And men cannot resist an enigma, especially when it comes with such alluring entrapments as my full lips and dark eyes. I thank the tailor profusely as I continue to gaze at myself in the looking glass.
Footsteps tread up the stairs, steady and unhurried. Phineas appears in my doorway, still carrying his leather case. The moment he sees me, he is swept away by my beauty. The breath is trapped in his throat. His eyes tell me so.
“You are ethereal,” he says after recovering. “Angelic.”
“Thank you, Phineas. Madam Rowena’s tailor is most skilled.”
“Are you ready to attempt to enter the Steam Society?” He touches the scintillating sari.
The colors of my sari are a startling contrast to his formal attire, a black jacket, black trousers, black top hat, and a white silk shirt. “Attempt?” I arch my brows and straighten my shoulders. “You say it as though my chance of success is slim.” With Phineas by my side, I did not believe gaining entry would be difficult.
His hand glides down my arm and he does not meet my eyes.
“I wish you luck, India,” says Madam Rowena, placing her fists on her hips and glancing sideways at Phineas, “because despite my efforts, even I have never been granted access to the Steam Society.”
* * * * *
Swathed in my sari, I—India of Rajasthan—glide across the marble floor with poise and grace, my hand on Phineas’ arm. The lessons taught in finishing school are still fresh in my mind. Do not stand too close to the gentleman lest passersby deem you overly familiar. While you are to hold his arm, do not allow any other part of your body to brush against his. Do not walk like a commoner. Grace and fluidity are essential. Glide, glide, glide,I think with every step, and with every step I remember Madam Rowena’s revelation.
“How am I to be granted admittance if Madam Rowena herself has been barred from the premises?” The fact that Phineas kept this detail from me irks me to no end. “Did you not know?”
“I knew.”
“Then you should have told me.”
The Steam Society is located on the top floor of Upper London’s Private Gentlemen’s Library, which contains all manner of scientific texts in addition to texts of a lascivious nature that are considered inappropriate for well-bred ladies. An entire shelf must be devoted to Phineas’ work. When we reach the foot of a winding staircase, Phineas bids me to wait.
“I will make inquiries and return in a moment.” He climbs swiftly up the stairs.
A few men enter the building, look at me with curiosity, and head into the library. I wonder what manner of texts they will be perusing. The ones dealing with lust, no doubt.
A scant few minutes later, Phineas descends the stairs, a crestfallen air on his handsome face. “I’m sorry, India. The Steam Society refuses to give you entry.”
“Outrageous.” At the top of these stairs are men I would like to consort with, not the crass dunderheads from Silverton Square, not the middle-class gentlemen who are the primary clientele at Carnal Pleasures. These men are intelligent, cultivated, the upper crust of society, and I want them as my clients. How dare they refuse me! “I will not accept rejection. I have already dressed for the occasion and have no plans to return empty-handed.”
“I did not anticipate this unfortunate turn of events. What do you propose?” he asks.
“I propose to knock upon their door and introduce myself.”
“And when they close the door in your face?”
“No one closes the door in the face of India of Rajasthan.” I glare at him. He is responsible for this predicament. Does Phineas actually expect me to give up and return to Carnal Pleasures without a man on my arm? Absolutely not. I ascend the stairs with the grace of a swan and the determination of a hound on the hunt. “Come, Phineas.”
He follows meekly behind me. At the top of the stairs, I see a massive door with an iron knocker the size of my head. Seizing it with both hands, I rap three times with great authority.
Inside I hear shuffling and the sound of muffled voices. My heartbeat quickens. What if I am rejected? What if I suffer the same fate as Madam Rowena? In reality I am nothing but a girl born into the cradle of poverty in the refuse-littered streets of Lower London.
But in my imagination, I am so much more. Confidence is the essence of success, my deportment teacher used to tell me. I must believe in myself.
A butler opens the door, clad in a stiffly starched white uniform, including spotless white gloves. “Good ev—” When he sees me, he is at once spellbound and confused.
