Is it possible for someone to lust after men and women in equal measure? If a woman who beds down with a woman is a Sapphist, and a man who beds down with men is a Uranian, is there a name for a person who desires both sexes? Phineas is the expert in these matters. Later I will ask his opinion.
For the time being, I consider my options. Ambrose is most appealing. William is obviously interested in me as well, but I do not feel a deep attraction for him. And Phineas, well, I would definitely bed Phineas again. And again. And again. Oh dear, what a conundrum. Whatever shall I do? I am overwhelmed by possibilities.
William glances at Ambrose and Phineas, and it is as if he grasps the situation. He excuses himself and withdraws from our circle. Since I do not wish him to feel slighted—he is intelligent and might make an adequate suitor at a later date—I walk after him.
“Another time, William.” I let the drape of my sari brush his side and he clasps it between his fingers.
“I should prefer to touch your skin,” he says.
“You will. In due time.”
“I look forward to it. Goodbye for now, India.” Smiling, he bows and then turns and walks away.
When the butler strides by, I catch his attention with a snap of my fingers. “Sherry, please. And cognac for my two companions.”
A sour expression crosses his face and he mutters, “Yes, madam.”
When I return to Ambrose’s side, he beams. “Tell me about yourself, India.”
I remember the folktale about the sari. Now it is time to weave the tale of my own upbringing. “I was born in Rajasthan. My father was the rajah, a very powerful man, and my mother one of his favored concubines.”
“You are of royal blood?” Ambrose says in awe.
“Indeed.” The English have conquered most of India, but not Rajasthan. Little is known about that area, except it has fierce warriors on horseback capable of fending off English soldiers. It is the ideal location for me to set my fairytale. I decide to alter the narrative I told Phineas earlier. “He came to England when I was quite young, and brought my mother and me along. Because of the tensions between our two countries, he posed as a merchant instead of royalty. For many years, he traveled back and forth between the two lands while I stayed here with my mother.”
“A visiting rajah would have received much attention, some of it negative,” says Ambrose, drinking in every word. “Posing as a merchant was an excellent ploy.”
“He hired a governess so I would receive proper English schooling. I was surrounded by English-speaking servants and soon forgot my mother tongue. My dear mother, bless her soul, passed away in the typhus epidemic.”
“I am very sorry,” he sympathizes.
Phineas studies us, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He seems happy with my wild imaginings.
“I also received schooling in my mother’s art, the Kama Sutra,for I am destined to follow in her footsteps. When my father asked me if I wished to return to India, I said England was my home and I wished to remain. So I continued to learn the art of the Kama Sutra,the positions, the many ways to please a man, how to teach him to surrender to his desires.”
“India is quite accomplished,” says Phineas.
Ambrose’s eyes widen as he realizes what Phineas has implied. Now that Phineas has vouched for my skills, Ambrose finds me even more desirable. Excellent.
The butler grudgingly brings me a glass of sherry. Ambrose and Phineas thank me for the cognac, which they swirl in their glasses before taking a sip. How civilized. Not like the drunkards in Lower London, who reek of ale and stumble about in a state of intoxication.
Phineas glances through a series of magazines on a table beside us and pulls out a booklet. “Have you read this?” he asks Ambrose. “It is Constance Pettigrew’s latest publication.”
I read the title. Sexual Advice for Weary Wives.“She is encouraging wives to perform their duties in the marital bed?” This woman will put me out of business.
Ambrose and Phineas chuckle and exchange amused glances.
“Quite the opposite,” says Ambrose.
“Her publications have made it more difficult than ever for a man to receive sexual satisfaction at home,” says Phineas. “Her reputation is growing in popularity among women, but men would like to see her work banned or burned.”
As I leaf through the pages, a list of items draws my attention.
Since most women deem the sexual act to be repulsive and uncomfortable, here are methods to limit the number of encounters.
1.If your husband becomes amorous, do not hesitate to feign illness (a headache or complaints about your monthly visitor will often suffice).
