“And with the aid of my carnal devices.”
Carnal devices? I turn to face Phineas. He cocks his head at the leather case on my bed. The side is clearly emblazoned with the words Phineas Felter’s Fornication Facilitators.
“In addition to being a scholar, I am a tinkerer. My facilitators—also known as carnal devices—are designed to help women indulge in the art of self-pleasure, but they can also be used by couples.”
My curiosity piques.
“Furthermore, I have invented a similar device for men. I dispute the common belief that men must control nocturnal emissions, that self-pleasuring leads to all sorts of maladies, such as lethargy and dementia. My research proves that regular sexual interactions—even solitary ones—contribute to health and well-being. Men require release. It is a necessity, not a vice.”
The avalanche of information is simply too much. “Beg your pardon?” In all honesty, I self-pleasure several times a week, since men never bring me anywhere near climax, but I have never heard of instruments that can help a woman attain orgasm any better than her own hand. What on earth does such a device look like?”
Phineas walks to the bed and beckons me to follow. He opens the case and pulls out a behemoth of a device, a long, shiny cylindrical object, much like a man’s erect member, only with a handle adorned with many, many brass knobs and switches. Branching out from the base of the cylinder is a two-pronged protrusion, undoubtedly shaped to fit on either side of a woman’s nubbin.
“It is…” Truly terrifying. How can this monstrosity be used to produce pleasure? “Am I to insert this horror into my cunny?”
“Most certainly. And please refrain from calling it a horror. This is my most popular model. Ladies in high society are quite fond of it. It teaches them the meaning of ecstasy.”
“It is rather…intimidating.”
Phineas’ laughter sweeps over me. “Madam Rowena helped me develop this particular version, so I guarantee that it has been tested and tested and tested again until she was fully sated.”
“Is this why you visited her bedchamber? You paid her to help create this device?” The long cylinder gleams and glistens under the light of my gas lamp.
He grins, appearing suddenly playful and boyish. “Not at all. Rowena pays me to pleasure her. That is our arrangement. It is a mutually satisfying agreement, one that has lasted many years, and I hope it will last many more. She obtains sexual gratification and I obtain valuable research material for my essays and my tinkering.”
“She pays you?” I gasp in disbelief. “How is it possible for an educated man such as yourself to sell his services as a…male whore?”
“Being a male whore, as you say, can be most enjoyable. And lucrative. You must begin to enjoy your profession as well, India of Rajasthan.”
This must be why I signed the confidentiality clause, to protect his reputation. A man paid to service a woman? What an unusual concept. “Other than Madam Rowena, does anyone else give you money in exchange for your sexual expertise?”
“Lonely wives whose husbands serve in the military and are absent for lengthy periods, widows who long for a man’s touch, women who wish to improve their skills in bed in order to prevent their husbands from wandering into establishments such as Carnal Pleasures. I have also paid for sex in order to conduct research for my journal articles. To examine all aspects of sexuality, I have interviewed and bedded countless women over the course of my career. Does this answer your question?”
“It does.” When I look at him, I see him in a completely different light. Yes, I admire him for his intellectual ability, but he is a far more complex man than I first imagined. He values the mind as well as the lustful predilections of the body. It also makes me wonder what kind of fodder I might provide for his future research.
“In the guise of India of Rajasthan, I want you to meet these men you speak of. Choose a location where you can meet these powerful, wealthy men—”
“The Steam Society,” I answer immediately. It maddens me that men have access to private clubs while women must settle for sitting in the open in tea houses. “Upper London’s intelligentsia gathers there to relax, smoke fine cigars and discuss the latest happenings in politics and commerce. They also have members who specialize in the fields of engineering and medicine.” The lieutenant commander belongs to this elite society.
“You set the bar very high, India. I admire your lofty ambition.”
It is one thing to consider going there, but quite another to arrive unannounced. “The Steam Society is a private men’s club. How will I gain access?” I glance at Phineas and bite my lower lip. “I can only assume that you are a member. After all, your abilities as a tinkerer, particularly in the domain of sexology, should be enough for them to invite you to be part of their inner circle.”
