Like A Wisp of Steam: Steampunk Erotica by Cecilia Tan, J. Blackmore

Circlet Press

www.circlet.com

Copyright ©2008 by Circlet Press, Inc.

First published in 2008, 2008

NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others.

This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

Distributed by Fictionwise.com

Like A Wisp of Steam: Steampunk Erotica by Cecilia Tan, J. Blackmore

CONTENTS

Introduction

The Innocent's Progress

An Extempore Romance

Hysterical Friction

In the Flask

Steam and Iron, Musk and Flesh

* * * *

Welcome to the Circlet Press ebook edition of: Like a Wisp of Steam

Steampunk Erotica

C.Tan & J. Blackmore, Eds.

Copyright © 2008 Circlet Press, Inc.

This electronic version was produced from the same files used to print the finished book, and was converted to the ebook format through Fictionwise's Multiformat conversion system. It contains all of the text and stories, but does not replicate the design or layout of the printed book.

Please report any problems you find with the ebook to us at "circletintern@gmail.com" or by visiting the Bug Report section of our web site (www.circlet.com).

We'd also love to hear if you enjoyed the book!

Printed copies of this and many other Circlet Press erotic science fiction titles can be purchased through fine bookstores, online retailers, and through the Circlet Press website at www.circlet.com. Circlet Press has specialized in erotic science fiction since 1992.

Please support piracy. If you received this ebook copied from a friend or by other means, please support the writers who made it possible by purchasing a copy yourself from www.circlet.com, Fictionwise.com, or Amazon's Kindle store.

Introduction

Steampunk is sexy. It just is. Sturdy girls in dirty lace and goggled ruffians and heroes committing indiscriminate acts of derring-do are the stuff of great adventure and epic fantasy.

You would think that steampunk erotica would simply be the next logical step. And yet, even though I represent many readers who are hungry for this genre, there's little out there to be found. Like a Wisp of Steam is a collection of stories by people who can dream in sepia, and want to share their visions with others. I hope that, by unleashing this collection on the world, we will inspire more writers to grow the budding genre.

The nineteenth century, especially its latter half, was a time of contradictions and hypocrisy. In Britain, technology bounded ahead at an astonishing rate, and with it came all the other sciences. This was the time of Tesla and Edison, of Curie and Pasteur, when science and its pursuit was something of a religion unto itself. But even the light of science could not dispel the darkness of militant "morality,"

and scientists, then as now, were often laboring under a political or social agenda. Vanessa Vaughn's story "In the Flask" is a tale of two such tame scientists, and what happens when they are let off the leash. No matter how hard those who lead us may try to control our appetites, there is no governing force, and no work of science, that can control the power of simple human lust. It seems inevitable that studying the body, and the way the mind works on it, would inspire steampunk scientists in ways they never could have expected.

The scientists weren't the only ones inspired by their new wealth of technology. Victorians, in general, loved their gadgets. The Industrial Revolution brought with it a mania for electricity and clockwork and all that those things could make possible. Doctors tired of manually treating women for

"hysteria" eventually turned to a device that could achieve in minutes what it took them hours of work to bring about: the G-spot orgasm. The vibrator was considered the miracle cure for all that ailed the Victorian woman. The advertisements promoted them for back health, and headaches, but they also mentioned vibrating chairs ... Thomas S. Roche gives us a look at what might have been in "Hysterical Friction," which stars a very nervous lady, an overly-helpful nurse, an ardent doctor devoted to his craft, and an extraordinary bicycle. Here we're allowed to look in on the model Victorian marriage, and the science it took to maintain it.

Maybe while the grown-ups were cheerfully vibrating away their troubles, their children were playing with gear-driven toys and dreaming of one day taking to the skies. Thank you, Jules Verne, wherever you are. You brought us improbable vehicles run on steam and gears, and the harrowing adventures they led to. All the submersibles and balloons led us to the grandest quest-seeker of them all: the airship. The dream of flight was a heady one in the nineteenth century, and mastering the skies was the great dream of men (and some women) everywhere. It's only logical that our heroes of the time-that-never-was would gallivant over Europe in ships run on sheer will. Who could crew such magnificent vessels but the most sturdy and able-bodied men and women the Victorian era wishes it produced? In "Steam and Iron, Musk and Flesh," Kaysee Renee Robichaud gives us Trista, the brilliant and lusty engineer, who stumbles into the kind of adventures one can only expect from an airship pilot. In the nineteenth century-that-should-have-been, adventurers like Trista navigated a country and community of flight, whether in service of their government, or in rebellion against it. They were soldiers, adventurers, rogues, and scoundrels. And, well, there's something about a woman in leather hanging from the rigging...

Which leads us to corsets. So many corsets. And, as if the corset isn't hot enough, now put a kind-of-emancipated woman in it and give her a revolver. The women of steampunk are not interested in parlors and dance cards: they have inventions to finish, terrain to cross, or men to save. And damn it, they're going to look good doing it. Peter Tupper introduces us to the Victorian era as it would have been without Victorian values, but no less rigid rules of social structure and propriety. "The Innocent's Progress" outlines the journey of a woman who refuses to let anyone else define her, from the point of view of one of her admirers. In "An Extempore Romance," by Jason Rubis, the Victorian age is coming to an end, and in its place is rising a world of almost alchemical science. Standing at the edge of an epoch, with her hatched maid at her side, is Amelia Lessington, lady writer and patron of a new sort of brothel. Part of their appeal is, of course, that you know they're not supposed to be doing things like this. For all of the differences between the lady of high adventure and the "angel of the house," one thing doesn't change: the corset stays on. The corset is the archetypal symbol of feminine repression in the Victorian landscape. Therefore, it is all the more delicious when some waif makes it into a uniform for rebellion.

After all, what it really all comes down to is rebellion. The Victorian era was one of incredible oppression and deep and wide class divides. The people below the wealthy middle class could not even dream of escaping the lives they led, so some read the adventures of people who were doing what they never could. Steampunk is the descendent of those tales.

Although Verne was always more interested in technological wonders and the hope they could bring, H.G. Wells was more realistic, using his adventure stories to decry some aspect of his world he knew was unfair. Every man and woman in these stories who dons the goggles or shortens the skirt is spitting in the face of the world that raised them. By taking to the skies or freeing the people of the streets, they use their extraordinary talents to bring grief to an establishment that would rather see them dead. It's moving, thrilling, and arousing. They are people we want to be. They are people we want in our beds. They are the stuff of pulp-fantasy of the highest order.

J. Blackmore

October 2008

The Innocent's Progress

Peter Tupper

After ten hours of incompetent performances, temper tantrums, crying fits, vomiting, and one or two death threats, the other two judges were ready to end auditions, but Ricar felt they were obliged to see one more. He called, "Next, please!"

The door to backstage, where dozens still waited for their chance, opened. A woman walked out onto the stage, her steps echoing in the nearly empty theatre until she stopped precisely on the chalk mark and faced the three judges in their armchairs.

Right away, Ricar could see a problem. She wore a simple blue and white dress, the costume of the Innocent, but it couldn't conceal her powerful shoulders and thighs, or the fact she was taller than most men. The effect was almost comical.

Chel, the choreographer and designer, gave a tiny snort of suppressed laughter at the sight, while Davis, the host and manager, just shook his head wearily.

Ricar professionally took stock of her appearance, the dress notwithstanding: perhaps thirty, good face, shapely body even without a tight-laced corset, legs a bit short but the right costuming could work around that. Too big for a Servant or Pet, too old for a Novice. She might make a good Beast or Fatale—with some exercise and training, perhaps even the Virago? "Your name, miss?" he said.

"Delyn, Alwyx sept, Yelwin clan," she said proudly. Her voice was clear and projected well, though Ricar could tell she spoke in a higher register than was natural for her.

"Your experience?" Davis asked, his fountain pen poised over his notebook.

"Two years in Diamond Dog company, one in Silken Cord, and one in the House of the Silver Fetter."

Surprisingly little experience for someone her age, but respectable, Ricar thought.

"And what will you do for us today, Miss Alwyx?" Chel asked, concealing her smile beneath her lace-gloved hand.

"The Innocent."

Ricar sighed. "What else can you do?"

"Well, Servant and Harlot, of course. Also Beast and Pedant."

"Can you do the Fatale?" Chel asked.

"It's not my strength." One of her hands reached for her dress buttons, then stopped.

Ricar rose from his seat and crossed the stage to the new hopeful. Up close, he could see that even in her demure white shoes, sans heel, Miss Alwyx was almost as tall as he was and probably heavier. "Let me see you do the Virago."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I never learned to do the Virago. Is there something else?"

That wasn't a good sign, he thought; he believed versatility was essential to a player. Still, he was curious to see what this woman could do.

"Very well. Let me see your Innocent." He fixed her with a stare. "Come here," he said in the grave tones of the Patron, one finger pointed before him.

She stepped forward hesitantly, hands clasped before her, face downcast but eyes upturned, showing a mixture of apprehension and hope.

"You live in my house now, child," he said, reaching out for her cheek in a way that could lead to a caress or a slap. "I expect proper respect from my charges."

Miss Alwyx crossed her hands at her waist and turned away, but tilted her head to one side so that her throat was bared to him, and to the audience. "I know, sir. Please forgive me if I seem ungrateful." Her voice quivered with anguish, her eyes showed despair. It was quite good, certainly better than most of the other auditions he had seen that day.

"Thank you, miss." Ricar walked away from Miss Alwyx and faced his colleagues. "Well?"

"Too big, too old," Chel said softly. "Let us break her heart and call it a day."

"We could use another Servant or Beast," Davis said neutrally.

It was down to him, then. Ricar turned back to Miss Alwyx, who waited, fidgeting with one of the buttons on her dress.

"Miss Alwyx, we'd like you to join the House of the Razor Lotus."

"Aah!" Miss Alwyx sprang forward, her hands clasped in front of her. "Aah! Oh thank you thank you thank you!" She wrapped her arms around Ricar, bouncing so hard that she lifted him off the ground. Her body was massive compared to Ricar's slim frame, and for a moment he thought of being alone with her, sitting on her lap. "Oh, that's wonderful, you're wonderful, thank you so much, you won't regret this!"

She let go of him, started to leave the room, rushed back to grab her handbag and ran out again. "Oh, I'm so happy, this is the best thing that's ever happened to me!" She shoved open the door that led backstage and shouted, "Hey, everybody, they said, 'Yes!' Isn't that amazing?"

* * * *

This was the moment, after weeks of rehearsals and costume design and set building. Backstage, Ricar could hear the orchestra tuning up, the murmur of the audience in the pit and the boxes and the galleries, Davis doing his warm-up patter. Around him, the players adjusted costumes, stretched, did vocal warm-ups that sounded like the calls of exotic birds.

After more than twenty years in the Commedia, opening night still gave him a thrill.

Ricar leaned over to look around Chel's elaborate headdress and check on Miss Alwyx. She stood with the other Harlots, ready to go on stage for the second scene. Her costume looked good on her, exposing her powerful arms, and the boots made her taller than some of the other male players. She silently mouthed her lines and half-danced her steps, but her gaze was elsewhere, on Miss Dyr.

Miss Dyr stood before the makeup mirror, surrounded by dressers and stylists, making sure the simple blue and white dress of the Innocent hung just right and her face looked suitably un-made-up, heightening her large, liquid brown eyes, plump cheeks and shy, slightly embarrassed smile. It took a lot of art to look that artless, as the old saying went.

Ricar looked back at Miss Alwyx, wishing she'd concentrate on her role. She'd get to see Miss Dyr's performance soon enough.

Miss Alwyx turned around and caught him watching her.

Ricar gave her an encouraging nod and flashed her the

"Everything's good" hand sign. She smiled and even blushed, shyly dropping her eyes, a maneuver worthy of the Innocent, despite her Harlot role.

A shy, demure Harlot, Ricar thought. Perhaps there's someone who will be moved by that.

"Pay attention," murmured Chel, in her Matron's costume to match his Patron's.

"I always pay attention," he told her coolly. Chel should know he was too experienced (or perhaps just too jaded) to be distracted by some eager young player.

On stage, Davis announced, "For your edification and pleasure, the House of the Razor Lotus gives you ... The Innocent's Progress!"

Davis bowed off stage as the audience applauded. The curtain rose, the music began and Miss Dyr made her entrance, accompanied by a trio of Beasts. The Beasts on all fours strained on their leashes, driven by their animal drives of lust and dominance. The Innocent struggled in vain to keep the Beasts in check, but they quickly tangled her up in their reins.

The Rakes and their Harlots came next, surrounding the helpless Innocent and mocking her chastity and charity. Their efforts to free the Innocent rapidly became an assault on her virtue.

Backstage, Ricar watched carefully, counting the timing under his breath. He, Chel, and Davis chose The Innocent's Progress, a classic written by the Bawd herself centuries ago, to showcase the new talent, while still giving the audience a lot of the star attractions, particularly Miss Dyr.

Miss Alwyx was doing well, speaking with conviction and projecting. He expected her to be strong, but she was surprisingly agile too, enough to make some impressive moves. She yanked the Innocent off the ground by her bodice, seemingly with one hand (helped by Miss Dyr's active cooperation), then spun her around, the dress twirling out, then held her with one strong arm around her waist while she struggled and protested and wept.

Not for the first time, Ricar noted that the most subtle and difficult aspects of the performance went unnoticed by the audience, while the crude, simple things like Miss Dyr's ability to cry on cue got the applause.

A passing Prince provided the Innocent's rescue, fighting off the Rakes and Harlots with a bit of swordplay. He helped her to her feet and escorted her offstage to his manor. The Innocent thanked him profusely, not noticing that the Prince passed coins to the Rakes.

Two flat scenes slid together, indicating the inside of the manor. Porters quickly wheeled in a bed and a washbasin.

The Prince brought in the Innocent and left her in the care of a pair of Servants, who took exceptional liberties as they cleaned her up. The Prince returned, saving her for the moment, but he had his own demands of her.

Enter Ricar and Chel as the Patron and the Matron. While the Patron sent his son away, the Matron comforted the Innocent. Her gentle touches soon turned sensual, then cruel as she forced the Innocent to bare herself to the Patron. She became a pawn in the power struggles of the older couple, a conduit for their mutual contempt and jealousy.

As she had done hundreds of times before, the Innocent sobbed, wept, and proclaimed her purity and chastity to the merciless, uncaring world, as indignity after cruelty was heaped upon her. Every rescue swiftly turned into another torment.

The Patron and Matron slept, exhausted after debauching the Innocent. Clutching the tattered remnants of her dress around her, the Innocent stole the Patron's key and crept away.

Another backdrop came down, a forest at night. A storm came—an illusion created by porters with fans, flickering house lights, and clever drum work in the orchestra pit. The Innocent, winds plucking at her tousled hair and tattered clothes, raised her arms to the uncaring heavens and wept, begging for, if not justice, then mercy. The winds roared, the lightning flashed, the thunder rolled, and at last, a (gilt paper) bolt of lightning reached down from the sky and struck her. The moment of flashing light and rolling thunder played out as the Innocent stood transfixed by the most potent expression of Nature's energy. Then the storm ended, and she fell to the ground, annihilated.

Curtain.

Applause.

* * * *

"Assignations, players," said Davis, holding high a thick bundle of cards. Everyone backstage crowded around as the manager handed them out. Ricar hung back, letting the new talent have their moments of glory.

Miss Dyr, freshly back from the dead, flipped through the dozen or so cards with her name, then frowned. "Where's the one from the senator? I saw him in the private boxes. He's always here."

Davis checked the last of the cards. "It appears there wasn't one."

Something came over Miss Dyr then, Ricar noticed. Not the hurt of a jilted lover, nor the tantrum of a child denied a promised sweet. This was something different. Those big brown eyes closed to slits. Miss Dyr threw the remaining cards of lesser admirers at Davis and stalked away. By chance, Miss Alwyx stood at the door leading to the dressing rooms, blocking Miss Dyr's way: a sheepdog confronted by a hissing cat. Even as Miss Alwyx began to move out of the way, the tiny woman spat, "Well?" Miss Alwyx, who was a head taller and half again as heavy, shrank back as Miss Dyr exited.

This was a problem, Ricar knew. Players had the right to refuse any assignation, but that meant the House received no assignation fee. Too many refusals hurt the company, and Miss Dyr's senator was a significant source of revenue.

As he helped Davis pick up the scattered cards, Ricar said,

"I'll handle this."

"You'd better," said Davis, accepting the cards. "We don't need an arrogant Innocent. Neither does the senator, it seems."

"It's probably nothing, some business that pulled the senator away. He'll be back later."

"Regardless, start thinking about a replacement. In the meantime..." Davis handed him a card. "You're wanted in room eight." He turned away and left the room.

A replacement? There hadn't been anybody half as good as Miss Dyr in the last round of auditions. Ricar had trained an understudy, but he hadn't used her and hoped he'd never have to. Like it or not, Miss Dyr brought people in every night.

Backstage was nearly empty now, everyone off to assignations or to get undressed. There he found Miss Alwyx, sitting in front of the mirrors next to the abandoned piles of floral bouquets.

"Don't take Miss Dyr personally," Ricar said.

"I think I was off, Mister Donal. I didn't make her look good." Miss Alwyx picked up one of the jars of cold cream and a rag and started removing her makeup. "Maybe I'd make a better Servant."

Ricar thought she'd just look silly in a Servant's costume.

"Your performance was fine. Don't worry about other players.

That's my job."

She smiled briefly, then said, "I didn't get any assignations."

He waved the air dismissively. "The punters need time to warm up to new players."

"I see," she said quietly.

"I have an assignation now, but remember, there's always tomorrow night."

She forced a smile he found endearing—almost the Innocent's smile.