2.Never allow your husband to see you without clothing, and you should demonstrate no interest whatsoever if he should show you his own unclothed body. A look of repugnance accompanied by a slight shudder may help deter any advances.
3.When in bed, lie very quietly lest your husband should mistake any sounds or movement as a display of interest in a sexual interlude.
4.Do not kiss on the lips unless absolutely necessary. Whenever possible, tilt your head to the side so the kiss lands on your cheek.
5.If sexual intercourse must occur (our duty is procreation, after all), ensure that it is practiced in total darkness and remove only the most necessary articles of clothing.
“What a fascinating treatise on the state of matrimony in the English household.” I should probably write Constance Pettigrew a letter thanking her for swelling the ranks of the clients in England’s brothels.
“Isn’t it amusing? It has sold thousands of copies,” says Ambrose. “After reading this, I dread the thought of marriage. Unhappiness begins with the words ‘I do’!”
“I could not agree more!” echoes Phineas, raising his glass.
As I sip my sherry, Phineas and the architect exchange glances. The glance becomes a look that transforms into a hard, needy stare. It is unmistakable. I sense longing between them. The air crackles with unspoken male lust.
Phineas Felter wishes to experiment with the sin of the Greeks. So be it. What of my young architect?
Why should my visit to the Steam Society be limited to my own need for a better clientele? Why shouldn’t this also be a sexual journey for Phineas? I could open an entire new world of sensations for him, just as he did for me when he initiated me to the joys of sex. Yes, why not? It will be my way of thanking him for improving my outlook on life.
How can I arrange an encounter between these two men? Better yet, how can I arrange the encounter as well as witness it? “Ambrose, could you give me a guided tour of your cathedral?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “This evening? It is already dark. Would you prefer tomorrow?”
“Tonight.” I move closer to him, allowing our arms to brush against each other. “Moonlight is romantic, after all.”
“All right.” His handsome face suffuses with color.
“Phineas has expressed interest in the progress being made at St. Paul’s,” I lie. “Might he come along as well?”
Their eyes lock in a silent embrace. What would it be like if they physically held each other? I lick my lips as I imagine the sight.
“Let us get a hansom cab.” Ambrose looks from me to Phineas with the same uninhibited lust.
“I will join you in a moment.” Before leaving, I must have a few words with the owner, who is sitting among his elderly cohort, his gnarled hand now gripping a glass of port instead of a walking stick. Although he is somewhat repulsive, he did allow me to remain in his club when he had the right to have me removed. I owe him a kind word.
And probably an evening of carnal entertainment.
So be it. A small price to pay, I suppose, for admittance to the Steam Society.
“Thank you, sir, for allowing me to join you this evening.” I squeeze his hand, its texture as thick and rough as an elephant’s hide. The other men glare at me, and one utters a reproachful tsk, tsk sound.
“My pleasure, Miss India,” he says.
&nbs
p; “I fear we were not formally introduced. You are…?”
“Lord Alfred Bennington. I am a judge who sits on the Supreme Court.”
A truly powerful man, someone I should make every effort to keep on my side.
“If you wish to visit another evening,” he says quietly, “let me know in advance and I will let you in through the back door.”
“Thank you, Lord Bennington.” As a sign of deference, I curtsy, and promptly join my companions.
We exit the Steam Society and descend the stairs, Ambrose on my right, Phineas and his carry case on my left. I grasp both their arms in a manner my deportment teacher would consider terribly unacceptable. For the first time in a long time, I see a rosy future ahead, and it begins with these two men.
Chapter Four
Ambrose hails a hansom cab. One pulls up immediately, drawn by a pair of bay geldings whose shod hooves clatter on the cobblestones. The driver doffs his hat and Ambrose calls out, “To St. Paul’s!”
After Ambrose disappears into the cab, I question Phineas. “If you knew Madam Rowena was rejected by the Steam Society, why did you think it would be different for me? Why did you bother going upstairs and asking if I could enter?”
