The Inventor

by Morgan Karpiel

  Leda sat and waited for them to complete their routines, her gaze drawn to the oval mirror of her wedding poudreuse. It was no longer an energetic young bride who stared back at her. This woman was a seasoned courtier, neither young nor old, reflecting some twilight period where less and less was expected from the future, yet all judgments regarding the past remained. It was a harsher age, surely, where disappointments became soft lines and wasted years spun the first strands of gray. In biological terms, she hadn’t passed her prime, but it made little difference. The glow of youth, the glow that shone so brightly from nineteen year-old actresses, had certainly ebbed from the face of the bride she had been, leaving her eyes colder, her cheekbones sharper.

  Yet, there was a subtle difference tonight, a warm flush of health under the skin, the kiss of roses on her cheeks and a fiery brilliance in her eyes. It was perhaps a transformation in wisdom only, in the knowledge of what true pleasure felt like, what incredible power there was in it. Her body still hummed, soft and eager for more.

  No, she was not cold, not incapable. She was no porcelain figurine, and the awareness of this was freeing. They could all say what they liked, but she had found what they claimed she could not, and done what they thought she would not. And she was not finished, not by far.

  As they continued to label her a useless statue, she would explore her forbidden pleasures and would know, as all eyes were set upon her, that she lived in secret. Not a statue, not a cold or lifeless thing, but a woman who had dared to experience ecstasies they could not even dream of.

  And, most importantly, she would accomplish this on her own terms, without being forced to beg for the cooperation of a male counterpart, a lover that would soon enough betray and insult her in the same way the Earl had. She didn’t need the judgment of such liars and base aristocrats, their minds perpetually on new conquests. She refused to be a target for lazy men of title, or mercenary fortune hunters in the guise of merchants or politicians. She would no longer be a willing participant in her own deception, a fool for men to deceive and laugh at once again.

  The machine would grant her freedom, the power to live without a husband, lover or master. She would have control over it, over herself and over the freedom it gave her. No more lies. No more insults. No more risks.

  Leda’s maids drifted away without a sound, closing the heavy bedroom doors behind them. The silence returned, thick and knowing.

  She stood and walked to the tall windows overlooking the gardens. Rain mixed with moonlight, casting a surreal glitter across manicured lawns, their fountains and flowering trees lush and wet.

  A smile crept across her lips, the memory of that blinding sensation warming her. She still felt the pulse of it between her legs, the pure sensation it invoked and the liquid contentment it left behind. Closing her eyes, she envisioned herself sitting with her knees resting on the velvet cushions, her body straining against the brightness.

  In this dream, however, she was not entirely alone. She could feel the Inventor’s blue gaze on her as she writhed and sought, felt his strong hands slide over and firmly direct her hips, increasing the pleasure a hundred times. His voice whispered from memory and she shivered. Relax.

  She opened her eyes and frowned, struggling with this unwelcome arousal. Too dangerous, to think of him like that. Too complicated. She’d been insane to entertain it. Perhaps he honored only one woman at a time, but he had married none. He was just as wild as any man, if not wilder, having freely admitted that the restrictions of society held no sway over him. She wanted no one like that close to her, no one at all close to her. She wanted her freedom. It was his creation that would set her free, his work that move her so. Not the man, just his work…

  She blinked, drawn to the odd cast of light along the hedges. In the thin glow of the moon, it seemed that shadows were exchanging places, slipping from one dark pool to the next, angling to gain a better view.

  The Experiment Goes Too Far

  Ian crouched under the welding jig, searching for the troublesome bolt that had come loose and rolled under a nearby table. He lowered himself to one knee and probed the shadows with his fingertips, skimming over dusty screws and lost gears, pieces of other projects which had inexplicably disappeared, only to be located now, years after they were no longer needed.

  His fingers found the bolt and he hissed with satisfaction, only to rise and discover that he was not alone. Fenton stood under the cool light of the electric lamps, his suit pitch black with a matching bowler, umbrella and coat. His expression was dour, his black eyes small.