Taking advantage of his muddled state of mind, I flutter my eyelashes at him. “Good evening, sir. May I enter?”
He is taller than I, with narrow shoulders and unruly dark hair. A thick beard covers his face. Most unattractive.
“This is a private gentlemen’s club. Women are not permitted,” he says coldly as he snaps out of his trance. “It is the rule.”
“Every rule has exceptions.” A coy smile plays on my lips.
“Men only, I’m afraid.” His nostrils flare.
Is he irritated or merely sniffing my perfume? Both, I believe. After all, he did not address me with a title worthy of respect, such as madam.
“I should like to speak to someone with more authority,” I insist.
He fixates on my breasts and his jaw hangs open. What a dullard, incapable of doing anything more than opening doors, polishing utensils and fetching drinks. Soon he will be fetching a glass of sherry for India of Rajasthan, I guarantee it.
The heavy door begins to swing shut. Under no circumstances will I turn back. I will cross the threshold whether this man wishes me to or not. Before the door closes completely, I take a brazen step forward.
Alarm crosses the butler’s face, for if he does not prevent the massive door from closing, it will slam shut on my foot. If I cry out and fall down injured, he will be held responsible. No man, especially an ordinary butler, would dare hurt a woman. Since I am a prostitute, he will not lose his employment, but the event will cause quite a stir, and the last thing a private men’s club needs is a disturbance.
As expected, he stops the door from shutting. As demurely as possible, pretending he is holding the door open for me, I squeeze through the narrow opening.
“Thank you, sir.”
Unfazed, he attempts to halt my progress by standing before me. A poor effort on his part. I simply forge ahead, knowing it would be extremely rude if he allowed me to plow into his chest. A gentleman should not make physical contact with a woman. Any woman. Flustered and perplexed, he quickly backs away.
There. I have gained access to the Steam Society. Satisfaction blooms in my breast.
Why did Madam Rowena not employ this strategy?
I am vaguely aware that Phineas has entered after me. He stays off to the side. All eyes are upon me. I feel their weight. Their disapproval. Their curiosity. Their lust. With one sweeping glance, I study the expressions on the faces of a dozen men. The four oldest ones, well into their sixties, probably with withered members hanging limply between their wasted legs, glower at my presumption. They sit on plush leather chairs, smoking pipes and scowling. Younger men stand by the mantle, seemingly quite entertained by my unexpected entry into this forbidden world. They smile and whisper among themselves, undoubtedly imagining how to unwrap my sari. Two men, perhaps thirty years old, conversing by a model of Saint Paul’s Cathedral, seem to welcome the fact that I overstepped society’s strictly prescribed limitations. The dark-haired one holds my attention. His lips are luscious and his skin so tanned it resembles my own. It is unusual for a gentleman to spend so much time outdoors that his complexion becomes dark. It gives him a healthy, robust appearance compared to the other men in the room. I give him a slight nod and he nods back. Excitement tingles down my spine.
The room itself is a wonder. Several types of model airships hang from the ceiling. Although I regularly see them over the city, I cannot identify them by name. On the walls are various diagrams of mechanical in
ventions. Steam engines. Trains. Electrical devices of all sorts. Oh my! What a surprise! Over the shoulder of the dark-haired man, I glimpse a sketch of Phineas’ fornication facilitators with the words Carnal Devices across the top. Many finely upholstered leather chairs are arranged about the room, mostly in groups of four, offering the members the opportunity to engage in more private conversations.
A member of the geriatric group shuffles toward me, wrinkled and hunched, using a cane to steady himself. When did he last engage in sexual intercourse? Twenty years earlier? More? His face is covered in long gray whiskers, painstakingly combed into place, a fashion which went out of style long ago.
“Leave the premises,” he orders without bothering to introduce himself. From the stern set of his jaw, and the deep creases between his brows, I can tell that my entry has caused consternation. And perhaps imminent heart failure.
