Carnal Devices
Helena Harker
India dreads her occupation as a prostitute at Carnal Pleasures, a brothel in an alternate nineteenth-century London. In order to kindle India’s passion for her work, Madam Rowena introduces her to Phineas, a renowned scholar in the field of sexual psychology. With the help of Phineas, his fornication facilitators and the Kama Sutra, India attempts to reinvent herself as a sophisticated courtesan named India of Rajasthan.
Phineas is a scholar and an intellectual. In India, he finds a woman of imagination and intelligence who needs guidance to realize her full potential. Not only does he help her believe in herself, but she in turn helps him indulge in a fantasy he has kept hidden for years—the sin of male-male love.
Inside Scoop: India’s sensual journey includes brief forays into ménage, female/female, and observing male/male exploration in a world filled with wondrous steampunk sexual creations.
An Exotika® historical erotica story from Ellora’s Cave
Carnal Devices
Helena Harker
Chapter One
Lower London, 1895
As the old adage says, whenever you must endure the trials of copulation, “lie back and think of England”. Unfortunately, at this very moment, thoughts of King Augustus, inclement weather and the current political tensions with France do little to distract me from the lustful young male who has mounted me. As he thrusts his member into my cunny with increasing abandon, he utters a series of primal grunts. He looks attractive enough, I must admit. His chest is smooth and muscled and a cherub’s halo of golden curls bounces across his forehead. His eyes are closed and I try to remember their color. Blue. Or brown. Green?
Considering how my occupation fills me with distaste and shame, I try very hard not to make eye contact with the long line of men who step in and out of my bed. Looking into the eyes is like delving into the soul, and I do not wish these men to see the despondence that lives within me. In addition, I do not want to glimpse the carnal desires that dwell in their hearts. It is more than enough to see those desires reflected in their ever-erect members.
A lengthy sigh escapes me, and I hope he confuses this sign of irritation for passion. How much longer? My legs wrap tightly around his waist and the muscles in my thighs begin to complain. My breasts bounce and bob. While his endless prodding persists and my cunny shows increasing indications of impending dryness, I count the cracks in the ceiling. For every thrust, I count one crack. After reaching fifty-seven, I stop. He is a bull, this one, with stamina to spare. Drops of perspiration bead his temples, his respiration is rapid, but he shows no sign of relenting. Usually a man’s ardent pounding does not last so long. Perhaps if I feign pleasure by moaning, he will climax faster. Sometimes this technique works wonders to hasten things along.
All right, India, moan away. Convince him you are overcome by the delights of the beast with two backs. “Oohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, yes, yes, yes.” Twining my fingers in his silky hair, I arch my neck until I glimpse the velvet brocade curtains at the head of my wrought-iron bed. For good measure, I release his honey-flecked locks and scratch my nails from his shoulders to the curve of his buttocks, hard enough to leave red lines.
“Aaaaaahhh!” escapes from his throat.
Finally, success! He convulses and stiffens, concentration etched on his soft, boyish features. A few more shudders, some simian grunts and his climax ends. He collapses on top of me, spent, his heart pounding against my breast. I struggle to pull air into my lungs. How inconsiderate of him to lie on me in such a manner, as though I am nothing more than a goose-down pillow.
“Enough?” I ask. Once the word leaves my mouth, I realize it sounds more like a statement than a question. Oh well. I tolerated his rutting for an inordinately long period of time, so I should be entitled to express my true emotions.
When he pushes himself up on his palms and withdraws, sticky ejaculate trickles down my thigh. For the first time, I look directly at him with what I hope is a passable imitation of “Your cock has given me more satisfaction than any other man’s.” His eyes are a deep shade of blue, reminding me of lapis lazuli. They are also quite expressionless.
Whatever is he thinking?
Without speaking, he puts on his ruffled shirt, covering the angry red marks left by my nails. Next he dons his trousers and shrugs into a waistcoat and a gray walking jacket. Leather hunting boots complete his attire. Keeping his back to me, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a few coins and drops them on my night table.