He pauses before answering and there is a wicked gleam in his eye. “I did not. I simply stood by the door a few minutes. My goal was to test your determination in the face of an obstacle, and you responded brilliantly.”
“Oh, Phineas!” I smack his arm in anger, but my anger is short-lived. Even after meeting me only yesterday, he knows exactly what to do to obtain the desired responses.
Holding the fabric that sweeps over my shoulder, I step inside the cab. Briefly, I consider sitting between both men. No, better let them sit next to each other. I sit alone on the opposite side, contemplating them.
They are tense, uncertain, their hands in their laps, looking out the window as if some terribly fascinating event is taking place on the street. They must be aware of the sexual energy they exude, and I imagine it frightens them.
“Phineas,” I ask, seductively crossing my legs, “with all your expertise in sexual matters, can you clarify a few things for me?”
“Of course.”
At the mention of “sexual matters”, Ambrose turns his upper body toward Phineas and leans slightly forward.
“There are definitions for Sapphists and Uranians, but what of an individual who is drawn to both sexes?”
“This is a rare phenomenon that has been the object of few psychosexual studies,” he answers. “There is no specific term.”
“What conclusions have these studies arrived at?” asks Ambrose. Concern clouds his face. “Because these individuals exist in our society. Some may question their sexuality and whether their tendencies mean they are aberrations in need of psychiatric intervention.”
Oh, poor Ambrose. Is this how he sees himself? If so, he must be a tortured soul.
“These studies,” Phineas begins, “and all the studies I have read concerning Uranian and Sapphist relationships, come to the same conclusion. Love between individuals of the same sex is an abomination. The Church has always deemed it so. The law sets out punishments for those found to be sodomites. Now science is following suit with claims that homosexuality is indicative of a baser nature and every effort must be made to eradicate it.”
Ambrose swallows. He nods and shifts closer to Phineas. “Do you also believe this?”
“Personally this is a matter that I have pondered over the years, but I have not conducted any studies, nor have I conducted interviews with individuals who are drawn to members of the same sex. Needless to say, they do not wish to be identified.”
“That is a given,” I add.
Ambrose’s eyes flicker. His breathing quickens. I see the pulse at his throat as his heart rate increases.
“I do not believe homosexuals to be innately perverse. There might be something in the brain that drives them to be what they are,” Phineas explains. “According to my beliefs, which are not yet founded on scientific inquiry, having sexual intercourse with an individual of the same sex is not a problem in and of itself.”
“I see,” says Ambrose, clearly relieved by Phineas’ assertions. “Men should be more tolerant of differences in others. Take George Quentin’s sentence. It seems drastic to confine a man to a year’s hard labor for so little. He is not hurting anyone else, after all.”
“So it is indeed possible to be drawn to both sexes then, Phineas?” I ask.
“Yes, I believe so.”
I decide to make a confession. “I once had an encounter with a woman, a brief yet highly pleasurable one.” Their eyes meet mine and then each other’s. “Do you believe you might be aroused by a similar encounter with an individual of the same sex?”
Phineas pauses and licks his lips. “Yes, I do. My career involves sexuality, after all, and I believe experimentation is good for mental and physical health. There is nothing perverse about it.”
Ambrose says nothing, so I try to coax a response out of him. “And you?”
“Me? Aroused by a man?” Ambrose’s voice trembles. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and finally speaks. The words wrench out of him slowly, painfully. “I have always been taught such feelings are an aberration, but I believe that, perhaps, under the right circumstances, I would be.”
He must have spent much time questioning his feelings, believing them to be aberrant. Believing himself to be an aberration.
The carriage clatters along on the cobblestones. Our curtains are open and a cool breeze drifts in through the window.
“Yet you both enjoy the company of women.”
“Yes,” they reply in unison.
“Phineas, you have bedded me. Ambrose, I can tell by your expression that you wish to bed me.” Once more, their gazes fixate on me. “I should most like to see you bed each other.”
