describing herself as a pervy fetish writer. Elizabeth can be found online at elizabethschechter. blogspot.com.

  TRACEY SHELLITO is the author of the crime novel Personal Protection. She has also appeared in anthologies for Torquere Press. She lives in Blackpool, Lancashire, UK. When not plotting fictional murders, she works in administration. She blogs on Amazon and Live Journal. Website: traceyshellito.moonfruit.com.

  ELIAS A. ST. JAMES is a former high-school English teacher who has been writing for as long as he can remember. He lives with his partner of over fifteen years, their son and an aging cat.

  ESSEMOH TEEPEE is a fiftysomething CEO in the UK. Writing erotica since 2005, he has a steadily growing following for his sensual stories and audio work. He is the creator of the unique Directed Erotic Visualization audio technique. Writing and downloadable audios can be found at his website smotp.com.

  POE VON PAGE writes in Southern California where she lives with her family. Her most recent published erotica can be found at ForTheGirls.com. Contact her at PoeVonPage@gmail.com.

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  D. L. KING is a smut-writing and editing New Yorker who lives somewhere between the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island and the Chrysler Building. Carnal Machines is her third book with Cleis Press. She is the editor of The Sweetest Kiss: Ravishing Vampire Erotica and the Lambda Literary Award Finalist, Where the Girls Are: Urban Lesbian Erotica. She is also the editor of Spank! a Logical Lu
st anthology. D. L. King publishes and edits Erotica Revealed, the literary erotica book review site. The author of dozens of short stories, her work can be found in various editions of The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Best Women’s Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, as well as in titles such as Fast Girls; Sex in the City: New York; Please, Ma’am; Sweet Love; Girl Crazy; Broadly Bound and Frenzy, among others. She is the author of two novels of female domination and male submission, The Melinoe Project and The Art of Melinoe. Find out more at dlkingerotica.com.

  Copyright © 2011 by D. L. King.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.