  “Perhaps you misunderstood our arrangement,” he said.

  “We have no arrangement.”

  “She hasn’t been here for days.”

  Ian scowled, returning to the jig.

  “She’s just endlessly pacing the halls in that palace of hers, pining for her boots to get polished. And what are you doing?”

  “Making some adjustments.”

  “Oh, spectacular. I’m glad to know that a key investigation regarding a vital matter of state security is being delayed so that two socially handicapped recluses can finally manage to find their nether regions with the lights on.”

  “I told you it wasn’t like that.”

  “What’s it like then? Please tell me. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

  “Don’t—”

  “You start with the skirt, tricky though it is. It comes up and there’s many interesting things underneath, plenty to look at.”

  “Keep it up, y’idiot. You’ll be going home with a welded metal collar to prove how smart y’are.”

  Fenton blanched.

  “You want her out of her big house, with all of its gates an’towers.” Ian sat down in front of the jig. “So do I.”

  “I’m glad to hear we have the same goal.”

  “Not the same goal, just the same idea of how something important might be accomplished. I dunna know what you’re after and I’ve no control over you, nor do I wish to help you. The Countess is a different matter.”

  “Yes, her boots seem to be putting you to a great deal of trouble.”

  Ian focused on working the bolt through a hole in the jig plate.

  “Perhaps you’re merely unaccustomed to working with such delicate material. When is the next attempt?”

  “I’ll call for her tomorrow.”

  “Not tonight?”

  “No.”

  Fenton made a frustrated noise. “Tomorrow then. She hasn’t mentioned anything, has she?”

  “About what?”

  “Being followed, you know, by suspicious looking types.”

  “You mean men in black suits and bowlers?”

  Fenton hesitated. “A greater concern would be foreigners.”

  “What?”

  “Swarthy looking chaps.”

  Ian stopped his work, glaring back at the man in disbelief. “What foreigners? What are you talking about?”

  “No, then. She’s seen nothing.”

  “Fenton—”

  “That’ll do, Ian. No need to agitate the giant synapses. They aren’t really after her anyway. It’s the Earl we’re all trying to find.”

  “Why?”

  Fenton clicked through his teeth. “That’s the wrong question, for a man who doesn’t want to be involved, isn’t it?”

  “You expect me not to be concerned about her now?”

  “I expect you to get on with what you’re doing. And if she mentions something, be sure to pass it on right away, for the good of everyone.”

  Leda waited at the side entrance, the night air damp and chilled and growing more so. Her footman raised his lantern and grimaced at the heavy smell of rain on the wind. A storm was building, rushing and swaying in the trees, great shadowy branches dancing against the dark sky. Flower petals swirled loose from their blooms, landing on the stone steps beneath her.

  The shop door screeched open and Mr. Anderson appeared from the thick glow, nodding once to her footman before taking her g
loved hand and leading her inside. He had changed yet again, she realized. This was obviously a different Mr. Anderson than the one she had last seen.

  Gone was the careful separation he seemed to need from her, the distance he had taken such care to put between them at the start of their last meeting. He led her with familiarity, at ease with the weight of her hand as he drew her through the workshop.

  “Did you do as I instructed in the letter?” he asked.

  “I’m wearing a chemise with one underskirt beneath my dress, no corset, hoops, bustles or garters.”

  “Good.”

  “It does sound rather curious.”

  “Does it?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I couldna put this thing in the shop, for obvious reasons.”

  “But—”

  “There’s another chamber through here.”

  Leda winced, catching sight of rust-stained door ahead. “I should hope this isn’t some drafty cell.”

  He shook his head, looking back at her as he reached for the door handle and yanked it back on its hinges. He smiled, a playful challenge glinting from the deep blue of his eyes. “You’ll have no trouble keepin’ warm, I promise ya that.”