“You are quite perspicacious, my sweet. I am indeed a member of the Steam Society. However, no woman has ever been allowed on the premises.”
“With your help, India of Rajasthan will attempt to be the first,” I say.
“Very well.” He smiles and touches my cheek. “Tomorrow evening, you will dress in a manner suited for your new identity and we will go to the Steam Society together.”
“Thank you, Phineas. I look forward to stepping beyond the boundaries of Carnal Pleasures.” It will be refreshing to leave the premises. I seldom do, although I am free to go wherever I please during daylight hours.
“It is best if you first gather information about the men you may meet there in order to pinpoint their desires and weaknesses. Rowena gives you cards for your clients, does she not?”
“The infamous cards.” I roll my eyes at the ceiling in irritation.
“You read the cards, do you not?” His formerly pleasant voice turns to the consistency of gravel crunching under the wheels of a hansom cab. “They offer invaluable information about your clients.”
My downcast expression says it all. Madam Rowena writes details about our clients, and we ladies of the evening are supposed to read them, learn from them and use them to enhance the client’s experience. I remember a few odd bits. Favors fellatio. Has a domineering wife and therefore prefers a compliant lady. Fantasizes about strong Amazons. Is a constable at Scotland Yard and enjoys being manacled to the bed. Wishes to be scolded by a sharp-tongued headmistress.
“If you do not change your ways,” Phineas says in the same gravelly tone, “Madam Rowena will return you to your place of origin.”
“I know,” I say petulantly. “From now on, I will pay attention to the cards.”
He proffers the fornication facilitator as though expecting me to take it. “Do you enjoy the sexual act?”
“It is awkward and burdensome.”
“Every time?” His eyebrows arch and his voice rises.
“Almost.”
A sigh of discouragement heaves from his lungs.
“However,” I continue, “some of the descriptions in the Kama Sutra set my blood aflame. For instance, during role reversal, when the woman sits on the man and stimulates him by rising up and down, much like a lady on a trotting horse. I find the idea most interesting.”
“The Kama Sutra? There is hope for you, then,” he says in approval. “Tell me about the times you experienced physical pleasure.”
“When the man let me do what I wished. When the power to pleasure rested in my hands. It is important to have some measure of control. Power, if you will.”
“You already have much power, although you seem blind to it. Men seek something that only you can give. They are willing to pay handsomely for what you offer. That is power.”
He thrusts the facilitator into my unwilling palms. “Let us begin by changing your perception of the sexual act.”
The carnal device is heavy, unwieldy. The cylinder must be a full nine inches and its girth is considerable. It resembles metal, but it has a softer consistency and I cannot identify the material.
“It is made from the latest metal alloy, coated with ph
enol-formaldehyde resin, and it yields beneath your touch. Hold the shaft.” His eyes sparkle and he seems quite amused by my discomposure.
Overcome by a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, I reluctantly hold the contraption while Phineas presses a few knobs, and the entire nine inches whirs and turns beneath my grip. Dear Lord, what a fascinating sensation under my palms, as if a series of beads is hidden inside the cylinder and they are massaging my flesh. How enjoyable. What would this feel like if it were inside me?
Phineas flips a switch and the beads rotate in an entirely different direction. They are positioned throughout the entire member, and the sensation is most pleasing. A man’s penis cannot duplicate these motions. Perhaps the facilitator will provide me with sufficient stimulation to attain a more intense climax. The longer I hold the shaft, the more certain I am that the temperature is changing. Yes, it is indeed growing warmer. What a brilliant substitute for a man! “And what of the, uh, protrusion?”
“The clitoral stimulator?” he says unabashedly. “It was constructed to Rowena’s exacting specifications and will have you shouting my name in gratitude.”
I picture myself lying on my back, too enraptured to count the cracks in the ceiling, screaming, “Phineas! Phineas!”