Another lesson from finishing school comes to mind. In conversation, one must be able to disagree without being disagreeable. “I would like to request your permission to stay a while longer, sir.”
The old man rocks back on his feet. He probably expected me to be demanding and insolent instead of polite and respectful.
“No. I own this establishment. It is a private club,” he says gruffly. “Women are not welcome here, especially women of your ilk. Leave.” His trembling finger points at the door.
He must be a powerful man if he owns this establishment, so it is not in my best interest to antagonize him. “Look around you, sir. It seems many of your members welcome my presence.” In truth, I am a breath of fresh spring air in this environment.
I can almost hear his teeth grinding together. He is maddened by my response.
“I will have you forcibly removed.” His grip on his cane tightens.
“Surely you do not want a scandal. Tomorrow morning everyone will be gossiping about how a lady was removed from your club by force, screaming and flailing all the way down the stairs and into the street.” I trail my fingers through my hair. The movement catches his attention, and his eyes follow my hand past my shoulder, down to the swell of my breasts.
“You are no lady.” But his conviction falters.
No one in his position would want gossip to tarnish the name of his club. “Since you are a well-bred gentleman, I doubt you will ask your manservants to drag me outside.” Slowly I twist a strand of hair around my finger.
The old man stares. What is going on inside his head? What does he truly think of me and women like me? At the moment he is asserting his authority and doing what is deemed socially acceptable in front of the other members of the Steam Society. Very often a man behaves one way in front of his peers, but when he is alone he will conduct himself in a completely different manner.
On Silverton Square I quickly learned to assess the men who offered me money in exchange for my body. Some wished to use me in the most appalling manner, others wanted my services and planned to walk away without paying, and still more were twisted and dangerous. I became an excellent judge of character in a very short time.
What kind of person is this man before me? What are his weaknesses? His gaze continues to move downward, to my waist and between my thighs. I recognize his suppressed hunger. He is the kind of man who acts in accordance with society’s rules. His reputation is of utmost importance, but in private, he yearns to act out hidden desires.
“This is a highly respectable establishment,” I whisper. “However, do you not grow tired of propriety? Of restrictions? Of abiding by everyone’s expectations? Isn’t there a part of you that longs for what is forbidden?”
He listens intently. So I have struck a chord. Very good.
“You are trying to shock me.” His voice is no longer rife with anger. “You are the embodiment of sin.”
“If that is what you wish me to be. I can fulfill every fantasy,” I whisper so no one else can hear, for I am aware that everyone in the room is raptly waiting to see how this conversation ends. Will I be forced to leave the club in shame, or will I remain? “Do you wish to be shocked? To be a sinner? I can accommodate your every need. I can strip you naked and bed you. Here. On the floor. In front of all these men.”
He is struck dumb. But the earlier consternation disappears, replaced by a burning desire. “What other hidden fantasies would you enact with me?” he asks.
Since his sex organ is undoubtedly permanently shriveled, I decide to focus on other methods of stimulation. “As you lie there on the floor, and everyone gathers around us to watch, I will stand over you, one foot on either side of your head. Then I will unwrap my sari one yard at a time, my hips swaying, until I am naked, and you can see my cunny above you, moist with my honey. I will squat down over your face and make you lick my slit and suck on my pearl until I scream in pleasure.”
He sways and then steadies himself with the cane. His knuckles are white. His true lecherous nature has surfaced. Underneath his prim and proper exterior dwells a man who wants a woman to initiate him to the taboo pleasures of the flesh.
“How did you know these are the types of acts I wish for?”
“As a courtesan, it is in my nature to recognize a man’s deepest desires even if he deems those desires unacceptable,” I say simply. “May I stay? For a short time?”
“Yes.” His voice is hoarse.
“Thank you, sir. You are very kind.” I fear he might fall unconscious from the stress I have placed on his heart. It must be galloping as it has not galloped in a very long time, like a thoroughbred’s while racing to the finish line.