As he walked up the stairs to the assignation rooms, he wondered what to do about Miss Dyr. Once, he could have used reason and a touch of flattery, but now she wouldn't listen.

The moment Ricar entered room eight, his client, a plump young woman waiting next to the bed, blurted out, "You're going to rape me!"

So much for nuance, Ricar thought. "Calm yourself, my child," he said, slipping back into the Patron role as he caressed her cheek. She was positively quivering; he could tell she had been anticipating this for a long time, rehearsing it in her mind, perhaps even sending letters about it to the domestic magazines. Was this a gift for her coming out party?

A fling before her wedding?

"Stop fidgeting, girl," he said, putting a little more steel in his tone.

She did her best, her hands fairly still, but her feet kept shuffling.

Settling on the room's single chair with a proprietary manner, he asked, "Why is it necessary for you to report to me?"

She launched into a rambling speech appropriate to the scenario, the kind he had heard many times before, about how the other (imaginary) members of the household tormented her and blamed her for breaking the good dishes.

He felt the temptation to just go through the motions, learned through hundreds if not thousands of other assignations—say the words, make the moves. The client would probably not even notice if his performance was mechanical. No matter. For this moment, in this room, he was the Patron, and she was the Innocent, and he would do his best to live up to her expectations, and his.

Ricar held up one hand. "Enough." She stopped. "It is clear you think your position entitles you to special treatment. It does not, and it is my duty to impress this upon you."

Her eyes grew wide as he stood and moved the chair before her. He put the cushion over the back and reached out for her, but she eagerly threw herself into position.

There were several points on the specially modified chair where clients' hands could be tied, regardless of their height or arm length. He put four full loops of thick, soft rope around each of her wrists, then walked around behind her and raised the skirt of the Innocent's dress, exposing her white bloomers. The Rake or Brute would be quick and rough, but the Patron took his time as he tugged her underthings down, revealing a pale, white, rounded backside. Professionally, he noted a mole on her right thigh, something to be avoided later.

The rod and the cane were exactly as they should be, hanging on nails by the door. The assignation card said that this woman had little experience, so he chose the rod, which could be used lightly. It was an excellent instrument, cut from fresh birch twigs and handcrafted by the prop department that morning. He swung it a few times in full view of the client, building tension as it whooshed through the air.

"I do this for your own good, child," he said, walking around to stand to the left of her raised buttocks.

"P-please, my lord, have mercy on me," she whispered, her toes stamping nervously.

"I give you such mercy as you deserve." He began, keeping an even tempo and building the intensity slowly. She watched him, her breath coming fast and shallow, so he made a show of using his entire arm in the blows, though with only a small fraction of his full strength.

Some clients suffered in silence, but this one made considerable noise, begging and pleading and apologizing. In the absence of her warning phrase, he took it as encouragement to increase the intensity, to the point when the birch began bruising her. Her feet danced, threatening to make her knock over the chair, but he pressed his free hand into the small of her back.

After several minutes of birching, he decided that, judging by the tone of her gasps and the flush on both sets of cheeks, she had reached a point of saturation, and returned the birch to its hook.

He lowered her skirt, eliciting another gasp as the fabric just touched her sensitive skin, then untied her wrists and helped her up to stand again. She clutched her hands to her bosom. There was a different tension in her now, and her eyes showed a new awareness. Her fantasy no longer obscured her perception of the moment.

This was the most delicate juncture, and one wrong step could spoil the entire scene. Would he be the harsh Patron, the one who throws the suffering Innocent out into the wilderness, or the forgiving Patron, the one whose heart is softened by the Innocent's tears and soothes her hurts? He looked in his client's eyes, saw her yearning and chose.

"Come here, little one," he said, pulling her over to the bed. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and pulled her into his lap. He was too small and she was too heavy to give the full experience of sitting in the Patron's lap, but he knew how to carry her weight on both of his legs so that her feet were off the ground, sustaining the illusion.

His experienced hand found its way under her skirt, through her bloomers and up her soft thighs to her sex, quite wet. She gave a little eager sound and spread her legs wider.

Remembering the notes on the assignation card, he did not press his fingers deeply into her, but instead stroked her lips and button, searching for the right rhythm.

Her face pressed into his shoulder and her fists pressed against his chest as she murmured, "Sir, please, oh, sir—"

"Good girl," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. She made an odd little sound, part gasp, part sob, and her thighs closed, mashing his hand against her. Her eyes closed with pleasure newly discovered, even if she had dreamed this moment a thousand times before, stroking herself in her own bed. This was the sacred moment that was somehow born from the hackneyed words and actions and costumes, straw spun into gold.

When her breathing slowed a bit, she looked at him, face to face. "Please sir, let me show my gratitude for taking me in." She slid between his legs, ending up on her knees before him.

He hadn't expected this at all, and it took him a moment to go with it and help her undo his trousers. She was surprisingly eager in this regard, taking his cock into her mouth without hesitation.

Each male player had his own trick for rising to the occasion, but he didn't focus on the sensations as he usually did. Instead, he thought of Miss Alwyx, looking resplendent and invulnerable in the Virago's dress, her massive bare arms wrapping around him, lifting him, crushing him against her bosom. She smiled playfully at his attempts to escape her grasp. I won't let you go, little Ricar....

He spent into his client's mouth. She coughed a bit, and he discreetly passed her his handkerchief so she could spit out his seed.

Buttoned up again, he guided her to her feet and stood up, back in the Patron's authoritative manner. "Do not think this has won you any special consideration, girl."

"Oh no, sir, of course not," she said, swinging her torso back and forth, pleased with herself.

"Dinner will be at eight, sharp," he said and turned his back on her, the session over. Shame weighed on him as he left through the player's entrance. He had betrayed his client by not being in the moment. Even if she hadn't noticed anything, he had betrayed his own standards.

* * * *

Ricar and Chel sat on a narrow catwalk among the lights and rigging. They dangled their feet far above the stage and watched the show, as they had done decades ago when they were both apprentices, awestruck to have even bit parts in the Commedia.

They had the best seats in the house as the performance started beneath them. Again, Miss Dyr played the Innocent, fresh from the wedding to her Servant groom and about to settle into their marriage bed, when the Prince entered and demanded his right as their lord. The Innocent huddled on the bed, quivering hands barely covering her bosom, while the Servant feebly begged for his bride to be spared.

"Something's off with her," Chel commented.

Ricar was forced to agree. No one in the audience noticed, he was sure, but the Innocent had caught on to manipulating the Prince by his desires too quickly. There was calculation where there had once been spontaneity. And little by little, it was growing. Someday, even the most unsophisticated observer in the audience would pick up on it, and then the illusion would be broken.

"We'll need to train her in some new roles," he said, half to himself.

"She's a terrible Fatale, not much better as a Pedant. And she'll quit before playing a Pet or Harlot again."

"Or we find a new Innocent."

Chel shrugged. "We always do, sooner or later. Funny, we keep getting older, but the Innocents stay the same age."

"It'd be a little easier if we could look at more people. Not just fresh-faced tiny girls."

"You mean like your Miss Alwyx?" Chel chuckled. "If somebody tried to ravish her, she'd just roll over and crush him to death. Better find another pretty face and tiny waist."

"She's a member of my company, nothing more." He changed the subject. "If we can't find a new part for Miss Dyr, what shall she do?"

Below them, Miss Dyr turned away from her groom and presented herself with lowered eyes to the Prince.

"Oh, she'll land on her feet, be some rich man's wife or mistress."

"And if she can't squeeze an annuity out of him?"

"She can work in a dress shop or something. Either way, the little harpy won't be our problem anymore."

The moment the Prince laid a hand on her, Miss Dyr broke down sobbing.

"They come in, and a few years later they go out again, and what do they have to show for it?"

Chel smirked. "Ricar, it is rather late to bite the hand that has fed us, and quite well, all these years."

"What about you, then?" He couldn't help noticing the lines around her eyes, how thin her neck had become. On stage, with the right makeup and costume, no one would notice, but in the assignation rooms.... Then again, he hadn't been called to play the Rake or Prince in a few years either.

"Even a magnificent bitch like me can't play the Fatale forever," Chel said. "Then it's the Pedant and the Matron, and then ... well, I can still direct, design, choreograph. I shall manage."

Suddenly tired, Ricar started to stand up.

"Where are you going? It's not finished." Chel pointed down to where the Innocent had paralyzed the Prince with conflicting emotions.

"We did the exact same scenario twenty years ago, remember?" He sat down again.

"Oh, right. My very brief stint as the Innocent. Somebody threw eggs at me."

He finally said something that had been running through his mind for some time, even before he met Miss Alwyx.

"Maybe if we tried some new scenarios, new roles, instead of our same old things?"

After a moment, Chel said, "The punters won't go for it."

"You mean they don't want to see anything new, or you don't want to try anything new?"

Chel dodged the question. "Do you want to risk our ticket sales and our assignation fees? I don't. And I know Davis won't. You don't know what it took to get him to let me produce some afternoon shows."

"I admire what you've done with those. That bit with the gauze cocoon, very innovative...."

"Well, tell the punters that. They seem to be in agreement with Davis. Classics, classics, classics."

"You mean, clichés, clichés, clichés."

* * * *

The emergency bell still jangled as Ricar hurried into assignation room twelve. His eyes immediately went to Miss Alwyx, instead of the client. Apparently unharmed, she sat on the animal-print bed in a Beast costume, dejectedly holding the headdress in her lap. The client, dressed in his own Hunter costume, paced angrily back and forth on the grass-patterned carpet. A tangled clump of ropes and straps lay on the floor between them. "Is there a problem, sir?" Ricar asked.

"That," the client said, jabbing a finger at Miss Alwyx, "is the problem. The most pathetic excuse for a Beast I have ever seen."

"Sir, I—"

"I expect a proper Beast from your establishment, with some serious fight in her. If I wanted a simpering little Innocent under me, I'd have ordered one."

"I was trying to—" she began.

"Miss Alwyx, please wait for me outside," Ricar said. She got up, apparently struggling not to cry, and left the room through the player's entrance.

"Sir," Ricar lied, "we've had many problems with that player. Thank you for bringing this to our attention. She will be sacked immediately."

That mollified the man somewhat.

"If you'll go and see our house manager, sir, he'll discuss the matter with you." He'll also discuss your sizable unpaid bill, Ricar did not say.

Ricar escorted the man, still grumbling, out of the room to the hall and pointed him at Davis' office, then went back through the assignation room to the player's corridor where Miss Alwyx waited.

"Are you quite all right?" He almost put a hand on her upper arm, but thought better of it.

"I'm fine. He didn't hurt me, just yelled at me until I pulled the bell cord."

"What happened?"

"I saw this circus show once, where the lioness would sit in the tamer's lap and purr. I thought he'd like that in my Beast."

"There's always a degree of menace in the Beast," he told her. "The taming can never be complete."

"Please forgive me, sir. I still have a lot to learn here and I want to do my best," she said.

He turned to her sharply, thinking she had said that in mockery of the Innocent, but she looked back at him without guile or even irony.

They stepped aside to allow a trio of Pets to scamper by on their way to an assignation room. Ricar pondered what to do.

He had seen Davis's meticulous records of each player's performance. There was no denying that Miss Alwyx ranked near the bottom of the company in both total assignations and gross assignation fees. Many customers found her size appealing and requested her as a Fatale or Beast or Harlot, but she didn't develop the essential repeat business. And money had to be tight for her without supplementing her salary with assignation fees.

Yet ... she never missed rehearsals or curtain calls, gamely took any role assigned to her, and performed exceptionally in Chel's training sessions. There were far more troublesome and less talented players in the company.

"I wouldn't worry about it too much," Ricar said. "Certain people enjoy complaining for their own sake."

"Maybe we should do a special three-hand act," she said.

"Customer, Player, and Manager." They both laughed a little at the thought.

"We just need to find the right role for you," he told her.

* * * *

The train pulled into the platform with a hiss of steam, and the doors cranked open, letting the travelers on the platform stream in. Miss Alwyx started to join them, but Ricar gestured to her. "No, down there."

He led her to the first class car at the end, showed his rail pass to the porter and said, "And one guest." The porter tipped his cap as he ushered them inside. They settled into the plush bench seats, facing each other. He smiled at Miss Alwyx's delight in the polished brass and mahogany fittings and the bag of hot nuts from the vendor's cart.

The train left the station and clattered along the elevated track, letting them look down on block after block of newly built row houses, homes for those who toiled in the factories whose smokestacks dotted the horizons.

Ricar was about to ask her about rehearsing under Chel, when she said, "I just wanted to say that it's an honor performing in your company. I've followed your work for years, since the first time I saw you, back when you were in the Crimson Engine company. It was Carnival, and your company performed Branwen in Furs. You were amazing. I honestly never thought that men could do the Innocent, but ... Oh, I don't even know what to say. I went back and saw every show you were in."

"Well, thank you." He almost winced at the memory of how crude his performances were back then. At least the audience didn't know any better.

* * * *

"Ready, Miss Wynne?" he had asked, poised to go through the door from the player's corridor to the assignation room.

"Please, call me Chel," she said and grabbed his ear. "On three. One ... two...."

With surprising strength for her small frame, Chel shoved him through the door by his ear. He let the momentum carry him across the room, suggesting the tiny woman had thrown him, and collapsed against the wall, right in front of their client.

The client, a grey-haired woman wearing a Servant's black and white dress, gasped as he looked up at her with pained eyes.

"You clumsy oaf!" Chel, looking suitably cruel and sensual in her Fatale's red and black dress, jabbed her riding crop at him. "You'll serve me correctly if I have to beat it into you."

The client raised her hands in supplication. "Please, mistress, have mercy on him!"

"Mercy?" Chel scoffed. "Get over here, you!"

Ricar gave the client a look of suffering, then slunk back to Chel and knelt before her, carefully positioned so the client would have a good view.

"Undress," Chel commanded, tapping her crop against her riding boot.

He unbuttoned his white shirt and set it aside, his face turned away as if ashamed to be half-naked before his mistress and her Servant.

Chel clutched his chin in one gloved hand. "How dare you let me appear in public improperly dressed!" She slapped his cheek. He rocked his head sideways, exaggerating the impact and eliciting a sympathetic sound from the client.

Chel stalked around behind him, positioned so the client would have a good view. "Such willfulness only understands the lash," she stated, and raised the crop high.

On stage, the blows of the Fatale or the Prince were faked, but here in the assignation room the clients wanted the bruises and sometimes even the blood. There were tricks to create the proper impression, of course, but he had asked Chel to use her full force on him. Apparently he had underestimated her. Her crop slashed repeatedly into his upper back, precisely aimed, sending harsh vibrations through his entire body. He had to lean forward and rest his hands on his knees to keep from falling forward under her onslaught.

Chel had shifted her tempo and punctuated her words with crop strokes. "Anything to say for yourself? Any explanation?

Any reason I shouldn't throw you out of my house into the gutter, you piece of filth?" Each strike produced an inarticulate sound from him.

At a break in Chel's ministrations, he shook his head and glanced sideways to implore the client in his anguish. The client was on her knees, raptly watching as he was punished.

Her mouth hung open with panting for breath and her hands worked furiously at the bunched skirts between her thighs.

Her pleasure was spurred by the sign of his beating.

This scenario was tricky. He had noticed that some clients, mostly women, neither wanted to beat nor be beaten, but wanted to observe the Innocent suffering, and to comfort them afterwards. He met Chel's eyes and gave her a tiny nod, the cue for the next phase of the scene.

"Hmph," Chel snorted in contempt. She pushed him with her foot so he fell to the floor, his head in the client's lap.

"Make sure this useless fool is presentable," she ordered, then turned and left the assignation room.

Ricar got to his knees, genuinely tired and trembling from Chel's beating. The client helped him to sit on the bed, and she sat beside him.

"Oh, my..." the client whispered as her fingers traced the marks across his back, making him twitch and gasp. "She is horrible to you, so horrible. A monstrous woman." She reached for the rag and bowl of water waiting on the bedside table, and began dabbing at the marks.

On instinct, he improvised, "I know what you did, but I told mistress it was me instead. I couldn't bear to think of what she'd do to you."

Tears welled up in the woman's eyes. "My darling boy, my treasure—" She clutched at him, mashing his face into her dress. He returned her caresses, gratified by her acknowledgment of his unjust suffering.

His kisses on her bare neck made her shudder. "Only you make my life here bearable."

A bell chimed softly, as the house's discreet reminder that the alloted time was nearly up. She jerked away from him, suddenly embarrassed, and stood up. "I need to, er...."

To his surprise, he reached up to her. He didn't want the scene to end so soon.

She shifted back into character. "I'll come back for you, darling, I swear I will," she said, backing out of the door. He managed a weak wave as the door shut.

Ricar relaxed on the bed for a moment, pleased despite his lapse at the end. It had been his first time playing the Innocent in an assignation, far more challenging than the Servants and Pets he had played before.

He got up, shrugged back into his shirt, then walked back into the player's corridor. He found Chel and the director waiting for them. "I think the client was very satisfied, sir," he said.

"And there were three more assignation requests," Chel pointed out.

"All right," the director said grudgingly, "you can do Fatale and Innocent in the first act, starting tomorrow night."

Chel laughed triumphantly, and she and Ricar embraced as friends.

"But this fad won't last," the director said, shaking his finger at them. "Be prepared to go back to Pets and Servants."

* * * *

More by fortune than design, he had the right qualities to be cast as the lead in Under the Hill, The Innocent Champion, and Branwen in Furs, working with some of the finest Fatales and Princes in the Commedia. Eventually, tastes changed, and there was little demand for male Innocents, but his career continued with new roles.

He realized Miss Alwyx was still speaking and stopped his reverie.

"I had it all planned out," she said. "When I turned eighteen, I'd get an apprenticeship. I knew I'd have to play some other roles first, but I could live with that. Then my little sister got pregnant by some bastard who left town.