He simultaneously depresses a knob and a switch, and the stimulator vibrates and rotates at the same time. A soft, humming noise emanates from the contraption. I place my index finger between the prongs. The tips are flexible, fashioned from a different material, and I can imagine them molding themselves to my pearl. The sensation is heavenly, even against my finger.
“Do you wish to try it?”
“Absolutely.” The facilitator is appealing and no longer frightens me.
“First, I must prepare you.” Phineas sweeps me into his arms, crushing my breasts against his chest. “It is a myth that the modern male has no interest in foreplay. It is essential. Only an uncivilized brute would enter a woman without prelude.”
He takes the facilitator from me and drops it on the bed. He tips my chin and kisses me, a long burning kiss. I reciprocate, melting into him, experiencing greater need than I ever have. I truly desire this man. He understands me. He wants me to expand my horizons and be happy for the first time since leaving Pennyworth’s. When our lips part, I am panting heavily and my bustier restricts my breathing. I must remove it.
“Unclasp me.” I spin around, hold up my hair and wait for him to free me from my corset-tight apparel.
With dexterous fingers, he unhooks the eyelets and throws the copper-ornamented undergarment on the bed next to the still-humming facilitator. I inhale a deep breath. It felt so good to be in his arms. No feeling of degradation, of being used. He wants to pleasure me. Therefore, I wish to pleasure him in return.
I turn around, my breasts exposed, and let my hair cascade over my shoulders. He cups my twin mounds and leans forward until his expert mouth makes contact with my nipples. They awaken, forming erect points that I tease and rub against his lips.
Phineas pauses and stares into my eyes. “Since you are India of Rajasthan, do you wish to share a page from the Kama Sutra with me?”
I gaze at him with the confident demeanor of a woman who has been trained in the art of carnal enchantments. Taking a long breath to consider my next actions, I push my shoulders back, which further enhances my breasts. What pleasures should I share? I twine my arms around his neck. “When I cling to you in a loving embrace, press my hand against the back of your head, and tilt my head to meet your lips, this is called Jataveshtitaka, or the twining of the creeper.” Gently, I kiss him, my fingers running through his hair, our lips exploring, our tongues tasting. When the kiss comes to an end, I want more. I hold him tightly, uttering soft needful moans in his ear. “Let us engage in congress, and I will teach you the meaning of bliss.”
“Please, India.” Phineas’ voice trembles with suppressed need. “Please do so.”
Beneath his trousers, I sense the impatient twitch of his member against my thigh. I push his jacket off his shoulders and toss it on the bed beside the whirring facilitator. The unexpected feel of hard muscle beneath his shirt delights me. I unbutton it, sliding my fingers inside, tracing the line of dark hair all the way to his navel.
And what treasures lie beneath? His member, fully erect, pushes most insistently against my thigh. Remembering Phineas’ comment about the importance of foreplay, I resist the urge to pull the throbbing member out of his trousers, push him down on the bed, and mount him like a woman on horseback.
“Since you value foreplay, I will take my time,” I tease.
“Very well.”
“This is how India of Rajasthan treats her partners,” I explain. “She educates them in the art of lovemaking. She controls the pace. She decides which acts are permissible and which are not.”
“Well spoken. Continue to shape your persona, India. Use your new identity as a tool to discover who you truly are.”
To discover who I truly am. Before this, I thought of India of Rajasthan as a disguise, a mantle to drape over my usual self. But no, she is a means of setting free the woman trapped inside me, the dreamer and the thinker, the woman who hungers for more than simple physical stimulation.
Phineas’ breathing becomes quick and shallow. He desires me. Me, India of Rajasthan.
Eager, I whip off his shirt, sending it fluttering to the bed. Ahhh, his pale skin, taut with muscle and sinew. Not the primitive brawn of a pugilist, but the aesthetically pleasing definition that an artist seeks in a model. A man whose body is as attractive as his mind.
He is intoxicating, riveting, and I trail my fingers down his arms, aware of every muscle, every hair, every mole on his tantalizing flesh. My nubbin awakens, moisture gathers in my warm folds, and my cunny longs to be filled.