Shillings? He is leaving me mere shillings for my efforts?
He is most dissatisfied with my performance.
Or lack of it.
“Goodbye, India,” he says tersely as he walks out.
His boots thud down the spiral staircase that leads to the main entertainment area, where girls dance on stage, play musical instruments or sing. Others sit on gentlemen’s laps, flattering and cajoling, with the ultimate goal of luring them upstairs to experience all manner of carnal enchantments.
Carnal enchantments. A myth propagated by men, no doubt.
After washing up in my private bath, I return to my bedchamber to dress for the next fornicator of the evening. Since I have earned next to nothing, I shall have to make an effort to find another man to entertain. What should I wear to entice him?
Angry voices drift up the stairwell. I recognize the rich sensuous speech patterns of Madam Rowena. The other voice, I believe, emanates from the gentleman who just bedded me. By displeasing him, I incurred her displeasure as well. Oh dear. Spiked iron heels clatter up the stairs and my skin tingles in alarm.
Without knocking, Madam Rowena opens the door of my bedchamber, entering in a great swish and rustle of ruby-embroidered skirts. An air of confrontation lingers about her slender, yet aging figure. The copper-plated bustier enhances her plump breasts and a thick layer of powder masks the lines at the corners of a severe, red-tinted mouth. Her eyes, as black and sharp as those of a hawk on the hunt, fill me with apprehension.
Startled, I seize my whalebone corset from the bed and shield my nude form, holding it in front of me for several seconds before I realize the irony of my gesture.
“Such modesty for a paramour.” She arches a carefully plucked brow.
The word brings a grimace to my face. What an attractive term for my true occupation, which requires me to sell my body in exchange for gold sovereigns. Or in this instance, shillings.
As always, I do not know how to interpret her tone. Sarcasm? Humor? Intense dislike? If anything, Madam Rowena confuses me. And frightens me. In response, I take a shaky breath, cast down the corset and stand before her completely and shamefully exposed.
Madam Rowena’s gaze scalds and steams as it travels from my raven tresses to my breasts. I am certain she is feeding off my discomfort, because she takes a step closer, and the corner of her mouth twitches, hinting at a wry smile. I see the wrinkles by her eyes, etched so deep even her powder cannot conceal them entirely.
Without warning, she cups my breasts, and I flinch at the invasiveness of her touch. Her eyes brighten. She seems pleased by the power she wields over me.
“Lush and firm.” She bites her lip, squeezing my breasts between her bejeweled fingers. “Flawless skin. A hint of olive complexion, enough for men to consider you exotic.”
As she kneads my flesh, her cold iron rings cause my nipples to pebble. I want to pull away, but I don’t dare. The contract I signed explicitly states that I owe her complete obedience until it expires. Until then, she owns me.
Well, she owns my body, but not my mind. My mind will always be my own. Madam Rowena slides her palms down my waspish waist, and then to my hips.
“Like an hourglass,” she says in admiration. “Dark, mesmer
izing eyes, large and soft as a doe’s. Full, pouting lips. Long, silky hair. You have beauty in spades.”
No woman has ever laid hands on me before. Never breaking contact, Madam Rowena circles me, now cupping my backside.
“Smooth, firm buttocks. Do men like to kiss you there?”
The question barely registers and she slaps my bottom in annoyance.
“Yes, Madam,” I answer quickly, vexed by the sting of her hand, “they do.” Much to my dismay, they are also fond of pinching and biting.
Madam Rowena completes the circle, standing before me again, and her fingers twine themselves in the thick hair of my sex. My heart thunders. So forbidden. Never have I expressed any sexual interest in a woman and I do not fantasize about Madam Rowena in this way. Yet her confident demeanor kindles a spark in my mound.
“How does this feel?” She parts my nether lips and thrums my nubbin, as if it is a string on a harp and she a virtuoso.
My thoughts scatter, and then hone in on the intensity of the sensation. My hips rock forward in response to her touch.