Maman fell ill, had to stay in bed. Papa, he's a builder, lost both his apprentices, and I had to help out at work. I had to.... Err, some other things happened. Then, one day, I thought, Maman's living in the hospice now, Papa has enough apprentices for work, my sister can look after her own child, and I'm not getting any younger. I signed on with the first company I could find, and here I am. I didn't really think I'd make the audition at Razor Lotus, but I just had to come out and do my best."

The porter made his way through the car, announcing,

"West Badger station, West Badger."

"That's our stop," he said. He moved to help her up, but she had already bounded to her feet.

He followed her onto the platform and down the iron steps to street level. Though it was early evening, the lights from the pubs and dance halls and eateries illuminated the busy street.

Miss Alwyx looked around, not sure where to go, until Ricar pointed down the street to a theatre. "Over there," he said, beckoning her to follow.

The marquee read, "The House of the Blood Blossom proudly presents The Ruin of the Rakes, featuring Corr Evers Ysonn, the Wonder of West Badger, as The Virago." Ricar smiled. It was about time Corr got her name on the bill.

Ricar picked up his tickets and lead her up to one of the boxes. The Blood Blossom was half the size of the Razor Lotus, and Ricar could pick out a certain shabbiness that Davis never would have allowed. Even the punters down in the pit were different: instead of the shopkeepers and clerks, they were university students, ecstatic preachers, artisans—younger on average. The New Citizens, they called themselves.

Miss Alwyx picked at the frayed upholstery on her chair.

"Why don't they take better care of these things?"

"The performance matters more than the furnishings," he said. He actually liked this smaller theatre, where the performance could be more intimate than the Razor Lotus's cavernous auditorium allowed. He even preferred the gas lighting, which gave everything a dreamy glow, to the harsh clarity of the new electric lights Davis bragged about so much.

The orchestra ran through an eight-bar introduction and the host came out to run through the announcements.

"...and to your right," said the host. "I see Ricar, Donal sept, Stefan clan, company director of the House of the Razor Lotus and his protégé. Welcome to our humble establishment, and I hope our company can please you."

Ricar stood up, smiled and waved to the crowd, to scattered applause. When he sat down again, Miss Alwyx leaned close and said, "I'm your what?" under her breath.

"It's nothing," he said. "Just patter."

Miss Alwyx leaned back, but there was suspicion in her eyes that he hadn't seen before.

The curtain rose for the first act. Two Servants entered the Matron's bedchamber, playfully tried on their employer's clothes, then fell into fighting over the jewelry, until one held the other down and made her apologize.

The second act was a Brute and Harlot number. The Brute carried and threw the Harlot around the stage like she was a rag doll, though she got in a few eye punches and shin kicks.

Neither was terribly innovative, but Ricar appreciated the conviction the players put into it.

As the third act began, Miss Alwyx asked, "Who's playing the Innocent?"

"This isn't classical Commedia."

"You mean they don't have an Innocent?" She looked at him like a child struggling with the concept of supper without pudding.

"Not always, strange as it may seem."

The orchestra struck up a simple melody, a fake tree on the stage indicating a pastoral scene. A feminine figure shrouded in white walked out, holding a basket in one hand as she went to market.

"Ah, there we go," Miss Alwyx said, apparently pleased.

Enter the Rakes, stealing her basket and leaping around her, taunting the poor creature, who shrank away, huddling by the tree. The music rose as it seemed the Rakes would soon ravage the woman.

"Watch this," he told Miss Alwyx. "Miss Evers is the best Virago in the city right now."

The Rakes pulled at the white cloak, while the woman crouched down to a tiny ball, her faint protests answered by jeers from her attackers. Finally, the cloak (pre-cut) was nearly torn to ribbons.

Then one of the Rakes screamed and fell down, cradling his injured arm. The music shifted, insistent drum beats. His comrades stopped, confused, and then astonished as the woman stood up, slowly, until she was taller than them, her powerful body seeming to burst through her torn clothing.

The leader of the Rakes rallied them, and they fell upon her, but she defended herself almost effortlessly, throwing them around the stage, grappling a Rake with one arm while beating a second with her other arm. Ricar marveled at the choreography, which made everything at the Razor Lotus look tired. If Davis would just come out and see what players were doing at the smaller houses, he'd see how popular new scenarios could be.

Ricar kept one eye on the stage, and the other on Miss Alwyx. She watched the performance dutifully, mouth in a half-frown.

Her attackers vanquished, the Virago tore the purse from the lead Rake's belt, dropped it into her basket, and swaggered off the stage.

The curtain fell, and the audience rose in applause. Ricar joined them. Miss Alwyx applauded, but stayed in her chair.

When the applause died down and the lights came up for the intermission he asked her, "What did you think?"

Miss Alwyx looked up from the soap advertisements on the back of her playbill. "Well ... The Virago is basically the same as the Fatale."

"No, the Fatale rules through the desires of others. The Virago rules through her own strength and the desires of others."

"Oh, I see."

"Didn't that impress you at all?"

"The music was too dissonant, the choreography had no grace at all, and the scenario wasn't involving. As for the lead ... Well, I'm sure some people appreciate that kind of look."

"Have you paid attention to anything I've shown you tonight?" Ricar realized he had leaned forward until she had to lean back to get away from him. He leaned back and took a breath to steady himself.

"I'd best be getting home." Miss Alwyx got up and left the box.

"Wait, wait, please, Miss—" He followed her out of the box into the connecting corridor, struggling to catch up to her in the mass of people heading for the lobby. "I wanted to talk about your future at the Razor Lotus."

She stopped for a moment, then faced him squarely.

"What is this about exactly, sir?"

Ricar decided to come clean. "I'd like to see a Virago at the Razor Lotus. It would take a lot of training, but I think you could do very well in that role. I see such strength and bravery in you ... You're wasted in other roles."

Miss Alwyx rolled her handbill up into a thin, stiff rod. "I don't want to get bigger than this and look like some half-man-half-woman and do fake fights. That's not the Commedia. That's not art."

"And art requires the Innocent, like Miss Dyr?"

"Yes, that's what I've always wanted to do."

He shook his head. "Miss Dyr does two shows a night, plus assignations, six days of the week. It takes a toll. Her performance is already slipping. She's been the star for four years, and she might have another year. I've seen it a dozen times before."

"Perhaps I'm foolish, but I thought maybe, just maybe, you were going to let me replace Miss Dyr. Or at least understudy for her."

"I'm sorry, but I am not going to have you play the Innocent."

She dropped her handbill, which unfurled as it fell. "I'll ... I can lose weight. I can—"

The thought of Miss Alwyx trying to starve herself down to nothing made him speak bluntly. "Can you make yourself younger, and shorter? I'm sorry, but it's my considered opinion, after twenty-one years in the Commedia, that no one is going to pay to see you as the Innocent."

She said nothing, staring down, her bangs over her eyes.

"However," he continued, trying to make amends, "you could do very well as a Beast, a Harlot, even a Virago or a Fatale. You could have a good career, and a longer career, if you just accept that."

Ricar waited for a reaction. Would she burst into tears?

Slap his face? Punch him (perhaps she could do the Virago after all)?

She looked at him, eyes gleaming with suppressed tears.

"I don't want to play the Outlaw or the Virago or anything else. Everybody keeps telling me how strong and tough I am and ... And I'm not. That time Miss Dyr yelled at me, I went home and cried all night. Then I pulled myself together and came to the theatre and did it all again."

If she were younger, and smaller, and had big expressive eyes and a small delicate mouth—if she looked like Miss Dyr—

her tears would have brought down the house. Instead, Ricar was the only audience.

"It's like ... You think of all the things that have happened in your life, all the stupid decisions and the disappointments and the people who let you down and the things that just don't make any sense. All of those things leave a mark on you. But you want to think there's something inside you that's still the way you should be, that feels like that. That's what people come to see. That's why I want to play the Innocent.

That's the way I want people to see me."

"Miss Alwyx, I'm sorry, but nobody's going to let you do that on stage."

The hurt in her eyes made him feel like he was the worst person in the world.

An usher walked by, announcing, "One minute to curtain.

Your assignations, please—"

"You know, you aren't the first man to tell me what I can't do." She turned away, heading for the lobby.

Feebly, he said, "The intermission's over."

The last thing he saw was her disappearing down the stairs.

He caught the attention of one of the ushers. "I'll have a card, please."

* * * *

The Blood Blossom's assignation rooms were smaller and less well appointed than the Razor Lotus's. Ricar frowned and began fluffing the pillows and straightening the crooked bedspread. Why didn't this House's staff take better care of things?

He heard the door open and stopped. She was still beautiful, her sculpted bare arms, her proud walk, her shoulders set to emphasize her musculature. You couldn't imagine anything hurting her, even though Ricar knew different.

When she saw him, the Virago's feral grimace collapsed into confusion, then scorn. "What are you doing here?" She must have taken voice lessons, as hers had lost that nasal quality.

He took a step closer to her. This close, he could see the almost masculine angularity of her face, which the makeup didn't quite hide. "I see you have your name on the bill now.

Congratulations."

"I don't care to catch up on old times, Ricar." She pulled his assignation card out of her pocket and tore it in half, likely a knowing mockery of how he had taught her the Virago trick of ripping a thick book apart with her bare hands. "If you take this to the box office, your fee will be refunded."

"Please, Corr, I just wanted to talk with you for a moment."

She cocked her head to one side and crossed her magnificent arms across her broad chest. "What about?"

He had no script, no lines, so he just said, "What did I do wrong?"

Corr sighed. "I'm engaged, Ricar. After this season, I'm retiring. Charl and I are going to run an inn on the coast. He doesn't even go to the Commedia."

"Retiring? But ... you're in your prime. You have years of potential, and the Virago will come back in fashion one day."

He could almost see her changing before his eyes, losing her definition, getting pregnant, serving tea and scones to holidaymakers in some ridiculous apron.

"I'm not going to wait for that."

"You were the best I've ever seen, before or since. And you were that good because you loved the role."

"You're right. I did love it. I want to retire while I still do."

He said what he hadn't, two years ago. "I'm sorry it ended the way it did."

She stopped, drummed her fingers on the door frame. "So am I. Goodnight, Ricar."

* * * *

Ricar didn't go home that night. Instead, he slept on one of the mattresses in the prop room in the Razor Lotus's basement, smelling accumulated years of makeup, sweat, and desire.

He awoke at the traditional hour for his profession, shortly before noon. In the men's privy, he shaved himself and put his wrinkled suit in some semblance of order. His valet would give him dirty looks for a week.

Roughly shaved, without pomade, and in a rumpled suit, the man that looked back at him in the mirror uncomfortably resembled his father. He thought of the mining town where he was born, where men and women spent days deep underground, chipping away at hard rock, dust seeping into every pore, in search of those rare, tiny glints of precious metals. His father had died down there, along with six other people, trapped by a tunnel collapse, suffocating on their own exhaled breath. When he saw those bodies being carried out of the mine shaft, he swore he would leave and go to the bright lights of the city that shone on the other side of the mountains, and he'd never looked back.

While Chel and her players prepared for the matinée show, he had a quick meal in the saloon, then went to his office and put pen to paper.

Later that afternoon, Miss Alwyx walked into his office and placed a letter on his desk. "My resignation, sir," she said flatly. She stood there, arms crossed and chin tucked to her chest, waiting for him to say something.

Ricar was not the slightest bit surprised as he read the brief formal letter, but he suddenly felt trapped in his own office, like the air had turned thick and foul, or had been that way all along and he hadn't noticed.

He got up from his desk, feeling like iron straps were wrapped around his chest, shakily walked to the window and struggled to open it in vain. He retrieved an inkwell from his desk and hurled it through the pane.

He stood at the broken window for a moment, listening to the bustle of passersby outside the theatre. The faint breeze and the warm sunlight on his face helped. His eyes closed, he wondered how long it had been since he had felt that.

He turned back to his desk. Miss Alwyx stood just barely in the doorframe, warily watching him.

"Please excuse me," he said. "It was jammed."

She took a cautious step back into the office.

He picked the sealed letter from his desk and offered it to her. "This is for you."

Her hand started to reach for it, but stopped. "What is it?"

"It's a letter of recommendation. It says you are a talented and dedicated player who would be an asset in any company in the world, and that you left because of creative differences."

"I don't need that."

"It's all I can give you." It was what he hadn't given Corr.

She hesitantly took the letter, held it in both hands by the edges. "I don't know if I can do this at all, anymore." There were no tears, but her voice nearly cracked.

What could he tell her? Quit, don't quit? Stay true to yourself, learn to adapt? Follow your dream, be realistic? All he could say was, "Things change, Miss Alwyx."

"You mean I'll change or the Commedia will change?"

"Either. Both, maybe."

"Thank you," she said, almost a whisper, and turned away.

At the door, she stopped and looked over her broad shoulder.

"What about you?"

He smiled the brave, pained, hoping-against-hope smile of the Innocent. "The show must go on."

* * * *

Ricar took his seat in the third row of the tiny theatre just as the curtain rose, showing a cozy front room in a bourgeois home. He didn't care much for the theatre, finding it dull compared to the energy and glamour of the Commedia, but this play he had to see.

Miss Alwyx entered. As the wife, Naro, she bustled about her home, decorating the Midwinter tree, wrapping gifts for her children, and childishly snacking on treats.

He had seen her name on the handbill promoting the play, considered attending, then decided against it. But before long, everybody from Davis to the stagehands were talking about the scandalous new play. Eventually Chel told him, "It's been a year. Go see her."

As the other characters entered and the plot unfolded, Ricar found the story was so familiar—the cozy household, the threat of blackmail, the missing documents—that he wondered what the fuss was about.

In the second act, Naro's husband gave her a present: an Innocent's blue and white dress, for her to wear to a party.

Later, Naro offered to play any role her husband wanted—the Innocent, the Pet, the Harlot, even the Fatale—if he would let her blackmailer keep his job at her husband's bank. Yet the man dismissed her pleadings as childish whims.

In the third act, the husband and wife returned home from the party, dressed as the Prince and the Innocent. The incriminating letter finally came to light, and Vartold turned on Naro, calling her a liar and a thief, even though she had forged his signature to save his life. Ricar had seen, and played, the Prince menacing the Innocent hundreds of times before, but to see a man berating his wife like a common criminal had an impact he didn't expect at all.

At the last moment, the threat of blackmail was removed, leaving Vartold's position secure. Ricar relaxed. Vartold would forgive Naro, and their marriage would only be strengthened.

Instead—and this is when the grumblings from the audience began in earnest—Naro turned away from him. She left the room, then entered again, in her traveling clothes, and left the Innocent's dress hung over the back of a chair.

She seemed to tower over her husband, even without her height, as she told him that their marriage was founded on lies, that she could not be a good wife and mother, and that she would leave and search to find herself.

The last moment was the door slamming as Naro left her house and her husband. As the curtain fell, Ricar felt frozen to his chair, one hand clasped over his mouth. It was astonishing, yet made perfect sense.

The applause was scattered and mixed with grumblings and loud hissing. Ricar clapped the loudest and longest.

As the audience got up, Ricar hurried through the lobby—

passing a man haranguing a group of listeners, "...Not only nonsense but obscene nonsense. I'd rather my own daughters were lying dead in a ditch than they should see that!"—and made his way around the theatre to the stage door.

He waited there until the door creaked open, and Miss Alwyx peered out cautiously. He politely doffed his top hat to her and bowed. "Your admirer, Miss Alwyx."

She blinked in surprise, then emerged from the door.

"Mister Donal, I didn't expect you here. We've had some problems with harassment after shows."

They exchanged a few pleasantries, and she told him, "The leading lady resigned when the director wouldn't change the ending, and she took all the other actors with her. I worked in Black Veil company for a while, Servant and Harlot mostly, but started going to theatre auditions as well. I was lucky enough to be at the right one. The pay is a pittance, but as you can see, the playhouse is packed. We're good for a full season, if the city watch doesn't shut us down."

He started to say something professional about the production, but instead he changed his mind. "Miss Alwyx, you were extraordinary up there. I believed every word."

"Thank you, Mister Donal." Her smile was different, no longer a child's.

Emboldened by the new possibilities that smile opened, he quickly said, "The Oyster Club isn't far from here. Would you care to join me for a late supper?"

Her umbrella tapped against his walking stick. "That wouldn't take a miracle."

An Extempore Romance

Jason Rubis

Quite out of nowhere, Mary Ann said, "He's in love with you."

Amelia Lessington, down to her girdle and bloomers but still struggling with her boots, looked up and frowned. "What?

Who's in love with me? What on Earth are you on about?"

The chimera, motionless by the dressing-room door, regarded Amelia with unblinking yellow eyes. She stood with her hands behind her back, like a child prepared to give a recitation. There were some unusual features concealed under her skin—she'd hardly be worth calling a chimera otherwise—

but on the surface, except for her strange feline gaze, she looked like a pretty, petite girl of eighteen or so.

"That daguerrographer. He's been making sheep's eyes at you all day, from the moment you shook his hand. I shouldn't wonder he's written you a sonnet by now. That's what men in love do, you know."

"Ah. Well, I'm glad to have the benefit of your extensive experience in matters of the heart. After all, you've been out of the vat, what, a whole month now?" Amelia extended a long leg. "Make yourself useful and help me get this bloody boot off."

"English ladies don't use words like 'bloody,'" Mary Ann pointed out. But she readily went on her knees, deftly undoing the buttons on her mistress's boot.

"No, and they don't show bare feet and bare legs to the loving English menfolk, either."

"Why are you doing it, then?"

"Times change," Amelia grunted, bracing herself on the chair's arms as the boot came off her foot. "Besides, it was Edward's idea. It'll be charming for these pictures he's insisted on having for the new books. It's a bid for my lost girlhood, all in keeping with my professional reputation as spinner of childhood dreams; barefoot innocent days of youth, that sort of thing. Of course, when I was a girl my feet weren't so crabbed and ugly."