Slowly, while walking forward and forcing Phineas to walk back until both his legs rest against the side of my bed, I pluck at the buttons on his trousers. When the last one is undone, I push his trousers down about his knees. I pull the string on his gray silk drawers and lower them as well.
Jutting from a nest of curly hair, his member is proudly erect, nourished by thick, blue veins. I tease the head of his cock with my thumb. A smile spreads over my face as I realize that the fornication facilitator has been modeled on his very own length and girth.
“A marvelous appendage, capable of sustained activity, I presume?” I swirl my thumb against its head and then use both hands to cup his bollocks.
“Hours upon hours,” Phineas says, flicking my nipples.
I stroke the full length of his cock, squeezing and releasing over and over again until his eyes roll back in his head and veins throb in his neck. Playfully I press both palms against his chest and push quite hard until he loses his balance and falls on the mattress. Still on my feet, I wedge myself between his thighs.
“Your clothing,” I say.
Phineas sits up and I remove his shoes, socks, trousers and drawers. Holding my hips, he pulls me close, nuzzling the coarse hair over my mound, inhaling my musk. Phineas lowers my skirt, undoes my garters, and removes my black undergarments. After I step out of my underclothes, he fastens the garters once more.
I stand before him in garters, sheer stockings and ankle boots. Gone is the sensation of vulnerability, of nakedness, that I usually feel in the presence of a client. A calm confidence takes possession of me. I am ready to give myself to this man, since he is ready to give himself to me.
Phineas takes hold of the facilitator. “May I?” he asks. “I wish to pleasure you with my carnal device.”
“Oh yes.” I lick my lips, imagining the beads swirling in my cunny, and spread my feet apart.
He presses the tip of the facilitator into me and it slides into my narrow passage, which is wet and slick and ready. I spread my legs farther. However, the facilitator’s size is considerable. Whenever there is resistance, Phineas pulls the device downward and then pushes upward again until it is slick with my honey. Can I accommodate the cy
linder’s full length?
Apparently so. It enters me fully and the muscles in my thighs clench. The facilitator fills me, stretches me, and the skin at the entrance to my cunny sings with delight.
“Tell me what pleases you most,” he says.
Phineas plays with the knobs and the beads suddenly swirl inside me, providing me with a delectable erotic massage. Never have I been stimulated in this manner before. With a flick of his finger, Phineas makes the beads spin in a different motion, in quick circular strokes, pressing against the walls of my cunny, making my nerve endings tingle in response. I gasp and moan.
“What about this?”
Another flick of his knowledgeable finger and the beads seem to align themselves, spinning in rows in strong, even movements that threaten to drive me mad. Each bead seems to generate heat, and warmth seeps into me, lighting up my very core. Every time the beads sweep the flesh at the nexus of my cunny and nether lips, a cry breaks from my throat.
“That’s it,” I whisper, my throat so dry I can barely speak. “Wonderful. Continue. Continue. Continue.”
When I begin to believe there is no sensation in existence more powerful or more gratifying, Phineas activates the clitoral stimulator. The moment the twin prongs make contact with my pearl, my body becomes rigid. The stimulator whirrs and hums. Phineas plays with the switches and the speed of the stimulator varies, becoming a steady pulse, followed by a rapid hummingbird rhythm.
“Which do you prefer? Tell me.”
My mouth opens. No sound comes out. “The-the-steady, pulsing rhythm. The first one.”
“Like this?”
Bursts of sensation shoot through my body, making me so dizzy I don’t know how much longer I can remain standing. I place both hands on Phineas’ shoulders to steady myself. Through half-open eyes, I watch him as he holds his facilitator deep in my cunny. When he looks up at me, sheer joy lights up his face. He is thrilled that his carnal device is sending me to seventh heaven.
As am I.
He wants me to experience pleasure. How novel. Men normally only care about their own needs, never about mine. Phineas is a different breed of man entirely.
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