“How does it feel?” She gives my pearl a final, delightful rub before pulling away.
Taken aback, I am not certain how to reply. “Pleasant. Yet forbidden. As though I should not enjoy it. But I do.” Do these strings of haphazard phrases make sense to her?
If only she did not intimidate me so. In her iron-heeled boots, she towers over me, and her auburn hair, piled into an elaborate coiffure, adds several inches to her height. Her hand reaches for the cleft of my sex. Unflinching, I anticipate the tingles of pleasure that will come. To be stimulated in this manner by a woman, and to enjoy it, is astonishing to me. Two fingers dip into my slit. I discover I am not yet wet enough and I grimace.
“In order to please your clients,” she says, “that is a look that must not cross your beautiful face.”
“Yes, Madam.”
“Now wet these fingers.”
Madam rests her fingertips on my lips. Oh Lord, the significance of her gesture sinks in, and I open my mouth in reluctant compliance, coating them with copious amounts of saliva. The probing begins again and this time the entrance is easy. A crescendo of bliss builds inside me and I catch a moan before it escapes my throat. Traitorous sound! To enjoy a woman’s touch…am I a Sapphist? The idea shocks me.
“You enjoy it when I stimulate you.” Madam Rowena’s skillful fingers pull out of me.
“Like a symphony of sensation.”
“I see,” she says gravely. “Have you pleasured women before?”
“No.” It’s the truth.
“Do you wish to? If you prefer the company of women over men, I can give you a room in the Sapphist wing.”
As if being a prostitute isn’t shameful enough, she is giving me the opportunity to be a prostitute who caters to women? I would rather drown myself in the Thames. “Although men give me no pleasure, I do not wish to bed down with members of my own sex.”
“Do men not tantalize and tempt you, India? Do you not enjoy lying with them?”
“No.”
Madam Rowena shakes her head. “You lack enthusiasm for your position.”
“Indeed, I lack enthusiasm for all my positions.” Supine. Prone. Kneeling. Each and every one.
“Why?”
“Providing gentlemen with carnal pleasures offers me nothing in return.” I dread her response to my honesty. “Except shame. Night after night, I experience what it is to be used and discarded.”
Her black eyes pierce my soul. “Most of my girls feel desirable. They fill a need in men’s lives. Perhaps this is not their chosen path, yet they are satisfied.”
“Hmmph.” The sound comes out of its own volition, brusque and dismissive. “There is more to life than satisfaction. What about fulfillment? We are reduced to merchandise in men’s eyes. We are nothing more than a source of physical pleasure. Every night, I must succumb to a man’s lust. This type of employment does not nourish my intellect and it stifles my imagination.” Tremors overtake me. I await Madam Rowena’s tongue-lashing with mounting anxiety. At the same time, expressing my feelings frees me from the tethers that bind me to this place, and I am light as air, as though aboard an airship floating across the sky.
Madam Rowena’s pink tongue flicks at her crimson lips. “This is precisely the type of occupation that requires imagination, sensuality and yes, even intellect.”
Before I can prevent it, a scoffing noise exits my mouth. “Since when does lying on one’s back require intellect?”
“Impudence will not be tolerated, India.”
Her anger blisters and I almost expect smoke to pour from her nostrils. My eyes do not waver from hers. “What about honesty?”
“I welcome honesty, but not when it is wrapped in the veneer of disrespect.”
“Understood.”
“For the past two weeks, I have observed your progress at my establishment, and it is safe to say you have made none. Since your previous employment consisted of peddling your body at Silverton Square, I assumed you would adapt to Carnal Pleasures without any difficulty.”
“Apparently not.” I cross my arms and Madam Rowena’s gaze lingers over my cleavage. I tilt my head, sending a cascade of black hair over my breasts.
“Mr. Tandenberry, who recently made your acquaintance, deems you a disappointment.” Her gaze returns to my face. “I view you as potential.”
Truly? Even after what I said?