"Your foot is still pretty, I think," Mary Ann observed, turning it in her hands. She poised a fingernail over the damp sole and turned an innocent face to Amelia's stony glare. "Is it ticklish?"

Amelia allowed herself a tight smile. "Try it and I'll have boiled chimera for tea. My last three Mary Anns weren't half so cheeky, you know. I should have had a Wellington instead."

Mary Ann kissed her foot, running her tongue-tip along the underside of her toes. Amelia shuddered, not unpleasurably.

"Stop that. We've got business to attend to."

"Later?"

"Perhaps, yes. If you behave during the shoot." Inside, however, she was thinking, Definitely yes. It had been a long time since her last go-round and the unaccustomed feeling of skin exposed to cool air excited her. It's nothing to be ashamed of, she told herself. Lots of people use chimerae for intimate purposes. It wasn't, after all, as though they were human beings. Still, she hadn't planned on using this Mary Ann for that purpose. And, more to the point, it was cock she craved, not tickles and kisses, however artfully administered.

Perhaps she would give herself a treat at Cullen's after this ordeal was over.

"Get that other boot off now, and let's go." She smiled mischievously. "We mustn't keep my admirer waiting, must we?"

* * * *

In the chaos of the main studio, the daguerrographer stood oblivious to everyone and everything, utterly absorbed by his preparations for the afternoon's session. The daguerrograph imaging-engine was a strange and sinister-looking device that reminded Amelia of a vast black insect, all its limbs partially folded up on themselves. Periodically it released a hissing shaft of steam from a hidden valve and shifted itself slightly, as though restlessly seeking a more comfortable position.

There were many such devices now, all derived from the same strange science that had allowed the creation of chimerae; machines unrelated in function but all sharing a strange resemblance to living things. Great bulbous airships like vast skyborne fish carried mail and cargo to every corner of the Empire. Cabriolets maneuvered the streets at breakneck speed, drawn by metallic extensions like skeletal horses, or guided by internal mechanisms that functioned as artificial brains. The church disapproved strenuously of these effigies of the Creator's work, but they made the world faster and more profitable; commerce would not be denied its toys.

Mr. Darwin, Amelia supposed, was having a jolly good laugh at the whole affair.

The daguerrographer's attention remained firmly fixed on his machine. Amelia felt a bit piqued by this, for no reason she could determine. Perhaps it was Mary Ann's silly speculation on the man's supposed infatuation with her.

Edward Roxby, her business agent, was seated nearby. He rose when he saw Amelia, his plump red face beaming. "My dear," he exclaimed, offering her his hand. He gestured at the dark, simple dress Amelia had changed into. "You look utterly ravishing. What a lovely country lass you make!"

As though you'd notice, Amelia thought wryly, glancing at the tall, rather absurdly muscular young man who trailed along after Edward, following him step for step. The fellow wore nothing but a sort of abbreviated toga, and had the blank white eyes of an Adonis-model chimera.

Times were changing indeed, Amelia reflected. Not so long ago, a respectable businessman would never have dared avail himself of such a toy—not in the light of day, certainly. Not five years ago, Roxby would have been hounded out of London as a godless sodomite.

"Thank you, dear Edward." Some inner demon of perversity forced her chin up, and she said, loudly, "I wonder if the rest of the room is in agreement." She was speaking directly to the daguerrographer's black-jacketed back, and she had the pleasure of seeing him twitch.

Perhaps he really is in love with me, she thought. Well, why not? I'm not a hag quite yet, and he's not a poorly-made man. Or perhaps I just feel sorry for him because of the stammer. She shrugged the thought off, setting herself down in a chair so the daguerrographer's assistants could chatter over her and apply powders to her face. Mary Ann stood beside her, watching the process with great interest. The powders were meant to eliminate the glare of reflected light from her face in the final images, but Amelia was unused to makeup in such quantity, and its application now made her uncomfortable.

The studio was swarming with chimerae of every make and model. Amelia distracted herself by watching them. They were here for the daguerrographs, of course, to lend the right fantastical air. Many of them, unsurprisingly, were based on characters from her own books. They had been licensed and turned out by major chimera breeding firms for some time now, as toys for very rich children. The Plum-Pudding Prince waddled by, the Queen of Cheese close on his heels. Black-robed witches slouched muttering in corners; several not-quite identical versions of Master Christopher Pug stood gathered silently together, smoking their pipes with a curiously morose air. The sun-drenched upper reaches of the studio swarmed with fairies. It always amazed Amelia how quickly she had grown used to these creatures, even bored by them. The first time she had seen Mr. Tenniel's illustrations to her very first book, that had brought a delicious amazement that even today lingered.

Finally preparations were at an end, and Amelia was escorted to a strange kind of artificial forest growing in one corner of the room, with plaster trees and pasteboard grass.

The rough artificial moss pricked the too-soft soles of her bare feet.

Then, finally, the daguerrographer came over to smile and offer his hand. "Muh, muh, Miss Lessington," he said, and swallowed hard with a pained expression. "I'm so suh-sorry, you will p-please f-forgive me." He turned from Amelia, as though meeting her eyes was painful.

"Not at all, Mr. Dodgson," she said gently, reaching for his hand and clasping it for a moment. Mary Ann eyed her knowingly and got a glare. I only feel sorry for the poor man.

He's embarrassed...

"Cuh-confounded nuh-nuh-nuisance. Thuh, the s-s-stammer, you know. It will p-pass, I ass-ss- assure you."

Edward, standing off to the side, shot Amelia a wry, not unsympathetic glance. Gossip had it that Dodgson's stammer had worsened considerably since he had been turned out of his mathematician's post at Oxford, forced to take up the daguerrography that until then had been only an idle pastime for him. There had been some kind of scandal, apparently, something involving an older woman.

"Here, sir!" Dodgson said suddenly, so loudly and clearly that both Amelia and Mary Ann started. The daguerrographer was striding towards the Plum-Pudding Prince, who had snuck over to a table of refreshments and was cramming his spherical face with cream buns. "You show appalling muh-manners! No, d-don't blush and hide your uh-eye, your eyes at me, sir! I'll over-l-look it once, but don't tuh-try my patience again! I'll report this insolence to your f-firm, see if I won't!"

"You're a harsh taskmaster, Mr. Dodgson," Amelia observed. "I should give you my chimera for a week or so,"

she added, giving Mary Ann a thin smile. "An impudent creature in her own right. But you'd have her sorted out in good order, I don't doubt!"

"He has a way with them, no question," Roxby hastened to agree. "Ah, but the creatures are little more than children, after all. It's our duty to discipline them. The 'Natural Man's Burden,' as our Miss Felicia Blake would have it."

Dodgson bowed slightly. "Ruh-right you are, sir. Buh-but enough of these unpleasantries. L-let's to work, eh?"

He whistled piercingly and the air suddenly filled with the whisper of beating wings.

"This," he added wryly, "I suh-suspect, will put my duh-disciplinarian skills to a ruh-real t-test."

Fairies descended in a cloud around Amelia. "Hello," she said nervously, standing absolutely still. Her greatest literary successes had been with stories of fairies, but confronted with them in the chimerical flesh, they made her uneasy, much as flocks of birds did. Each was no larger than her hand, a naked, androgynous creature with sugarfloss hair and large, impudent eyes. They were pretty little things, but unlike most chimerae, they were quick-moving and could be unpredictable. The air rang with their chatter.

"Ooo, lookit ' er! Pipe, the grand lady lost 'er shoes! Don't she got funny toes, then!"

"Shut your gob, Peablossom! She's loverly, she is! That's a real lady, there. Ooo, I'd love ter give her a great big kiss, so I would!"

"I'm goin' ter giver 'er a kiss! There! I done it! Right on the lips, I kissed 'er!"

"Greedy! I want one meself!"

Dodgson had retreated behind his engine, operating it with dramatic flourishes and quick, precise movements of his hands. It lunged forward and back, lights snapping, clouds of steam rising from it. "Lovely, yes," he said, his voice muffled by the black cloth draped over his head to help him focus the shots. "Ah good. Yes, yes."

Fairies crowded squabbling on Amelia's shoulders and in her hair. One massaged her nipple through the thin material of her dress until it stood up like a thumb, at which point the fairy mounted it, rubbing its minute sex against it with hilarious squeals of pleasure. Amelia received innumerable tiny kisses and was pinched and tickled mercilessly on every inch of exposed skin. She had to stand still for every moment of it. After a time her nervousness evaporated, replaced by the teasing sexual heat she had felt earlier.

She knew the daguerrographs would come out well. They would show Miss Amelia Lessington, noted author of fairy stories, smiling and laughing rapturously, at play with her creations. It would undoubtedly help sales, which would please Edward and her publishers, and eventually herself.

And I'll walk out of here today with stiffened-up tits and a sopping quim. She glared at Mary Ann, who was laughing and applauding the spectacle of her mistress's torment.

Later, indeed. Very much so.

* * * *

"Good afternoon, mum. Come in, then, don't stop in the doorway."

Amelia regarded with some surprise the young woman who answered her knock. The girl was several years her junior, and might well have been the youngest daughter of Ma Cullen, the old bawd who normally ran the house. Her suit was cheap but well-tailored, her manner brisk but entirely sympathetic as she bustled Amelia in for tea and a chat. Mary Ann was pleased to be given an entire plateful of crystallized lemon peel. Within perhaps fifteen minutes Amelia's still full cup was taken from her and she was ushered into an acceptably clean upstairs room.

"Here I am taking my boots off again," she observed.

"I hope he's lovely," was Mary Ann's only comment, but it was fervently made. When the door opened moments later, her eyes widened. Still munching lemon, she whispered, "Oh."

The chimera was a Raphael model, a dark-skinned boy of nineteen with an obscene mouth and obsidian eyes. The clout of purple cloth hung on his narrow waist barely hid a sizable erection. He stepped into the room and shut the door behind himself. Raphaels rarely smiled, but this one cocked his head and made a soft, yearning sound that made Amelia's bones itch.

"Like him?" she asked Mary Ann. She herself certainly approved, and she did tend to be somewhat particular. She was pleased that she wouldn't be disappointed this afternoon.

"Mmn. He is lovely."

"Have him, then. I'll join you shortly. I don't want to rush but there's no point in letting him cool down meantime."

As she removed the last of her clothes she watched Mary Ann go to work. The chimera simply trotted up to the Raphael and stripped away his loincloth. A moment later, without undressing herself, she began sucking his formidable prick.

"Try his bollocks."

"Mmn?"

"His bollocks," Amelia said, pointing at them. "See what lovely great dangling eggs he's got? Like ripe fruits they are.

See if you can get one in your mouth. Give it a good suck."

"What, all of it?" Mary Ann asked dubiously. But she applied herself willingly to the challenge, and soon the Raphael was gasping, bracing himself against her shoulders.

Amelia liked that. Male chimerae were often a bit on the dull side, and it excited her to see the Raphael react so strongly to her servant's ministrations. It also bode well for the rest of the session.

"Lick it while you suck it. And grab his arse; squeeze it with your nails. Yes, that's right, dig them in, hard as you can."

Amelia's experience in such matters was practical; it came entirely from visits to ladies' pleasure-houses such as this one. Perhaps that was the reason she was so particular—unlike many a respectably married woman, she was familiar with possibilities of the body, and understood exactly what delights could be hers for the asking. She had been called on by gentlemen since she was fifteen, and had had many suitors, but marriage had eluded her, or she it. It was a lack in some eyes, but not one she felt a need to dwell on. Her stories had given her a career, respect, and money, and those things afforded her between them everything else she might desire.

She dropped the last item of her clothing to the ground and padded naked over to the pair of grappling chimerae. As Mary Ann continued to tongue and suck the Raphael's balls, Amelia took his cheeks between her hands, pulled his face to hers and kissed him deeply. She bit his lower lip in her teeth and tugged sharply at it.

The Raphael gasped, moved his hands from Mary Ann's shoulders to Amelia's. He had some typical male aggression bred into him, an urge to dominate; but there was passivity there as well, in consideration of customers who might require it. It was one reason Amelia had chosen this model, and a good thing, too. Had she requested a Herakles or a David, she might not have been able to deflect those grasping hands as easily as she did. After the afternoon she had just endured, she herself had no interest in being passive.

"Lie down," she told the Raphael, not unkindly. "On the bed there, go on. Spit-spot."

The chimera pouted at her, then at Mary Ann, who was still busily at work on his balls. Finally, reluctantly, he broke away and went to the bed. A moment later, Amelia joined him.

"I'm going to enjoy this," she told Mary Ann. She spat into her palm and swiftly lubricated the Raphael's cock. He spread his long legs for her, sliding his hands under his arse and pushing his middle upward, making his phallus a more appealing target.

Amelia climbed onto the Raphael. Slowly, gingerly, hissing, she impaled herself.

Oh God. Oh sweet lord Jesus, that's good, it is. It was: the grind of the rough-silky thatch of pubic hair and bone on her clitoris, the painful but delicious sensation of being filled.

Chills wracked her body as she rode the Raphael. He lay with both hands under his arse, smiling beatifically at her as he was fucked.

Mary Ann came up behind Amelia, kneeling in the little space between her and the Raphael's legs. She put her arms around her mistress and nipped her bare shoulders, squeezed her nipples and twisted them like dials. She still hadn't removed her own clothes, probably out of sheer laziness. She couldn't have known how oddly pleasurable the roughness and softness of her dress made her embrace to Amelia.

"Harder. More, do it like that." Amelia forced herself to keep her hands away from the itch on her breasts, concentrating on making the sensation spice the pleasure of fucking the chimera's prick. She set her own hands on the Raphael's chest, dug her nails into the smooth skin.

Mary Ann's small fingers stroked and tickled and scratched her breasts and belly and sides. Her mouth with its tongue and small hard teeth bit and sucked at her shoulders and the nape of her neck. It was heaven and it was maddening. The delicacy of it drove Amelia on, jerking herself back and forth on the Raphael, as though he were a steed she was riding to some unguessable destination.

She felt the orgasm approaching, like a light-filled cloud she could barely see. Sobs wracked her as she fell forward, her hair falling into the Raphael's face, making them seem, for a moment, one merged ecstatic creature.

* * * *

"It's ruh-really appalling, isn't it? About Huh-her Majesty, I mean..."

Amelia, enjoying the smooth motion of the boat, managed a properly concerned frown, and a brief nod that managed to convey agreement without encouraging further chatter. She understood that Dodgson was only making polite conversation, but lately the royal death at Buckingham Palace was all anyone talked about. It had become rather tiresome.

And the afternoon was lovely, a sunny July day, absolute perfection. She was glad now that she had accepted the daguerrographer's hesitant invitation to join him on an outing, though it had taken her nearly a week of shilly-shallying to make up her mind.

"Did she really choke on a chicken-bone?" Mary Ann inquired, munching an apple. The chimera had accompanied them on the picnic at Dodgson's suggestion, to lend the afternoon a certain air of propriety. Remembering the afternoon with the Raphael, Amelia had to smile. Mary Ann was not quite the ideal chaperone, she thought, if in fact that was what Dodgson had in mind. Well, perhaps she'd give her servant a chance to demonstrate that to their earnest, gentlemanly host. A bit later, perhaps.

"A ch-chicken bone, yes, s-so they say," Dodgson said, shaking his head sadly. "Hardly suh-seems possible. The world will change now, y-you know, in all sorts of ways."

"Have I complimented you recently on those daguerrographs of yours, Mr. Dodgson?" Amelia said lazily.

"They really are delightful, and Mr. Roxby tells me they've exceeded all his expectations in terms of spurring sales."

Dodgson looked genuinely pleased. "Ah, you're tuh-too kind, Miss Lessington."

"You're a man of considerable talents. You know, I wonder that you don't try your hand at a fairy story."

Dodgson shook his head ruefully. "Nuh-not my line, I'm afraid. Oh, I've suh-set down a fancy or two, for the chuh-children of fuh-friends, but I'm much better at puh-puzzles.

Problems of muh-mathematical logic, you see. For example,"

he continued, with the unmistakable air of one preparing to mount an endlessly-ridden, well-loved hobbyhorse. "If one were to take a train from London to Edinburgh..."

"No," Amelia said suddenly.

The daguerrographer managed to keep his oar-strokes smooth, but he turned startled, stricken eyes on her. "I buh-beg your...?"

"I find puzzles most abominably boring." Amelia smiled, scooping up a handful of water and letting it trickle through her long fingers. "Ah, you see, I'm determined to be naughty.

You must tell me a story. I want one this afternoon, of your own invention, for my very own."

"Oh, of, of course. Well..." Dodgson cleared his throat, his brow knitting. "There were once thuh-three luh-little girls who lived in a well..."

"Not a children's story," Amelia said quickly. "A story for ... grown-ups." She smiled again and bit her finger. "If you know what I mean..."

Dodgson stared at her, blushing furiously. Then he laughed, a loud laugh that might have been meant to cover up embarrassment, but which also seemed to have a great deal of pleasure in it.

He isn't sure if I'm serious quite yet, she thought. But he would be. Because she was. The world truly was different now. Victoria was dead, and the tides of the world were fast changing.

Hysterical Friction

Thomas S. Roche

Victoria Barker shifted nervously in her seat in the waiting room. She could hear her husband's booming voice as he spoke to Dr. Fitzmartin.

"She's a wreck," Arthur Barker was saying. "If I knew what to do, Charles, I wouldn't be coming to you. At the best of times, you see, she's rather a jittery woman. But lately it's nerve-wracking to be around her! The slightest little thing might set her off!"