I glance about the room, briefly meeting the eyes of the men who welcome my presence. Many of them are single. Others are married—I can see their wedding bands—but nevertheless, they gaze upon me with carnal desire. For them, I suspect marital bliss vanished years ago.
I can fill my nights with these men, build a list of regular clients who pay me well. I do not have to settle for any man who chooses me.
I will choose them.
Which one do I wish to speak to?
The dark-haired man continues his conversation with his friend, and I am close enough to overhear.
“My work is almost done. I have spent several weeks upon the scaffolding on the dome. The stained glass is being installed as we speak. Nothing is as exquisite as stained glass.” He turns to me and mouths, Except you.
Here is a man who appreciates beauty. I slowly glide over to him and offer my hand. “I am India of Rajasthan. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”
He takes it, and for a moment he appears unsure of his actions, so I lift my hand to his lips, and he kisses it. The touch of his lips is delightful. This is how a gentleman greets a fine lady. I am so unaccustomed to this gesture and so pleased by it that I must stifle a burst of girlish laughter.
“My name is Ambrose Pierce. I am an architect. Pleased to meet you, India. This is one of my esteemed colleagues, William Lancing.”
I offer my hand to the stocky, broad-shouldered William, and he too raises it to his lips. I enjoy his touch, but it doesn’t warm me like Ambrose’s. William is handsome but unexceptional with rounded cheeks, trimmed sideburns and hazel eyes. His fingers reach out to touch my sari, but I step away. It is best not to seem overly familiar at first. A courtesan does not allow men to fondle her in public.
There is something about Ambrose that awakens my nubbin and causes my nipples to peak against the silk of my sari. He is young, virile, accomplished and very attractive. He is hale and hearty and it is obvious from the fit of his jacket that there is a fair amount of muscle underneath.
“You are rebuilding St. Paul’s?” I ask Ambrose.
Several years ago, the cathedral was set aflame by a group of rebellious Darwinists who objected to the church’s iron grip on society. At the time, I was walking by the Thames with my mother and I remember smoke spiraling into the sky. We did not think anything of it, because factories constantly spewed soot into the aether.
“It was always my dream to build a
cathedral. It is regrettable, however, that St. Paul’s had to be incinerated by arsonists in order for my dream to become a reality.”
William cuts in. “I am working on the interior finishing and will improve on the original English Baroque design.”
“William is my principal assistant.” Ambrose looks down his nose at his colleague. “I am responsible for the structure of the cathedral. The domes, the twin spires, the nave, the clock tower on the west end.”
“A woman appreciates design more than structure,” William argues.
They are squabbling with each other, competing for me! What a difference from the street, where men use their fists to vie for a girl’s attention.
At this moment, Phineas joins us. He has been lurking in the background this entire time.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” He nods at me. “India, will you introduce me?”
As I make polite introductions, just as I learned at Pennyworth’s School for Girls, I notice how Ambrose is appraising Phineas with almost the same interest he has shown in me. Most unusual.
“Phineas Felter.” Ambrose eagerly clasps Phineas’ hand in both of his. “The expert in sexology, the inventor of…” He halts and a blush creeps into his cheeks.
Since he is too shy, I finish the phrase. “The finest fornication facilitators.”
The overly warm handshake lingers. As if he suddenly realizes he has held on for too long, Ambrose jerks his hands away. Phineas locks eyes with him. Ambrose is indeed the portrait of male beauty, a finely sculpted nose, strong bone structure and kind eyes the color of strong coffee.
I do believe Ambrose is attracted to Phineas. And to me. There is no doubt in my mind that he wants me as well. It makes me wonder, all these men together, deliberately isolating themselves from the fair sex, is it because they lust after each other? Just last week, the court sentenced George Quentin, an eminent author, to a year’s hard labor for openly admitting to a relationship with his male secretary. The Steam Society might be the ideal location for Uranians to meet and find someone to their liking.
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