  Leda looked past him. Hot steam misted through the open doorway, reaching for her with vaporous tendrils. Pressing her lips together, she stepped carefully under the dark threshold.

  The rush of water through pipes was louder here, blending with the solid hiss of steam and fire, the soft clicking and whirring of mechanisms unseen. A lantern had been lit against the wall, its light haloed in the moist air. Copper boilers and ovens stood pressed against the wall, dozens of vents and pipes flowing with the ponderous circulation of air and liquid.

  It was a boiler room.

  She drew a thick breath, the air sweltering.

  Mr. Anderson closed the door behind them and gestured at one of the room’s shadowed corners. “There.”

  Leda cut her gaze in the direction he indicated, focusing on a thick curtain of jet beads that hung from a brass rod attached to the ceiling. Wetting her lips, she walked toward it and extended her hand, feeling cool water dripping along the tiny stones as she touched them.

  The curtain glistened, clicking and swaying as she parted it, her attention focused on the machine it shielded from view.

  A new creation appeared in the faint glow of the lantern. It used the same ornate, claw-foot throne with padded knee rests, but it changed dramatically from there. The carved posts were gone. The golden dome and its tiny hammers had been removed.

  From the seat of the throne, a thick phallus jutted upward at an angle, covered in a skin of tiny, luminous pearls. It looked like a royal treasure, its bulbous head and round length gently textured by smooth, iridescent gems. A brass arm secured it to a piston and an engine, with a series of wheels and belts underneath. Three levers had been connected to one side of the seat.

  “I—” She lost her breath, staring at the waiting phallus.

  “You can strip to your chemise and skirt anytime.”

  She looked back to see him unbuttoning his shirt.

  “You?”

  “It’s hot as hell.”

  “But—You’re not staying.”

  “Takes another person to operate the machine.”

  She stared at him in disbelief.

  He shrugged off his shirt and hung it over a nearby pipe, letting it drape there like a white flag of surrender. Leda sucked in a tense breath, her eyes drawn to the sudden wealth of naked skin and muscle. He was well proportioned, with large boxy shoulders, strong arms and a narrowed, defined waist. He moved past her to adjust the machine, his hands deftly checking the belts, thick fingers and scuffed knuckles working with care, the silver bracelet around his wrist shining.

  She shook her head. Sweat prickled at her neck. The steam was thick, difficult to breath. “This is not what I expected.”

  “It’s what you asked for.”

  “Yes, I know, but your participation—”

  “I’m not participating. I’m operating the machine.”

  “You’ll be watching.”

  “You’ll be dressed.”

  “In a chemise and skirt so thin they hide nothing.”

  “I’ve seen you in less. Parts of you, anyway.”

  “You—I still cannot do this.”

  He stood, the broad expanse of his chest glistening with sweat and crisp blonde hair. “Of course you can.”

  “But you—”

  “Relax.” He drew the word out, as if he knew exactly what effect it would have. She met his gaze, a shiver of pure sensuality threading up her spine. The memory of his hands, his breath in her ear, was vivid. She was burning now, her heart beating fast and wild in her chest.

  “If you dunna remove your cloak, you’re sure to faint.”

  She pressed her lips together. He was right. She already felt dizzy with the heat, her chemise damp under the weight of her dress.

  He granted her a knowing smile. “Come now, Countess. What good is this small piece of freedom you’ve purchased if you’re too afraid to use it?”

  Now that was a point. She’d thought herself so bold for arranging this, so exotic and daring, equal in scandal to any young actress stealing husbands in a playhouse, and yet here she stood, hesitating at the sight of what she’d created and the man she’d hired to do the job.

  The actress would probably have already done the deed with both the machine and the man, and been on her way to the awe and respect of every gossiping tongue in the capital. But Leda was different, because she was supposed to be a woman of breeding, because she was rich and cold and would never be able to do something as brazen and despicable as this. She was completely incapable of such a thing.