Victoria heard the low, seductive rumble of Dr. Fitzmartin's voice. Dr. Charles Fitzmartin was a dear, dear friend of Victoria's father, as well as the family doctor. In fact, Victoria had had quite a crush on him when she was younger, though she never would have admitted it, then or now.

"Describe her symptoms, Arthur. Tell me what you mean when you say something sets Victoria off."

Victoria quivered with sudden nervousness as her memories came flooding back to her. It was as if she were mentally predicting what her husband was about to say. She remembered the nervousness, the depression, her tendency to fly into a rage about the slightest things. It had been months—perhaps years—since she'd felt normal. Truth be told, she never felt normal any more—certainly not since the marriage. For a time Victoria had thought it was the stress of running the household. But now she knew it had to be more than that. It was like some horrible nervous disease, eating away at her.

But what Arthur told Charles was this: "She's so damn nervous all the time." Arthur seemed to be struggling with a difficult description. Then, all of a sudden, he burst out with,

"She's like a cat that's been buggered something fierce!

Pardon my French."

There was a long pause as Charles Fitzmartin assessed the meaning of Arthur's salty phrase. Dear Arthur's time in the service had left him with a profound vocabulary of rather off-color phrases, though of course he would never have used such language in his wife's presence. But then again, Arthur's booming voice always carried much further than he realized, so Victoria had certainly heard more than her fair share of his naughty talk. Truth be told, she thought it was kind of appealing, in a masculine sort of way. One of the few things she found masculine about Arthur. As a matter of fact, it caused a curious sensation to grow near the back of her brain— but of course that was unacceptable. Victoria ignored the sensation, feeling her hands shake as she did. It simply wouldn't do to be thinking of things like that at any time—least of all when she was at the doctor's to be treated for this profound nervous illness that seemed to be taking her over.

Despair flowed through Victoria and she began to whimper nervously, as if in prequel to a burst of tears.

"Bugger?" came the calm voice of Dr. Charles Fitzmartin, in quizzical response to Arthur's rather earthy assessment of his wife's condition. "A cat that's been buggered, you say?"

There was a long silence.

"Oh, for the love of God, Charles, you're not implying—you can't possibly mean—certainly—that's not at all what I meant!

Such a thing would be totally unthinkable, even you have to admit!" Arthur lowered his voice, which was terribly unusual.

But he was unable to lower it so much that Victoria didn't understand what he said. "Not that I haven't—I mean, Charles, you have to understand, I've been in the army, and on numerous hunting expeditions, it's simply not proper to do it the usual way and risk certain ... conditions. But with my wife? Never! Well, what I'm saying is, Victoria would never go for such a thing and you really oughtn't to make such assumptions from everything I say, do you hear me?"

Dr. Fitzmartin laughed. "Of course, Arthur. I meant no offense. I wasn't implying your relations with Victoria were unnatural. Of course such a thing is unthinkable."

Victoria burst into tears, choking back sobs as she quivered uncontrollably in the hard-backed chair.

It was then that the sobbing Victoria noticed Dr. Fitzmartin's assistant—Chloe was her name, wasn't it? Clara, Chloe, something like that. Her last name was Waters, or Rivers, or something similar. The young woman had been moving about the room restlessly—rearranging things and dusting the furniture, that sort of thing. And the girl—Chloe, Clara, Carla—kept pausing in her work to glance over at Victoria and offer a faint, nervous little smile. The first few times it happened Victoria had thought nothing of it. She thought it was just the friendly gesture of a concerned health professional. But as Victoria's breast quivered with the unstoppable onset of tears, she noticed that this time the receptionist—Chloe, Clara, Catherine—was not looking away.

She looked about to say something, but did not.

Victoria took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes as the receptionist returned to her filing. Victoria noticed for the first time that the starched white dress the girl was wearing was just a shade too tight for propriety. It clung quite noticeably to the girl's ample hips, and tugged with some effort across her breasts. Victoria was quite certain the girl wasn't wearing proper undergarments—the outline of her breasts was disturbingly evident, and the girl was blessed with perhaps more bust than was typical for a girl her size.

Victoria imagined that the poor girl must have a hard time keeping herself clothed on receptionist's wages, and this too-tight dress was the result. Victoria experienced a wave of sadness for the girl, which set her quivering and sobbing all over again. Oh, to be so poor that you were forced into too-tight garments ... without the means to afford proper undergarments ... The horror was overwhelming.

"There, there," sighed the receptionist—Victoria suddenly recalled that her name was Clara. To Victoria's dismay, the girl was now standing before her, but try as she might, Victoria could not stop her wave of sobbing.

Victoria almost gasped as the girl put her arms around her.

Victoria collapsed into a series of sobs, giving in to her nervous agony. The curves of the girl's body pressed against her through that too-tight dress—damn that dress—and Victoria realized with horror that she could actually feel the tiny nubs of the woman's nipples, noticeably hard under the thick white material.

"Let me comfort you, my dear," Clara was sighing. She was a girl of perhaps nineteen or twenty, just a year or two younger than Victoria, and Victoria, despite her nervousness, got the sense that this girl could understand her feelings.

"What's got you crying, darling? Tell me all about it."

Victoria realized that this manner of speaking sounded more like something coming from the madam of a bordello than a doctor's receptionist—not that Victoria would know about such things.

But Victoria gave in to her pain and wept bitterly as Clara cradled Victoria's head in her arms.

"There, there," sighed Clara. "The doctor will make it all better. Charles is a genius at making people all better. And I'll do my part, too, you dear woman."

Victoria experienced a curious rush of fear as she heard Clara say that, as if there were some double-meaning that Victoria should understand. But the warmth of the girl's embrace and the softness of her touch soothed Victoria, and she found herself having some difficulty thinking straight—especially with her cheek against Clara's breast. Victoria ached with jealousy: Clara really was blessed—or burdened—with more in the bustline than was typical for such a petite girl. If Victoria had such a figure, perhaps things wouldn't have gone this far...

Victoria pushed that thought away. She shouldn't be thinking of such things at a time like this. Especially not with the soothing touch of Clara's hand stroking the back of her neck, tickling her flesh, and the fullness of Clara's breasts against her face.

Victoria began to sink into a sort of trance. She really oughtn't to be sobbing like this—everything seemed so pleasant at the moment. With the warmth and curve of Clara's body against hers ... Certainly everything wasn't as bad as it seemed, was it?

Then she heard Arthur's booming voice from the next room, and everything momentarily was at least as bad as it seemed.

"For the love of God, Charles, I wish you'd stop bringing everything back to buggery! Didn't I tell you?"

Victoria realized that she hadn't been paying attention to the obviously hushed sound of Dr. Fitzmartin's voice from the next room. Perhaps he was keeping his voice low so that Victoria couldn't hear what was being said. How thoughtful Charles Fitzmartin was!

But now his voice, raised in answer to Arthur's, was quite audible. "Buggery is only one option, Arthur, and certainly there's a number of others! I hope you'll forgive me for saying that you're being rather difficult about the whole thing."

Difficult. Arthur was so good at being that way.

There was a long silence, and Victoria calmed slightly.

Victoria sank deliciously into the sensations of Clara's hand stroking the back of her neck. It was as if Sarah, her dear sister, was embracing her as they used to do. Victoria never wanted it to end.

Clara sighed pleasantly. "Just relax, my dear ... We'll have you fixed up in no time..."

A shiver ran down Victoria's spine.

Arthur and Charles began speaking again, this time in low, hushed tones. Victoria could only pick out a few words here and there—"procedure," "correction," and "vicissitude."

Vicissitude?

Then the doctor's voice, loud enough for Victoria to understand, "No, you certainly need not be present during the procedure!"

Clara put one finger underneath Victoria's chin and lifted her face so that their lips were barely an inch from each other. A curious, warm sensation flooded through her as she smelled Clara's sweet breath, and then felt a tender, sisterly kiss on her lips.

A sisterly kiss. But when the sisterly sensations were over, the kiss did not end, and Victoria's warmth rose as Clara's tongue tickled her own. Was this really proper behavior in the doctor's office? Victoria heard herself giggling, low in her throat, as pleasurable sensations flowed through her and Clara kissed her deeper.

Then, all of a sudden, the door opened.

Victoria realized with fright that Clara had lifted her knee and placed it on the arm of Victoria's chair. Given the tightness of the dress, this tested the strength of the material and all but imprisoned Victoria in her chair. Clara's lips were still against Victoria's, her tongue still in Victoria's mouth, as Charles Fitzmartin cleared his throat remonstratively.

Reluctantly, Clara pulled her lips from Victoria's and turned to face Dr. Fitzmartin.

"The poor dear," sighed Clara, indicating Victoria by ruffling her hair. "She needed some comfort."

Charles gave Clara a disapproving look. "What she needs," he growled, "is a medical procedure. Certainly you, of all people, can appreciate that, can't you, Miss Brook?"

Clara reluctantly pulled away from Victoria, her face reddening. She looked at the floor, but Victoria could have sworn she saw the barest hint of a smile on Clara's face.

"Yes, Doctor," said Clara breathlessly. "I can appreciate that."

Dr. Fitzmartin turned his attention to Victoria, still wearing the stern, unforgiving expression he'd flashed at Clara Brook, and Victoria filled with familiar excitement as she vividly recalled her girlhood crush on the family doctor. She fought the nervous heat that brought to her body and mind as Dr.

Fitzmartin spoke to her.

"Victoria, I'd like for you to come in, please."

"Yes, Dr. Fitzmartin," said Victoria nervously, standing.

She wished suddenly that she had a moment to freshen up.

She felt so hot and sweaty, despite the fact that it was not a warm day.

* * * *

"Your husband has described your symptoms to me," said Charles coldly. "I see a clear diagnosis of hysteria."

"Hysteria?" asked Victoria, uncomprehending.

Arthur waved his hand in dismissal. "There's no need to explain it all to my wife, Doctor. She doesn't have a head for such matters."

Despite herself, Victoria shot Arthur a dirty look, which, luckily, her husband did not see.

"All right, then," said Charles. "What's important is that there is a new procedure to treat such nervous conditions as yours. Mrs. Barker, I think such treatments would clearly be of benefit to you."

Victoria couldn't stop looking at Charles. Something about the way Clara had touched her had awakened all of Victoria's girlhood desires for Dr. Fitzmartin. She recalled the long afternoons under the apple tree imagining that the good doctor was there with her, the warm feelings such reveries elicited in her body. She remembered the fantasized trips to Dr. Fitzmartin's office for an "examination" much more thorough than any he would ever give her in reality.

"Whatever you think best," sighed Victoria, tears forming in her eyes once again.

Victoria sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.

Arthur took note of his young wife's tears and began to grumble. "Good God, Charles, the woman's in crisis. Let's get this over with. Now Victoria, mind you, I'm not going to be around for this treatment. You know I've got a weak stomach for all those woman-things." As if to punctuate his remark, Arthur turned a peculiar shade of green and shuddered, looking away from Victoria. "But I'll be back to retrieve you in one hour—no longer—so don't worry. This treatment ... Well, Charles will explain everything to you." Arthur gave his wife another nauseated look and cleared his throat. "It's all right if I go now, Doctor?"

"Certainly," said Charles coldly, his distaste for Arthur Barker showing through for the first time.

Arthur leapt out of his chair as if he were a schoolboy given a reprieve from the classroom on a warm spring day.

"Tut-tut, now, Victoria, I'm sure the treatment'll seem distasteful at first, but Charles here's a trained physician, so you're in good hands." Then Arthur was gone, having bolted with admirable velocity for a man his age.

Charles turned to regard Victoria, his gaze cold and clinical.

"Well then," said the doctor. "Shall we begin?"

* * * *

Victoria was more than a little nervous at the prospect of this "procedure." Charles told her nothing other than that it would involve rather "personal" places, that it was somewhat

"unconventional," and that she must at all times stay very relaxed. Charles summoned Clara to escort Victoria to a changing room and help her into the gown that would be necessary for her to wear during the procedure.

Victoria blushed as Clara helped her undress.

"Now darling," said Clara Brook with a voice as soft as silk.

"There's no need to be shy. I've seen it all." With that, she began unlacing Victoria's corset, slowly revealing her smooth white belly and breasts. Victoria blushed more deeply, wishing yet again that she had more for Clara to see. But Clara was plainly enchanted with Victoria's small yet firm breasts.

"Aren't these the most delicious things?" giggled Clara, running her hand over the buds of Victoria's nipples. "It's so nasty having more, you know. And I think it's quite clever the way these small ones look in a swimsuit."

Now Victoria was blushing uncontrollably as her nipples stiffened and tingled with intense sensation. It excited her to be complimented like this by such an obviously fetching woman a few years younger than her. But more than that, it excited her to be undressed by Clara. Even so, Victoria was fairly sure that she oughtn't to be letting Clara pinch and stroke her breasts like she was doing. Then again, Clara was a trained doctor's assistant—couldn't this be part of the procedure?

As if reading Victoria's thoughts, Clara cooed softly, "Now Victoria, darling, just relax. I'm well-trained in these matters, and this is a necessary part of the medical procedure."

Then Clara was pushing Victoria onto an examination table, pressing her lips around one firm bud and suckling like a baby while her other hand pinched and teased Victoria's other nipple to full erection. Victoria's eyes went wide and she let out a low moan of pleasure as unexpected sensations flooded through her body with every flicker of Clara's tongue.

Clara was pulling Victoria's dress down further with her free hand, all the while coaxing her breasts to more exquisite sensation.

Suddenly the door to the examination room opened, and Dr. Fitzmartin stood in the doorway with a stern expression on his face. Victoria flooded with shame as she realized that she was partially undressed—Charles could see her breasts quite plainly. But Victoria's shame mingled with another sensation—an excitement, as if it was some sort of lascivious thrill to be showing herself to her family doctor. Victoria knew that was awful: he was a medical professional, after all, and his interest in her body was merely clinical.

In that moment, Charles looked away and covered his eyes.

Clara looked up guiltily from Victoria's breasts, her face blushing deep crimson.

"Clara," growled Dr. Fitzmartin. "What have I told you?

You're to prepare the patient without getting carried away, do you understand?"

"Yes, Doctor," said Clara, chastened. Dr. Fitzmartin closed the door and Clara looked up at Victoria. She gave a naughty little giggle and returned to undressing Victoria.

* * * *

Victoria was gowned for the procedure without further incident. She gathered that there would be some sort of involvement with her private parts, which both interested and mortified her. Victoria kept telling herself that Charles was a professional—he was intimately acquainted with a woman's nether regions, and there was no need for her to be shy about it. And yet Victoria was not comfortable at all with the warm, tingling feel that knowledge brought to her body.

Wearing the thick, concealing hospital gown, much like a nightgown but looser around her bust, Victoria was led by Clara into another examination room, albeit one outfitted with curious equipment.

There was a slanted table with two stirrups, not unlike a birthing chair, perhaps, and right next to it was a bicycle.

A bicycle?

Victoria realized that, in fact, this was not a bicycle: there was only one wheel, which attached to a curious collection of wires leading to a rather complicated wand that rested on a table just in front of the stirrupped chair.

"Goodness," said Victoria, frightened for the first time of the fate that was about to befall her.

Charles had garbed himself for the procedure in a white coat of the same material, it seemed, as Clara's dress. Clara offered her another knowing smile before helping Victoria into the chair. Victoria blushed as Clara helped her to place her bare feet into the stirrups, spreading her legs in a most unladylike manner. The gown still cloaked Victoria's nether regions, but simply having her legs spread like that was shockingly powerful.

She hadn't been spread like this since ... since ... since...

Victoria realized that there were thick leather straps mounted to the sides of the seat. Clara quickly drew the thickest strap around Victoria's waist, buckling and cinching the leather belt until it kept Victoria quite firmly in place.

Victoria felt curiously restrained, especially when Clara took hold of her wrists and circled each of them with a similar strap.

"You may feel quite uncomfortable during the procedure,"

drawled Charles as Clara swiftly fastened straps around Victoria's legs, restraining them in their vulnerable, spread position. "Clearly some very delicate regions are involved.

This is why the restraints are helpful: we can't have you struggling and possibly interfering with the procedure."

"But ... Doctor..." gasped Victoria breathlessly. "Is it unpleasant?"

Charles shrugged, and Victoria thought for a moment that she could see the faintest hint of a smile on his handsome face. That sent a shiver through her.

"There can be confusing sensations associated with the procedure," said Charles. "But you must trust that no matter how desperately you wish to get away, you are being kept restrained for your own good. Failure to complete the procedure once we've begun could be devastating. Do you understand?"

Victoria had such a nagging familiarity associated with that phrase "for your own good." Wasn't that what Arthur had said that night—the last time, Victoria remembered with a flash of heat, that she had found her legs spread like this.

"For my own good," she echoed, understanding that while Arthur had been mistaken, Charles most certainly was not.

Clara swiftly cinched the final strap around Victoria's ankle.

Now Victoria was most cleverly restrained. Clara bent forward and gave Victoria a tender, sisterly kiss on the lips, which earned a look of rebuke from the doctor.

"Just relax," whispered Clara. "And leave everything to us.

It's not so horrible—trust me, I know."

Victoria looked up at Clara for a moment—had she undergone the procedure, too? Perhaps during an earlier experimental phase? Victoria would have to make it a point to ask Clara some time.

Clara gave Victoria's hair a last ruffle, a motherly look crossing her face. Then, to Victoria's surprise, Clara mounted the bicycle, indelicately hoisting her white dress to allow her to part her legs around the bicycle's rather curiously-shaped seat.

Clara took quite a long time to settle herself on the chair, having some evident difficulty getting herself into the right position.

Charles seemed to read Victoria's confusion perfectly. "This procedure uses electrical power, a rather new manner of running things. Unfortunately, it's impractical to run a steam engine in the office, so the stationary bicycle will provide us with the power we need. Please begin."