Their eyes widen. Oh, how I wish I could see into their minds. Are they picturing each other locked in a naked embrace, their sweat-sheened bodies tangled in rough, passionate lovemaking?
“Lay hands on each other. Here. In this carriage,” I say. “Later you can share me. No one will know of this. It will be our secret.” The thought thrills me. I will have such power over them. I will be the one to free Ambrose from his fears of inadequacy and I will give Phineas the opportunity to experiment with a man.
They are statues. Motionless. Mute. Ambrose stares blankly out the window. Phineas peers with great interest at my feet.
Granted, it is a big step to admit to a mutual attraction and a bigger one to act on it. I draw the curtains closed, fastening them so they do not blow open in the wind. There. We have privacy. Faint light from the street lamps streams in through the thin curtains. In the shadows, the men appear to be chiseled from the finest Italian marble. Still, they make no effort to touch.
They need encouragement. I take Phineas’ hand and place it on Ambrose’s thigh. Ambrose turns to Phineas, but refrains from making physical contact. I take Ambrose’s hand and place it on Phineas’ cheek.
“Now kiss.”
My words break their inertia. Their heads bow toward each another, the distance between them closes, and their lips touch. A tingle runs down my spine. Their forbidden gesture arouses me, and my fingers slide down the front of my sari to my mound.
They are tentative and awkward, similar to boys learning to kiss for the first time. It does not take long before passion ignites and their fingers twist roughly in each other’s hair. Their mouths become demanding, their kisses hard and bruising. They are beasts set afire by carnal appetites. This is so different from a union between a man and a woman. There is no tenderness. They wholeheartedly and fiercely take what they want. Now that their shyness is gone, I see their true natures, base and lustful, consumed by physical need.
Their hunger consumes me as well. My sari is wrapped around my body so tightly my fingers cannot find their way to my slit, which aches for my touch. I squirm in my seat, my blood heating at the sigh
t of these two men devouring each other, and manage to find a position where I can stimulate myself.
“Remove each other’s garments,” I say, my fingers flicking my pearl. “I wish to see you naked. Both of you.”
Shadows play on Ambrose’s face. He sounds anxious. “But we are in a public cab.”
The threat of discovery arouses me. The curtain might fly open, revealing our debauchery to Londoners out for an evening walk. We still have some time before we arrive at St. Paul’s and I want to make the best of it. “If you wish to enjoy my body later, you must obey me now. Do as I say.”
His eyes rove over my sari, and I take a deep breath to accentuate my breasts. The sight of a heaving bosom turns most men to clay. Ambrose is no exception. He nods.
“Begin,” I say.
While Ambrose is still reserved, Phineas knows what he wants. It is obvious that he has contemplated the love of a man for some time. His hands are hungry and rough as he grabs Ambrose’s shirt and wastes no time removing it. Ambrose makes no effort to disrobe Phineas.
“The curtains are drawn, Ambrose,” I say. “Don’t hesitate. You both want the same thing. This yearning has existed within you for a long time. Release it.”
“This is wrong.” He pulls away.
“Is it?” asks Phineas, placing his palm on Ambrose’s shoulder. “Who says it is wrong? Religion? Priests who probably spend their nights buggering each other? Psychiatrists who still know little about the functioning of the human mind? There is no perversion in desire, Ambrose. If you desire me, take me. I am yours.”
As Phineas removes his own jacket and shirt, Ambrose’s demeanor changes. His quick, nervous glances at the window cease. His hunger surfaces. He has eyes only for Phineas’ muscled chest.
A pang of jealousy stabs at my heart. It is all I can do to refrain from stripping off my sari and joining them. My fingers stroke my pearl in circular motions, and heat flushes my cunny. I wish one of them was inside me, driving his cock into me. Not yet. But soon.
This is my gift to Phineas. It is time for him to satisfy his needs. Afterward he and Ambrose can satisfy mine. “Remove each other’s trousers.”
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