  Reaching up to her collar, Leda unbuttoned her cloak. Its weight slid from her shoulders, falling to the floor in a dark heap. Then the dress, its buttons and ties already loose, its emerald silk rustling softly as she tugged the sleeves down.

  Mr. Anderson watched, his eyes acquiring a different shade altogether, a deeper and darker blue, a color edged with intent.

  It should have been offensive, but she didn’t find it so. She was here to be someone else, after all. She was here to be the Leda that was sensual, the Leda that was not made of stone or glass, but of flesh, the Leda that wanted to be beautiful and desired.

  The dress fell to the floor. She stood in her chemise and underskirt, the thin white linen pressed wetly against her skin, her body shining in the steam. She felt the thick air coil around her, its heat wringing the tension from every breath, filling her with a strange, liquid ease.

  She focused on the table, on the phallus with its heavy skin of pearls. It was something precious, something that promised even greater sensation than she’d felt the last time. The thought of that was enough to turn her mouth dry, force her breathing to come up short.

  Approaching the table, she accepted Mr. Anderson’s hand as he helped her climb onto the cushions. Their placement spread her legs apart, forcing her to lean forward and arch her back to maintain her balance. It felt wanton and animalistic to be poised like this, awaiting whatever pleasure or pain might be wrought.

  “It has two modes,” he said, a steady voice at her shoulder as she balanced her weight above it. “To test the first, you should simply remain where you are and be still.”

  Leda didn’t answer. She couldn’t, her stomach clenched tight, her breathing quick and heady with steam. Tears of sweat slid from her temple, from her neck, streaking like wet fingertips into the valley between her breasts. She could feel the skirt bunched tight at her waist, its drape veiling the tender pink skin of her quim beneath it. The blood had rushed there in anticipation, leaving the passage tingling.

  “Now.” His voice was silken. The sound of steam hissed from one of the pipes beneath her. The phallus began to hum, its tremor building to a strong vibration. She felt it graze her skin, spreading euphoria with a kiss.

  “Lightly.”
His hands were on her, just as before, directing her to slide her hips forward, rub the swollen lips of her quim along the pearls. They kneaded her with smooth curves, cajoling and teasing, massaging deeply with their powerful and relentless thrum.

  She allowed her head to tilt back on her shoulders, her eyes half-closed as her body melted into the experience. Her hips thrust at the insistence of his hands, then acquired a searching rhythm of their own, the pearls now slick with her excited sap.

  He moved from her side, coming to stand before her, his hands on her shoulders. “Take it now, Countess.”

  She didn’t have to ask what he meant. She knew. Her body yearned for it, was desperate for it. Grasping onto his arm for balance, she rose up and slid the phallus deep inside herself. It pushed in easily, a comfortable stretch, full, thick and humming with strength. It felt electric, too beautiful for words, her body straining tight in the grip of its brightness.

  Mr. Anderson kept her balance in check, his closeness intoxicating, the smell of cedar and soap warm on his skin. She heard him draw an uneven breath. “Now the last part.”

  Angling forward, he switched the second lever on the machine.

  The phallus surged upward, penetrating deep. Leda released a ragged cry, grabbing for the Inventor and digging her nails into the strong muscle of his arms. He murmured something dark and coaxing.

  The phallus slid back and thrust again, the slick rub of pearls exquisite, the vibration merciless. Leda lost herself in a haze of need, riding against its rhythm as it filled her, stretched her and sexed her, drawing out the pleasure and promising more. She relaxed into it, her legs spreading wider, the heavy thrusts sliding deeper. The summit beckoned within reach, her body bound so tight it could not last for a second longer.

  Mr. Anderson tensed under her hands, a slip of tortured breath escaping through his teeth.

  She screamed out in climax, rolling forward with the ecstasy of release. The Inventor threw both the levers back, keeping a strong arm around her as he did so. She clung onto him weakly, her body warm and euphoric, her breathing ragged.