Clara began to pedal furiously.

Victoria's eyes went wide as Charles lifted the curious wand that was attached to the end of the wires and cables. It had a long, thick body and a globular head that narrowed to a dull point on one side. It looked like some sort of royal scepter, but with clinical, modern-looking nubs all over it instead of jewels.

Then Victoria gasped in fright as she realized that the globular end of the wand was humming, throbbing, vibrating, with terrifying efficiency.

Victoria looked at Charles for reassurance, but the doctor was quite involved with the procedure, paying little attention to his patient's dismay. Victoria's eyes swept the room, and came to rest on the violently-pedaling Clara, who flashed Victoria a lascivious grin and a too-obvious wink.

Victoria looked back at Charles and stared wide-eyed as he began to move the gyrating wand toward her.

"Now Victoria," said Charles. "This may cause some ...interesting ... sensations in your lower body. Keep in mind that I will leave the gown in place at all times, to allow for your modesty. I will be applying this treatment strictly by feel, so don't be shocked by the apparent ... intimacy of my touch."

Victoria was falling, desperately falling into a vast chasm of nothingness. Charles slipped the vibrating wand under the wide bottom of Victoria's gown—

And then Victoria gasped as Charles's hands touched her nether regions. Her most private place.

Perhaps Victoria had expected the doctor's hands to explore her. But like this? He was actually touching—stroking, caressing—her sex!

Then Victoria's head began to spin as Charles parted the lips of her female parts. The sensations overwhelmed her as Charles deftly exposed a sensitive region near the top of Victoria's womanhood ... and applied the bulbous tip of the wand.

Unexpectedly, and uncontrollably, Victoria's body spasmed and she began to scream. She strained against the leather straps that held her in place. She shook her head back and forth as she screamed wildly, choking and sobbing in sudden catharsis.

"Hold, Miss Brook," said Charles loudly, over the sound of Victoria's screams, and Victoria turned her head to see a wide-eyed Miss Clara Brook with her dress rather askew and her face and neck flushed deep red. Surely it was the exertion of pedaling the bicycle, though the look that Clara was giving the squirming and screaming Victoria certainly implied something else.

The sensations in her sex lessened, and Charles looked up at Victoria's face.

"Describe what you felt," said Charles firmly.

Clara quickly said, "It was like the bicycle was my lover, and I was—"

"Miss Brook!" snapped Charles. "I was speaking to Mrs. Barker."

"Of course," giggled Clara, embarrassed.

"What did you feel, Victoria?"

"It ... It was like my whole body was being penetrated by a white light ... Oh, Doctor, I've never experienced anything like that..."

Charles nodded. "Excellent. Proceed, Miss Brook."

Victoria moaned as the throbbing of the magic wand drew close to her sex once more. She whimpered desperately, frightened but excited by the closeness of the blessed instrument. When the blazing, throbbing head of the vibrator touched her once more, Victoria let out another scream—but this time, Charles did not relent, but pressed more firmly against her sex, and in a few seconds Victoria's thrashings were quieted, and her screams turned to moans.

"Relax, Victoria," sighed Charles soothingly. "Relax into the sensations. You're doing fine."

Victoria still squirmed and pulled against the leather restraints, but her moans and screams had turned to gasps of pleasure. She realized with embarrassment that she had begun to utter Charles's name, but she found that she could not stop.

Then there was Charles's touch again, underneath the throbbing hum of the vibrating wand. His fingers. Probing.

Teasing. Parting her nether lips. Two fingers pushing inside her body, stroking her maidenhead.

"Hold, Miss Brook," Charles ejaculated nervously.

Clara let out a sorrowful moan, but managed to stop pedaling. Her dress was now extremely rumpled, and she appeared to be sheened with a thin film of sweat. Her eyes gazed dully at the squirming Victoria and her mouth hung open as she panted unstoppably.

"Victoria," said Charles sternly. "I don't wish to get more personal than is necessary. But am I correct in thinking that you and Arthur have not..."

Charles's fingers were still inside Victoria, stroking that place where Arthur had never been. Victoria's moans and whimpers rose in pitch even without the stimulation of the vibrating wand. She stared at Charles with surrender, tears filling her eyes.

"You and Arthur have not had marital relations?"

Victoria quivered. "He lets me use my mouth sometimes."

It was the doctor's turn to blush. He shook his head sadly.

"That certainly could contribute to your condition, Victoria.

I understand that Arthur is a man of atypical needs, but a young woman such as you can't survive like this without risking dire psychological and physical consequences. With your permission, I would like to perform a small procedure that will ... correct your condition."

Victoria's eyes fluttered and she let out an uncontrolled moan. "Yes, yes, yes," she gasped.

"Miss Brook?" snapped Charles.

"Oh ... Yes, Doctor?" moaned Clara, plainly having some difficulty focusing on the doctor's orders.

"Please bring me the number two molded prosthesis," said Charles, and Victoria shuddered as Clara raced out of the room to fulfill Charles's request.

Charles's fingers still rested slightly inside Victoria's sex, and she quivered and moaned as he continued to massage her insides.

"No trouble at all," cooed Charles soothingly. "This won't hurt a bit, my dear, and then you'll be all better."

Clara appeared again holding a bottle of liquid and what appeared to Victoria to be a curiously-shaped riding horn. "Oh dear," Victoria whimpered as she realized that it was not a riding horn at all. In fact, it appeared to be made of leather and ... Victoria simply couldn't think such a thought. She stared at the instrument with a look of horror on her face.

"Miss Brook," growled Charles sternly. "It's unseemly to let the patient see the instruments before application."

"Yes, Doctor," said the chastened Clara, who handed Charles the instrument and once more mounted the bicycle.

"Begin," ordered Charles, and Victoria moaned uncontrollably as Clara began to pedal. The seething vibrations once more began in the vibrating wand, which Charles was deftly applying to Victoria's sex. As the quickening began inside her and her pleasure began to mount, Victoria felt pressure in the teasing thickness at the entrance to her sex, the very opening of her womanhood, where Charles had previously applied his two fingers. Now Charles was entering her with a single finger, which probed and prodded at the place where her maidenhead barred the entrance to her femaleness. Then the doctor applied a second finger, teasing her open, parting her most private spot, readying her for the next stage.

Charles spoke with a tenderness he hadn't yet used with Victoria. There was something so soothing, so gentle, so seductive about the richness of his voice now. "Just relax, my dear Victoria. You're under my care, completely in my control.

This is a medical procedure, and you're fully safe in my hands..."

Meanwhile, his fingers were stroking, penetrating, opening her further. Victoria moaned in unexpected pleasure, mingled with the horror of her position. She was helpless at the hands of her doctor, who was about to divest her of her virginity.

Certainly she should have been divested of it long ago, when she and Arthur had first married, but since he'd shown no interest, Victoria had remained in this undeflowered state until now—but no longer.

For she was about to be taken, strapped bodily into this seat with her legs spread and with curious sensations of pleasure filling her body. Good God, Victoria thought to herself. I feel as if I'll be ill ... I feel spasms coming on.

Then, as Charles's fingers gently opened her up, Victoria gasped to feel the thickness of the "riding horn," which she now realized was ... was ... Oh, she couldn't think it. She couldn't even imagine such a thing. And even so, the sensation was so delicious. It was like being taken roughly by her husband, without the untidy business of his disinterest.

And certainly Victoria was not to become pregnant with this procedure, was she?

Victoria squirmed in her bonds, seized with the sudden desire to break away and run from this unacceptable intrusion into the most secret places in her body. Then, as Charles spoke to her, Victoria felt herself succumbing, surrendering, giving herself over to the unforgiving interior caress of the doctor's firm instrument.

"Take a deep breath, my dear," Charles said to Victoria in his most soothing tone. "A deep breath..."

"Oh God! Yes!" The unexpected shriek came from Miss Clara Brook, who was wildly riding the stationary bicycle, pumping faster and faster as she shuddered and bounced on the narrow seat. Her dress was looking quite worse for wear, almost lifted off the lower half of her body. Her moans and shrieks grew louder as she pumped faster, and sent a new intensity of vibrations into the curious wand still being held at the top of Victoria's sex by the firm hand of Dr. Charles Fitzmartin. This brought a new series of gasps and moans from Victoria's lips, as the sensations in her body suddenly increased in intensity.

"Keep pedaling, Miss Brook," snarled Charles uncharitably.

"It won't do to stop the treatment now, you tawdry bitch. It would be complete disaster!"

Quite unexpectedly, a shudder went through Victoria's body at the sound of Charles using such rough language.

Charles quickly changed his tone.

"Forgive me, Victoria," he said smoothly. "I forgot myself.

She can be so difficult sometimes."

"Don't mention it," Victoria heard herself mumbling as Clara launched herself into her task with a brand new enthusiasm. Within seconds, Victoria found herself completely incapable of further reply.

Then Charles was coaxing her further, his gentle voice caressing her ears as he instructed her to take a deep breath and then let it out. Another breath. Another. "We're very close now, Victoria ... Very close ... Just relax..."

Then, with her fourth exhalation, there was the gentle yet forcible thrust of the doctor's instrument inside Victoria, stretching her open, penetrating her maidenhead, entering her utterly. Writhing in her restraints, Victoria let out a loud, low moan of pleasure. And as Charles thrust the shaft to its maximum depth inside her, Victoria began to thrash wildly, as an unexpected sensation came over her.

It seemed like a wholly new experience, though she remembered it from the depths of her girlhood fantasies. She could recall this very same sensation, this feeling of release, from her long summer afternoons fantasizing about Dr.Fitzmartin, in the days of her fondest crush on the good doctor. Was there some connection?

Victoria certainly didn't care. She was entirely swept away with the explosion of pleasure inside her, and it was as if another woman entirely were screaming the words "Fuck oh fuck oh fuck me god damn you fuck me harder you fucking prick fuck me with your cock oh fuck me." Another woman entirely. Was it also another woman bucking her hips against the leather belt, trying to pump the thick member deeper inside her womanhood, trying to force its thick, thrusting pleasure permanently into her body? All so she would experience this heavenly sensation forever, constantly being penetrated by the good doctor's succulent rod.

Victoria felt a bolt of fear as the sensation slowly declined and she realized that, no, it certainly was not another woman uttering those lewd and sinful comments.

It was her.

Though Victoria supposed it was possible that Miss Clara Brook had uttered a few comments of her own—certainly Clara looked worn out, as if she'd been screaming her head off. Were a few of those moans Clara's? Or had it been only Victoria screaming like that?

There was not really any way to tell.

"Good enough, Miss Brook," Charles was saying unsteadily, and Victoria realized that he had removed the instrument from inside her. The thick object—which Victoria could only now admit was phallic in shape—was covered with the lubricant the doctor had used, mingled with what appeared to be Victoria's blood and, perhaps, the juices of her body.

Victoria blushed uncontrollably, lowering her eyes so she wouldn't have to look at Charles after letting him see her in such an unflattering state. But lowering her eyes brought Victoria's gaze in line with the lower part of the doctor's body—and the striking bulge issuing from his lower parts. But Victoria's greatest shock was that the bulge in the doctor's pants was capped with a dark, moist stain.

Victoria gasped. That wasn't possible, was it? It couldn't be... could it?

She lifted her eyes and met Charles's, and saw in their intimate warmth and glow that, in fact, her suspicions were true. Charles had led her down a dark and sinful path, all fully sanitized by modern medicine.

"Eh, what? Come on here, must be someone around, righto?" Victoria heard a pounding on the door of the examination room. It was Arthur, come to collect his wife.

"Sorry to be a bit late, Doctor," shouted Arthur through the door. "Didn't make it home. Just stopped off at the tea-house for a quick nibble. Did my wife make it out all right?"

The rather ruffled Clara Brook tried desperately to straighten her too-tight dress, then quickly hustled out the door. Victoria heard Clara's voice soothing Arthur. "She'll be out in just a moment ... The procedure went very well, Mr.Barker, but it took just a wee bit more time than we anticipated. Please, I'll see to you in the waiting room and we can finish with all that business about the doctor's fee, can't we?"

Victoria still held Charles's eyes with her own, and she heard herself speaking in a hushed, seductive tone that she didn't know she possessed.

"Thank you, Doctor. I don't know how to make it up to you."

Charles looked at the floor, his face reddening. "Not at all, Mrs. Barker. I enjoy my calling." Then, as if to squelch any momentary fantasies Victoria might have, Charles quickly murmured "It's merely a profession."

Victoria's heart swelled and tears formed in her eyes, even as she heard the doctor continue.

"Of course, in severe cases of hysteria, such as yours, repeated vibratory treatment may be necessary. Perhaps three times a week for ... Oh, six months or so?"

Victoria's tear-filled eyes went wide, and she gave a little shudder of excitement and choked back a sob of pure happiness.

"If you think so, Doctor."

"I'll have a chat with Arthur about the fee. Certainly we can strike a deal, since frequent sessions will be necessary—

to prevent relapse, you understand."

"Oh, I understand," Victoria said—too quickly, she thought.

She nodded fervently.

"For at least ... The first year."

"Year?" gasped Victoria, as Charles quickly stood and buttoned his long white coat across his moisture-stained pants.

"Or two," said Charles nervously.

"No problem about the fee, eh?" It was Arthur's booming voice from the reception desk outside. "No treatment's too expensive to keep my little petunia happy!"

"I'll call Clara in to help you dress," said Charles as he helped Victoria to stand.

Victoria heard herself giggling slightly, a highly uncharacteristic utterance of mirth.

"No need!" she cried, and slipped out of the chair.

Charles stared, confounded, at Victoria as she bounded across the room to gather her things and dress.

It was as if she'd been given a new lease on life.

Charles dabbed at his moistening eye with the corner of his sleeve. Oh, how he adored the science of medicine.

In the Flask

Vanessa Vaughn

My hand pulled the delicate glass flask into place as Dr.Aubrey positioned a tube directly above it. His fingers inched closer to mine, but I dared not touch them. Instead, I steadied myself. When he was this near, I felt nothing but confusion, simultaneously drawn toward him and held at a distance. We were like two magnets with the same polarization, hovering close but pushed apart by a stronger invisible force.

"Nicholas," he said in a low voice. "Fetch me the copper wire. I need to secure this properly." Quickly, I obeyed, hurrying to the other end of the laboratory and returning with a spool of thin wire and a pair of heavy scissors. The doctor measured out an appropriate length and held it out for me to cut. He then sat back at the wide table again and leaned over the complicated apparatus, attaching the wire to the thick rubber tube. "You know, Nicholas," he said, using his pliers to twist the copper carefully. "We really must get you a lab coat if you are going to be a proper assistant."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," I said. Usually, the doctor was not renowned for his kind treatment of his students—or even his colleagues for that matter. In fact, he treated most of his former assistants with what could only be described as indifference; so I smiled at this comment, happy for any recognition. He must intend to keep me on a while longer if he means to dress me for the role, I thought.

I had been there only a handful of months, arriving just after Dr. Aubrey had received his latest research grant from the Royal College. Even before I had seen him in the flesh, I knew him by reputation and had been eager to join him in his work.

Like many nowadays, I was convinced that science was indeed the tool with which we would cure all of society's ills.

Murder, aggressiveness, sexual impulses, greed—all of this and more we scientists would no doubt eventually expel.

Mysteries of the brain, the body's chemicals, electric pulses, and tissues were all under the gaze of science's perpetually-improving microscopes and lenses. Yes, there were important strides being made in all academic disciplines, but the mind—how to understand and control it—was receiving an unprecedented amount of attention. Universities, as well as Her Majesty's Government, had been funding all areas of mental research at astounding levels unheard of until now.

Mesmerism, phrenetics, brain dissection, and in our case, chemistry, were all being employed to help create the sort of peaceful, chaste, and proper society any man would want for himself and his family.

"Well, that does it," Dr. Aubrey said with relief, pulling himself into an upright position and returning his pliers to the finely crafted leather tool belt at his waist. The belt was already filled with every manner of instrument ranging from simple hammers and stoppers for vials and beakers of every shape and size to bizarre devices of twisted metal, designed to trim the ends of protruding hoses and scrape strange compounds from the bottoms of flasks. Somehow, however, he managed to push the pliers easily into their proper place.

He brought himself to his feet, leaning casually against the table. I watched his hands again as he removed a small notebook from his pocket and penciled a few short notations.

His stance was always so sure, so confident. This man looked more like a soldier than an academic, wide shoulders giving way to hard muscular arms. And those hands. Well, no doubt I had imagined their touch often enough.

The doctor looked up and issued some more instructions to me. As he did, I stared back into those eyes. They were palest blue framed by lashes of dark inky black. It was the contrast between those two extremes of color, light and dark, which always entranced me. They made his face both beautiful and fierce, at once tender and aggressive. We looked at one another for a long moment, unflinching, and then I felt suddenly self-conscious, almost ashamed. I felt he could surely guess my thoughts, lascivious as they were. I pictured skin against skin, the hard press of his lips on mine, how his muscles would feel as he leaned me against the wall and pushed his way slowly inside of me, the handsome master and his willing university pupil.

My face flushed pink. I turned quickly, moving to gather the ingredients he requested, and the spell was broken. I was usually careful not to let my gaze linger too long, but still he must have sensed my preoccupation with him. I was sure of it. Too often now, we would stand, shoulders just a little too close together, arms only a few centimeters apart. We would hold one another's eye a moment too long. We would go too far, but still not far enough.

After all, it was just this sort of temptation we were working to prevent. The goal of these experiments—though we had not accomplished it yet—was to discover a compound for the repression of sexual urges. Such urges, of course, were the source of many societal ills. Dr. Aubrey would be widely celebrated indeed for such a find.

I was attentive as the doctor explained my instructions.