“When I saw you the first time, you had an aura about you. You were defiant. You were witty. Men sought you out.”
“Because of my dark complexion, they thought me a Gypsy girl, a wild thing who would gladly perform any type of sexual perversion.” I experience not a whit of nostalgia over Silverton Square. “I desire more in life.”
“It is always good to desire more. If I had not desired more, I might still be on the street myself.”
Madam Rowena used to earn her living on the street? Unthinkable. She exudes power, class and sophistication. I cannot picture her being groped and fucked by sailors, soldiers and common laborers from textile mills. Despite her age, men still find her desirable. She no longer takes men into her bed, however. As far as I know, only one man makes regular visits to Madam Rowena’s chamber, a tall elegant gentleman by the name of Phineas Felter. What type of acts does he pay her to perform and how many gold sovereigns grace her night table after he is done? I cannot imagine her mouthing a man’s vile bits any more than I can imagine her rutting in an alley with her skirts hiked to her waist.
“Do you wish to be released from your contract?”
Yes, oh yes. The phrase hovers on my lips. “No.” Even if she releases me, whatever will I do? A woman such as myself, who has known no other employment, will be branded unfit for any respectable position. There was a time, however, when I dreamed of a nobler future than this, and it was well within my grasp…until the death of my sponsor.
“What do you feel when a man touches you?”
“Disgust. Boredom. Humiliation.” Occasionally I find a man who provides me with some modicum of physical stimulation, but it is quite rare. “Most of all, I feel…powerless.”
“Powerless?” she sputters incredulously. “What a grave error in perception. You are a woman. You have all the power.” Her hand curls into a fist.
“How can a woman wield authority when she must submit to a man?” Women have no control over their lives. It is the way in England. Men rule. Women follow. Wives are property. An unmarried woman’s only purpose is to become a wife. Of course, I disapprove of such folly, but I cannot fight against the beliefs ingrained in an entire society. I am powerless.
Or am I? Once, on Silverton Square, a working girl stationed on the corner next to mine was beaten senseless by one of her clients. His identity was no secret, and we girls looked out for one another because bruisers like him are not uncommon in the alleyways of Lower London. I suggested we pool some of our profits and pay for revenge. We hired two strapping young dock workers
and instructed them to beat the offender to within an inch of his life. They did, and I must say the knowledge that I orchestrated the entire event filled me with a sense of accomplishment and yes, even a sudden rush of power.
“Do you wish to know one of my secrets?” Madam Rowena whispers.
Curiosity awakens. “Please.”
“When I was younger and all manner of men entered my bedchamber, they were at my mercy. They did what I allowed them to do. I made sure they provided me with as much pleasure as I provided them. Sometimes more,” she says in a seductive tone. “And they paid me dearly for my company.”
“But you are….” I search for an appropriate term, as I am in awe of her accomplishments. “You are Madam Rowena, the proprietress of this establishment.” She is somewhat of a legend in the shady underground world of brothels. Most of these enterprises are owned by men, yet, according to what I have gleaned from the other girls, Madam Rowena owns one hundred percent of Carnal Pleasures.
“I used to be much like you, lost and disgruntled, until I found a mentor who taught me the fundamental principles I adhere to even today. He gave me a booklet titled Myriad Methods to Manipulate Men. It changed my life.”
“Is this document still available?” I ask eagerly.
She laughs and the merry sound echoes in my small chamber. Her broad smile exposes a row of perfectly shaped teeth. The severity vanishes from her face and her angular features soften. The change is striking. I see what men find attractive in her, a sense of nonchalance, confidence, combined with sexuality that oozes from her pores. If there is a good time to be had, it can be had in the arms of Rowena.
“Sexual gratification is all in the mind.” She rests her fingers against my temple. “You must learn to understand how the mind connects to the cock. And most importantly, how the mind connects to this.” With her other hand, she flicks my nubbin and I stifle a gasp.
It takes me a moment to catch my breath. “To me, the sexual act is all about filthy, dirty, depraved bodily functions.”
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