"Nicholas," he said, "I will be gone for a few hours. In the meantime, you must feed her." By "her" he meant the experiment, of course. He talked of his machine as a sailor would speak of his ship, in only the feminine, commanding the utmost respect. To an outside observer, it was a puzzling device, a tangle of hoses, droppers, large glass bubbles collecting condensation, a burner, and a large steam-powered fan for re-cooling the evaporated particles. To others, this overly elaborate collection of scientific instruments might suggest something that only a madman would construct; but, to him, this set-up promised only the alluring possibility of new discoveries.

"Yes, sir," I replied. I sounded calm, but was eager to impress and ecstatic to be left with such a responsibility, even for a short time.

He combined the ingredients I had fetched for him, mixing the powders together in a beaker, and then adding an alcohol base to produce a simple liquid tincture. He held it to the light and stirred it with a thin glass rod from his belt, then handed the dark red mixture to me. "Here's the next compound to test," he said. He opened his small notebook again, scribbling a few notations. "Let's see. Compound ... Compound number four-six-one. You know what to do. Pour a little more of the mixture in every thirty minutes, keep the fan turning, and leave the collection flask in place. If I don't return by midnight, test it on the rats yourself." I nodded, and Dr.

Aubrey collected his overcoat and bag. He paused once in the doorway. "You will remember, every thirty minutes?" I nodded, and he took his leave. Now I was all alone in the laboratory.

I was determined to be as efficient as possible. After all, I was not entirely sure what Dr. Aubrey thought of me, and I needed to demonstrate that I was a capable assistant. I would do anything to please him, and perhaps I would eventually be rewarded.

Carefully, I added new coals to the burner and lit them.

These would provide the power to operate the fan. Next, I walked to the other end of the device, making sure the small flask was in place. I was now ready to add the compound. I could hear the clock strike nine o'clock as I lifted the beaker, pouring fifty milliliters of compound four-six-one into the machine. I sat back in a nearby chair to wait and observe.

Every thirty minutes, I rose to pour in more just as I had been instructed, but the later the hour became, the more slowly time seemed to tick by. Before long, I was startled to find myself waking up to a crick in my neck. My neck was sore, my mouth dry. My muscles had the lazy responses of a man who had been asleep. Indeed, it was true. Somehow, I had nodded off! I panicked, startled to realize the clock was now striking eleven o'clock. I had missed the ten-thirty pour.

Oh, but what would the doctor think of me? As quickly as I could, I grabbed the beaker beside me and emptied the appropriate amount into the machine. Only after I finished did I realize what I had done. I had added the wrong mixture!

The liquid I had just used had been clear, not deep red. I looked back toward my chair and saw the red beaker winking back at me like a great jewel. The unlabeled container in my hand was now empty. I had no idea what the contents had been.

Not knowing what else to do, I sank down in despair, allowing the experiment to run its course, and trying not to think about what the doctor's reaction would be. I felt certain he would be furious, but as to what he would do I could not say. Would he dismiss me for such a mistake? I was just one of many new students at the university, fresh-faced and untried. I had always been fascinated with the natural world, sure that science would be my field of study, but after this blunder tonight I was no longer so certain. My thoughts raced as I considered my position.

At midnight, the machine sputtered to a stop. The large fan still turned slowly, but all other movement had ceased.

The experiment was over. I moved to the far end of the large table and was astonished to see the collection flask brimming with a bright blue liquid. Its surface seemed almost opalescent, shimmering with the hint of many other colors.

The substance was beautiful, but not what was expected. The previous experiments had all produced a pale reddish liquid.

Now the doctor would most certainly discover my blunder.

I knew the only way to keep the night's details from him was to test the substance on the rats myself. That was the only way he would never see the contents of the collection flask. I walked to one of the terrariums and poured a measure of the brilliant blue liquid into their water. I was astonished to see that the liquid immediately vaporized before reaching the water trough. The violent explosion startled me, and I jumped back a few paces and set the half-full flask carefully aside before returning and sealing the top on the terrarium.

Indeed, this had been a strange night so far. One thing and then another had gone wrong at my hands. I hoped that the rats had not been harmed. I watched for them intently as the thick gas within the container began to clear. I could see now that they were alive. Not only that, but the small white creatures seemed even more boisterous than before. It did not take me long to observe the effects of this experiment.

These creatures were not behaving normally. They had in fact become possessed by the very urges we were attempting to repress, all coupling frantically and most eagerly. This was an incredible find, but how could I ever duplicate it? I had no idea what substance I had mistakenly poured into the machine.

As these thoughts occurred to me, I heard the doctor's sure and heavy footsteps on the stairs. I panicked, not knowing what to do, aware that the gas in the terrarium and the state of the rats made it apparent that something unusual was happening.

Dr. Aubrey swung the door open and threw his overcoat casually over a nearby chair. He strode in confidently, unfastening his cuffs to roll his sleeves halfway up. He flashed me a warm smile and loosened the cravat about his neck, as usual. His face was slightly flushed. Perhaps he had enjoyed a drink or two, or perhaps the night was colder than I thought.

Either way, I liked the effect. The extra color made him look rugged and more full of life. He seemed brimming with health and virility.

It was as he was pulling on his lab coat, however, that his eye finally caught the terrarium. "And what do we have here?" he asked, looking from it to me, and then moving closer to observe. I told him about the reaction that occurred.

He bent at the waist, hands on his knees to study the rats closer. He was clearly astonished. "A fulminate," he said.

"I'm sorry. A what, sir?" I asked.

"A fulminate," he said. "Fulminates are friction-sensitive compounds. The slightest physical contact can produce an explosive reaction. In the flask, these explosive tendencies can be contained, but pour them out and they become dangerous." He was almost giddy as he explained this, fascinated with the result of his experiment. He even clapped a hand across my back and proposed we celebrate our find with a drink.

I was incredibly nervous. My insides twisted, my body wrestling with itself. There was nothing I wanted more than his approval, but I knew I had to explain what I had done.

Otherwise, he would find out when the experiment could not be duplicated. I told him everything, bluntly laying out my entire series of blunders and hoping for mercy.

"Well, Nicholas, you have been busy," he replied when I was finished. His mood was inscrutable. "Tell me, do you want to stay on here as my assistant?"

"Yes, sir," I told him. "Very much, sir."

"And why is that?" he asked.

"I like you very much, sir," I said, immediately regretting it. He looked up at me sharply, those pale blue eyes studying me. "Your work, sir," I said, correcting myself. "I enjoy it very much. It is ever so important." We considered each other for a long moment. Once again, it was a little too long. I knew he sensed it, too.

He licked his lips. "Well, then. There's only one thing to be done," he said. "You cannot yet synthesize more, but your discovery must be subjected to further trials. You must test the last of your mixture yourself."

I was astonished. "But, that could be dangerous," I whispered. "I don't think I could."

"Oh really, now? And what would Madame Curie think of such a sentiment? She is right now dying from exposure to the very substance she has been studying." He looked me up and down. "Great discoveries require great sacrifice."

I was not sure whether he poured it intentionally, or if the flask slipped from his hand. I only know that in the next moment I saw a cloud of that same heavy gas billowing around the two of us. The vapor stung my throat as I breathed it in. The metallic taste hung heavily at the back of my tongue. I did not cough, however, or feel out of breath.

The gas did not feel toxic, but pleasant. As I looked about, its opalescent color gave everything an otherworldly glow.

I certainly was not aware of any change in myself in that instant. I will never know whether the contents of the flask were guiding my actions, or if we simply had license now to act as we pleased. All I am sure of is that in the next moment, I felt Dr. Aubrey step in close, and I felt the press of his godlike lips on mine. He held my face firmly with both hands and drank me in, tangling the ends of his fingers in my hair.

I responded in kind, desperate and feverish. I had imagined this time and time again, but now I could live out what I had imagined. I could act as shameless and wanton as I wished and no one would question my actions. I could always claim I was under the influence of those mysterious chemicals. And, who knows, perhaps I was.

Dr. Aubrey continued to kiss me as he moved his hands to my shirtfront. He gripped the fabric and tore my shirt away suddenly with a loud ripping sound. I was astounded, both by the violence and the urgency of the action. The hunger behind it frightened me a little, but excited me even more. As his mouth moved down to the exposed nipples of my chest, I closed my eyes. I tilted my head back as he bared his teeth, his soft bites causing me sudden intense pain. I gasped a little, and heard him laugh. He raised his face inches from mine. "That hurts, does it?" he asked. Cautiously, I nodded.

"And you don't think you deserve it? After the way you behaved?" He fumbled at my belt then, unbuckling it and reaching down into my trousers. He discovered then how hard I had become, and grasped me firmly. "You've been incredibly irresponsible," he said.

I sucked in a swift nervous breath as he began to stroke the length of me. My knees felt weak as he worked me slowly. "Yes," I whispered. "I have been irresponsible." My breath was coming faster now. I moved my hips in time with his strokes.

Dr Aubrey leaned over me. "Indeed," he said. "And you need to learn your lesson." With these words, he clasped his masculine hands on my shoulders and pushed me backwards against the wide oak table. The device rested behind me, and I could hear the loud clacking of the steam-powered fan close by.

He then spun me around roughly, so I was facing away from him. The doctor gripped the back of my neck and pushed me down against the table. My body was bent at the waist, my torso flat against the wood. I heard him fumbling with his own clothes then, pulling off his heavily starched shirt, and knew what was coming next. At least, I thought I did. I backed up slightly, straining towards him. I could feel his hardness pushing against the fabric of his trousers. Yes, that was what I wanted. I needed to feel him finally take me.

I felt the cool air of the laboratory brush over my skin as my own pants were pulled down swiftly, exposing my backside. I held my body flush against the table, but tensed, trying to anticipate what he would do next, but nothing could have prepared me for what happened. Instead of the warm contact of his flesh, I felt the sharp tingling of pain as he brought his hand down. I cried out a little as he did it again, striking me and producing a loud cracking sound. "Quiet," he ordered. He was spanking me like a child. I struggled a little, but he insisted, holding me firmly, and finally I began to accept each strike, relaxing into the pain instead of resisting.

In truth, it did not hurt much. This only made me more excited, giving me more time to think about what he would demand next.

In time, after the buildup of sensation had become rather intense, he finally released me. I was sure my flesh was pink and more than a little raw after the experience, but none the worse for wear. Dr. Aubrey removed his hand from the back of my neck and stepped back a few paces. I timidly turned to face him. My eyes were hungry and pleading, but his were hard. There was no doubt who was master in this encounter and who was being schooled. Slowly, he undid the clasp of his heavy leather belt and pulled it through the loopholes of his waistband. For a moment, I wondered if he meant to use it, but he dropped it to the floor. Next, the doctor unbuttoned his pants and reached inside, freeing himself. I watched as he stroked slowly while still speaking to me in a whisper of a voice. "Is this what you want, Nicholas?" he asked.

I felt so ready then, like a coil flooded with electric current, pulsing with energy. "Oh yes," I breathed. "Completely."

"Then come here," he said. I came forward, and he pushed me to my knees, guiding my mouth toward him. One hand on my shoulder, and one at the back of my head, he urged me closer.

I heard him breathing faster as I used my lips on him at first, kissing the tip of him, and gently licking the length of his shaft. Only then did I take him in, allowing him to press into my lips, over my tongue. He groaned as he entered my mouth, and then began to move in and out. I brought one hand to the base of him, holding the skin taut. The other I used to gently caress myself. I was as hard as he was, thoroughly enjoying the way I was able to please him. I loved the manly rumble I heard at the back of his throat and the firmness of all his muscles. He pulled my hair now as he gripped the back of my head tighter, pushing deeper into my throat. Finally, I sensed his breathing change. I could tell he was close to finishing, but instead, he pulled out of my mouth and stopped.

I was confused, but it soon became clear what he wanted.

He pulled me to my feet and pushed me over the table again, roughly this time. The doctor was behaving like an animal; in fact, so was I. I swept several test tubes out of the way as he pushed me down, and heard them shatter loudly against the floor, but I cared for nothing. Each of us was purely focused on satisfying his own needs.

He was already slick from the touch of my tongue. Without pretext, Dr. Aubrey gripped me by the hips and forced his way inside of me. He was rough and desperate, but I did not struggle. In fact, I froze instantly as I felt him enter me. I felt held there, like a butterfly pinned inside a specimen box. I had no choice but to accept what was happening. Every muscle in my body relaxed as he thrust slowly into me again.

The doctor reached around to grab me, his wide palm working me in time with his own thrusts. He began to use me then, pushing harder and faster, and I loved the sensation.

Finally, I was able to give myself up to him. I melted against the table as he drove deeper. The squeezing and pulling of his hand was coaxing me into a frenzy. I could not contain myself much longer. As I heard the unsteady gasps of his warm breath, I realized neither could he.

He pushed into me one final time, to the hilt, and I came hard. I bucked forward, trembling and covered with a sheen of sweat. Warm white liquid spilled from me and drizzled over his fingers. Dr. Aubrey thrust twice more, pumping his last deep into me, and then relaxed as we nuzzled together, caught up in the final throes of our pleasure. We could not be certain of what would happen next, but in this moment we were content. I wondered silently if we would ever be able to repeat this experiment.

I no longer knew if I could contain these urges. I no longer knew myself. My thoughts were something powerful and unstable, like the fulminate we had discovered. Because in the flask such things are safe, but release them and you risk a reaction that cannot be undone.

Steam and Iron, Musk and Flesh

Kaysee Renee Robichaud

There was nothing more romantic than floating half a mile over the rooftops of a steam-belching, budding metropolis like Fort Detroit, under the brilliant white illumination of a nearly full moon. The skyship drifted on the currents, its three enormous balloons glowing like holiday ornaments with the emerald discharge of the sizeable boiler engine. Sure, the cauldron's brackish fluids were spilling over the skyship's filigreed railing, and the primary emergency whistle wailed the soft beginnings of a soon-to-be-shrill warning, but Trista Pirrup paid little mind because lovely Cecilia's full lips were gently pressuring that sweet place where shoulder meets neck.

"Oh, CeeCee..."

Her lips and tongue moved up along the carotid artery, tickling and teasing and sending shivers of delight through Trista's nerves. Such sweet sensations ... As they moved through her, Trista felt a sudden guilt at the realization that she should be reciprocating in some fashion. She should be ...

What exactly?

Her brain was overloading with emotional cues; her limbs felt awkward and overlarge. Trista allowed her hands, bound up in tightly sewn lambskin gloves, to caress Cecilia's back in heated circles, drawing what she hoped were curves of passionate fire through the girl's dress. The act felt foolish only one second after she had begun.

Beautiful Cecilia's hair was golden and wavy, her button nose slightly raised and her eyes a deep blue. Her face was narrow as a fawn's, making her wide eyes enormous. Her bosom was small, tightly bound beneath the hard buttons and soft fabric of her cream-colored dress. Beneath the hem of her ankle-length overskirt and crinoline underskirt, her long legs and tiny feet were bound up in stockings and tight boots.

She practically defined "dainty" and this only made her somehow more gorgeous.

Were she not being kissed in the place that raised the heat of every breath, Trista would certainly feel (as she often did) outclassed. Curly red hair and round face, eyes the color of dun pudding, broad almost mannish shoulders, a nearly obscene curve to her hips, and a pair of cantaloupes on her chest that could not be bound up into a properly unassuming size no matter how tight the corset she tried to wear ... There was a rough kind of prettiness to her, she supposed, but nothing that such a refined woman as Cecilia should find attractive. Certainly not...

But there she was, kissing Trista's throat. It seemed nothing less than an impossible dream!

Kisses.

And tantalizing touches. Cecilia's silk-clad fingers rubbed at her breasts through the lambskin flight jack, slow sensual circles that trailed down to Trista's hips. There, they urged her to lean over, and reached around to the tiny curve of her bottom, observing the arc through sensuous stroke. Cecilia took a firm hold as she moved from nuzzling Trista's throat to giving her a full kiss on the lips.

Trista made a startled squeak; Cecilia's slender tongue found its way into her mouth, and more slow circles followed.

No dance of tongues, this was a kind of lovemaking, and it set the top of Trista's head into the stratosphere.

Lambskin-clad hands caressed Cecilia's breasts, and the girl moaned softly, her beautiful eyes closing at the sensation.

The kiss broke, and Cecilia stared into Trista's eyes with a hunger. "Such a deliciously filthy engineer you are," she said, making the words into a lover's poem, before a nearly feral, frenzied expression filled her face, and she came in for still more kisses.

The pair of shrill whistles might have been Trista's internal thermometers sounding off extreme temperatures, so it seemed only natural that Cecilia should spread her jack, should open her shirt, should bare her corset and skin. It seemed only right to undo Cecilia's blouse, one slow button at a time, each release eliciting still more passion from the boundless well inside that delicate-seeming woman. Not so delicate at all. Her teeth ran along Trista's shoulder, while those silk gloves unfastened the corset, and when it fell free, Trista sucked in fresh air as though she had never really breathed before. Tonight, the cool autumn air was flavored with honey and musk, an earthy perfume to be certain.

Cecilia pulled Trista's hand along her leg, under the skirts, slow and strong and guiding her up and up. Kisses did not distract from the pleasure of touching garters and then the bare skin beyond. The lambskin gloves would be soft on that skin, Trista thought, but that was not enough for Cecilia.

Further up, to the crux, to a golden warmth as yet unknown, hidden beneath a gauzy veil of lace, easily shoved aside.

Cecilia plunged two of Trista's fingers inside her slick sex, shaking and gasping and then moaning the first sibilant syllable of Trista's name....

And Trista moved her fingers slowly, in and out, using her thumb to pressure the sweet place, slow rubbing—still more circles! Love was a circle!—and taking delight in Cecilia's spasms at her touch. Now it was Cecilia, earthy and dominant to this point, who was at a loss to control her limbs. The golden-haired girl now gazed into Trista's face with a kind of naïve wonder and begged for more, faster, and it was Trista who held the power to acquiesce or deny. Trista, who leaned in to kiss as she played below, Trista who—

Trilling whistles penetrated the clouds in her head, puncturing the pleasant, passion-induced miasma.

Oh, thought Trista, dear.

The buildings were no longer below them, but towering around. All three emergency whistles wailed like unwatched teapots, and a new kind of flutter found its way into Trista's heart. Fear, this was.

"Don't stop," Cecilia whispered, "please!"

"But we're going to crash."

"Then let us crash as lovers crash!" Cecilia grasped Trista's wrist, to keep her hand firmly within her quim.

There was no helping it, Trista supposed. Crash they would, but if she could reach the venting lever, then perhaps the boiler would not explode when they crashed. Of course, whatever lay below would be soaked with the boiling mix—not simply water, the real science used mixtures of more toxic things to create the gasses necessary to power the technology. Simple water steam was for backyard hobbyists.

She reached her free hand for the lever, and found herself about three inches too short. She stretched, her fingertips brushed the lever, but then Cecilia yanked her back. Panting and grunting, she dragged Trista's fingers deeper still.

It was a difficult decision, actually, whether to try again for the lever or just give up and—

There was really no decision at all. Trista lunged for the lever, dragging her hand roughly from between Cecilia's legs with the sound of ripping lace—there went the doe-eyed girl's undergarments, alas, undoubtedly they were pretty—and Cecilia's whoop of surprise. Trista caught hold of the lever.

The sprawl was much larger now, the buildings looming over the airship. All too familiar, Trista half realized as she used all her strength to shove the lever.

The boiler began to vent its murk out the shunt valves, raining the stuff down on...

Oh, no. Trista realized just where her skyship was crashing.

Those fourteen-story buildings around her belonged to the Cog, Clockwork, and Steam Technologies School of Engineering, home for both herself and Cecilia. And Cecilia's father, headmaster Wayne Foglio. The venting had probably sent the caustic goop down into the University's central quad, which she now recalled had been cordoned off for a new presentation by prodigy student Byron Pedigrew.

Then, Cecilia caught hold of her hand once more and pulled it home.

As the brass and wooden construct slammed into the glass and granite façade of the Headmaster's Office, smashing its way through, Cecilia howled with orgasm.

Balloon lines sheared, and the flat, boat-like bulk of the ship slammed atop the headmaster's desk and then crushed it nearly flat. There was no explosion. However, Trista felt the sudden wish that there had been. Something fiery to spare her the many smaller explosions to come...

* * * *

"And they kicked you out for that?" Heck Lansdale was a flat-featured fellow with an infectious grin, a slight stoop to his posture, and the kindness to buy a lady a drink.

Not that Trista felt she was a lady at all. Ladies did not get themselves asked to leave one of the Nation's most prestigious institutes due to charges of Grand Destruction and the unacknowledged breach of proprieties with the headmaster's only daughter.

"Well..." Trista suddenly wondered just how much she might have divulged. She had hoped to gloss over several of the facts, keeping names (and, well, genders) out of the mess, but this wine was a little stronger than she was accustomed to. "Yes."

"So, then you came to Chicago?"

"Because of the World's Columbian Exposition, I thought I might be able to secure a patron to continue my studies..."

With the World's Fair showcasing so many architectural and industrial marvels, she had assumed that she might ride someone's coattails into a position of financial stability. While the schooling was now beyond her, short of some miraculous change of tempers, she could pursue the science as a dedicated hobbyist, which was how many of the advances in the steam-powered technologies came about in the first place. Alas, the task turned out to be even more monumental than she had assumed, due in no small part to the fascination with Nikola Tesla's alternating current electrical power, which lighted the entire affair. Her disappointment was made even more unbearable by the loneliness of knowing so few people in the city.

"Well," Heck Lansdale said, waving for another draught of wine, "it just so happens that you might have found an interested party after all."

Trista was no fool. This gentleman had only just met her, and though she had discovered just how uncomfortable she could be around the specifics of love, Trista knew well how some persons of low character might woo. Ah, to be with CeeCee, again! She would do so many things differently, if given another chance. But despite the looks of absolute adoration Cecilia had given her, Headmaster Foglio had a fit over the handling of his daughter, expressed through spiteful and thinly veiled metaphors regarding his broken desk.

"Thank you for the wine—"

"Let me assure you," Heck said, producing a folded paper from his pocket, "that my interests are legitimate. Your favors, while certainly attractive, hold a smaller level of interest for me than do your knowledge and acumen." Before she could stand up, he unfolded the paper, revealing it to be a poster for something called Lansdale's Traveling Show of Steam and Irons, with play dates in a variety of cities.

"You have a Wild West Show?"

He offered a placating laugh. "We're more than trick shooting, though there's plenty of that as suggested by the 'Irons' part. We are a traveling menagerie of marvels.

Demonstrations of the greatest entertainments I can find, and with all the wonders of Steamworks, these days. I would be remiss not to offer such attractions to the folks of the circuit that cannot see them on their own." He tapped a pictorial representation of a literally steely-faced man. With all the passion of a carnival barker, he said, "Behold Benjamin, the cogwork man." Then, he smiled to himself. "However, Benjamin requires a bit of upkeep, and my steam-engineer has decided to pursue a career with another company." Was Heck's sadness more than proper for the loss of an employee?

Trista found herself wondering if Heck might not be hiding some deeper affection. "Sooo, I find myself in dire need of someone to keep ol' Benji running proper." His eyes met hers, and there was a sheen of wetness to them, barely restrained tears. "I can offer you a sum of twenty-five dollars a week, free board in our comfortably quaint wagons, and three squares a day."

The quality of the meals dubbed "squares," Trista figured, would undoubtedly depend on how well Heck's show did at any given location. A part of that required all the marvels and attractions working out. It was work she could certainly sink her teeth into, work made all the more enticing because her own savings were nearly gone.

Was this not everything she had hoped for?

Well, not quite.

But it would do.

"I am interested, Mr. Lansdale," Trista said, "Please tell me more."

* * * *

So began a life of work where Trista labored solely behind the scenes doing the difficult, thankless, and often grimy work of keeping up poor Benjamin, the world's oldest clockwork and steam-powered replica of a man, far from the more cutting edge of the New Science that she was familiar with. But it was among the ranks of Heck's crew that she made the acquaintance of Maggie Douglass, the Shooting Lady. "So skilled," ran Maggie's bill of introduction, "that both Wild Bill Hickock and Billy the Kid refused to spar with her, on account of fear that they might lose to a gal." That both these gunfighters were long deceased (and one had the gall to shuffle off this mortal coil before Maggie was old enough to hold a gun) had little real effect on the crowds. They were happy enough to hear the story, happy enough to pay their two bits to see her perforate papers or wear a blindfold while taking a pair of stacked apples off a "helpful volunteer's"

head. If a story is even remotely interesting, then most folks let the smaller lies slide (so long as no one's getting robbed blind or harmed).

Maggie was a brusque but kindly soul, a woman over thirty, with age lines around her eyes, weariness to her shoulders, and the pronounced inability to really smile. Her dark hair was touched with occasional strands of silver, and her face was that of a woman nearly twenty years older.

Upon first meeting Trista alone, she sized the younger woman up and said, "Get out of the business just as soon as you can."

"I don't intend to stay any longer than needs be."

"You need something firmer than that, my dear. Give yourself a time to mosey by, and if that time comes and you're still here, then make scarce. Don't make excuses."

"I was figuring on having it be one year," Trista said.

"Does that seem short enough?"

Maggie's considered this and nodded. Though she did not smile, there was a puckish light to her. An aura of humor.

"This life can wear a girl out, Trista."

"I figured."

"You look like a smart gal," Maggie said. "You figure a lot?"

"Not enough about this life I've been leading. Just when I think I have it rationalized away, it throws a curve into my plans. That's just plain rude, wouldn't you say?"

"I think we're going to get along just fine," Maggie said, and she was right.

In time, Trista came to discover that Maggie was what folks might call a "confirmed maiden," with no interest in men as anything other than business partners (Heck Lansdale) or associates (just about everyone else). Three months after the show carried Trista away from the chill, windy streets of the White City, she found herself warming to Maggie as they talked long into the night over glasses of amber liquid, learning the intricacies of firearms and...Maggie was not searching for a life mate, and yet Trista could more than empathize with the loneliness she talked about. They were like twins of spirit, and it was only a matter of time before she understood the degree of attachment she felt.

In the dark countryside en route to Arizona, Trista found a warmth in Maggie's arms that had been missing from her since that fateful night over (and, well, in) Fort Detroit.

The wagons were small affairs modeled after the colorful transports favored by Old World gypsies, made to house two but stuffed with four or more tenants. They were not places of escape, but mere spots to lay one's pillow for the night. But Maggie, as part owner and financier to the show, lived alone.

Her wagon had decorations from a lifetime spent as an entertainer, posters and memorabilia that she could expound on for hours in fascinating ways. Rich, crimson curtains hung across the windows, and the floor was tastefully decorated with a matching carpet. The place was stuffed to gills with the makings of parlor and bedroom, separable by a dark, sliding curtain should she wish to entertain polite company.

They were soused, not at all how ladies "should be," but in the fashion of frontier chums. Trista was talking about the night over Fort Detroit, painting rosy (and perhaps somewhat bawdy) pictures of the mishap. Maggie sat enraptured, showing perhaps an unhealthy interest in those bawdy aspects—she really could drag the most wicked confessions out of a girl—and Trista was lost in the telling, feeling those sensations all over again. Then, she offered to demonstrate (a joke, a joke!), and Maggie had surprised her by sitting up straight and inviting her over with a glance. That glance was one part enticement and one part ... vulnerability.

Trista was aware that poor, lonely Maggie offered up her heart in that moment. If she had a desire or spiteful nature, she could easily dash it to the floor. Ruin that heart and thereby, through the special connection they shared, ruin Maggie. There was something undeniably beautiful and meaningful in the moment. In the offering.

She did not ruin her friend.

Trista leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth, instead.

Maggie's lips were not soft like Cecilia's, but there was a pleasure in the roughness. Her kiss was nearly shy, startled.

Then, the Shooting Lady's strong arms came around Trista like a blanket, and her mouth opened, their tongues met, and...

The uncertainty came to Trista again.

What were these limbs for? What were they meant to do?

"I don't," she admitted, between kisses, "quite know what..." Their mouths would not part for long, as though that might shatter what delicate bond they shared. "To do."

"What you're doing," Maggie said, through the same interruptions, "seems fine with me."

No gloves today. Trista's hands found the soft skin beneath Maggie's vest and blouse, found the tender flesh of her lower back, dotted with expectant sweat. Maggie's clothes came away beneath her fingers, and her own garments—the suede pants and rough cotton shirt that served her for tasks other than working on Benjamin—parted and fell under Maggie's more practiced touch.

The air was oddly chill, despite the warm candles in the wagon, and this only brought their bodies even closer together. Skin on skin led to a lovely friction, their mouths could not stop meeting, though they took to nibbling or suckling other offered flesh. They soon found a warmth that not even the naked flames of candles could touch. A heat that existed only between them, something to banish the skulking cold.

There was sweetness to the taste of sweat rolling slowly down a body, followed from throat down between the breasts, down to the slight rise of the belly, in a winding pathway around and past the indentation button of Maggie's birth, down to the glistening fur below, down ... The Shooting Lady's prized trigger fingers played through Trista's curly hair, as the steam engineer offered gentle pecks and then languorous tongue caresses to that bastion of warmth and honey between her legs. Maggie's gasps were heartfelt and soft, but with each moment of Trista's affectionate attention, they came louder. Words, sometimes. Nonsense, others. Both urged Trista on, urgings she could not deny ... As Maggie finally spasmed, she caught hold of Trista's hair and pulled, wrenching face up and away from her, staring into the engineer's eyes with such a frantic hunger that Trista felt a ripple of dread.

Then, Maggie leaned in, panther-quick, and the kiss was just as hungry as that expression. Her teeth caught on Trista's lower lip, not breaking skin but pinching for a moment, as the Shooting Lady guided Trista beyond the curtain, and then down on the coarse sheets.

She slid a hand below, tickling Trista's quim and sending such shivers through the engineer that any words springing from her lips were of a primal, guttural language unknown to the civilized world. All sense of limbs vanished under waves of a kind of heat and warmth and love that must have stemmed from the chaos that spat forth the world in days long forgotten, that flowed from the nexus of all time and space, from the mouths of gods. Trista was flying, despite the weight of her arms and body. She was among the clouds and aloft, as delicious pressure built inside her. She had to moan, to release that pressure, but even giving it voice, expelling it as sound was not enough. Still it built within her, under Maggie's hand and kisses. Was the Shooting Lady kissing her down there, now? Or were her rough, ruby lips on Trista's nipple?

Or nuzzling the soft hairs of her sex? Or somehow all of these and more?

Trista's toes curled, as sensations flooded her, and when that pressure grew to be too much, so much, she caught hold of the sheets firmly enough that she thought she must be ripping them. She leaned forward, not sitting up, not capable of that, but lifting her head so that she could stare wide-eyed at Maggie's hair and eyes. She whimpered as the waves of that beautiful moment coursed through her, carrying her to some place past the rude world of flesh and blood and steam and pain. Through to the realm of ideals.

It was as though the top of her head was gone. It was as though she had been thrown forcefully from her own body. It was nothing less than the most incredible release she had ever experienced.

Then, Maggie lay beside her, still full of kisses and stroking hands. Her lips and tongue had a heavy flavor, richer than chocolate or wine; my honey, she realized, this is the flavor of my honey.

They lay together, lost to all but the moment and each other.

They lay ... for what might have been hours, though it was but two at most.

They lay shivering not at the chill, which their united warmth battered away, but from the potency of their own lovemaking.

They lay...

Awake and drinking each other's spirits.

They lay...

And then...

They rose together, clasping and shivering and giggling and perhaps sobbing, but not really speaking, for there was nothing more to say. Nothing that mere words could communicate. They parted then, and the world grew a little colder. Then, Maggie's hand found Trista's, and they clasped tight, and the cold retreated once more.

For a time.

* * * *

The town of Brisbane, Arizona proved to be the ruin of everything.

For every day of the six months that Trista had been with Heck's show, Benjamin, the amazingly outdated cogwork man, broke down a little more. The blowing grit that ran through the tents on their southwestern travels was enough to speed the process. She found herself entertaining a ground-up reconstruction.

Of course, Heck could not afford that sort of thing. He tried, however, and gave her license to do as she saw fit (and could get away with from their limited funds), but poor old Benji was getting less and less functional.

Old Benjamin was an ugly galoot, but his features had grown on Trista rather quickly. A seven-foot-tall humanoid made from black iron. His barrel-shaped chest housed one large steam boiler, and from this stemmed the inner workings of the device itself, a miracle of clockwork that could be programmed by use of punched steel cards fed through his mouth into the processing apparatus filling his head. At full stoke, he could operate for nearly twenty minutes at a time, performing a complex array of sequential tasks—walking and bowing and swinging his arms or lifting half-ton weights, or even more complex activities. He really was a marvel of engineering, though in the ten years since his construction the technologies had been improved, or abandoned in favor of newer, cheaper advances.

He belched stinking steam in the pauses between actions, the great curling plumes rolling up from the many joints in his body. His face was modeled on Benjamin Franklin's (thus his name), but whoever had done the shaping had been a poor hand at metalwork. The lower jaw was wide and pronounced, turning the infamous, modest grin into something sinister.

Benjamin's movements were awkward at best, but he wowed the crowd.

Too bad his life expectancy, so to speak, was so small.

However, he certainly caught attention. That was the problem.

On the last night of the Show's run outside Brisbane, Heck Lansdale received an unusual visitor. He called himself Black Paul, and he led nearly a dozen desperadoes. If he had come during the day, then any number of the Show's people could have dealt with him. As it was, he waited for the libations to flow—and flow they did, as Brisbane was a none too modest mining town, not quite so large as Silver City, say, but large enough to reward sweet coin and foodstuffs to a show that captured their hearts. So it was with the crew well-oiled and unfit to mount a defense that the Show's master had himself a visit from an outlaw.

The first Trista heard about it was when a stranger found and told her that "Lansdale" needed to see her.

The man was a scowling, scarred fellow. Trouble, if Maggie had ever seen it. She did not argue. As they walked to Heck's wagon, she saw others prowling among the shadows, arms filled with firearms and weapons that had been taken from her crewmates. They're pacifying us.

In Heck's wagon, Trista found a very nervous show boss sitting with a portly, unshaven man with greasy black hair and a sour complexion. "Uhm, Trista," Heck said by way of introduction, "This is Black Paul, and he has a bit of a, uhm, proposition. How fast can you get Benjamin up and running?"

She had seen the posters with an artist's rendering of the man before, though the pictures did not capture the cold fire of desperation beaming out of his piggish eyes, nor the lusty grimace that twisted his lips when he saw her. Or a shirt wet with the blood of a recent gunfight.

"Well," he said, "Aren't you a s-s-s- sight?" Had she heard that correctly? Yes. Black Paul, the accused murderer and robber and general ne'er-do-well, the scourge of law and propriety, suffered from a bad stutter. Still, she found no humor in it, with the silver six guns on the table in easy reach.

"He wants old Benjamin," Heck explained, "and so long as we cooperate, he won't hurt anyone."

"You're probably w-w-w-wuh- wondering,"—the words that tripped him up, came forcefully when he finally got them out—"w-wuh- why you should trust m-muh- me. I'm a m-muh-muh- man of m- my w-wuh- word." A sweat broke out across his forehead. He angrily gestured to one of his men, a stern-faced fellow with wrists no thicker than tent spikes.

"Black Paul gives his word," the man said. "The big steam man, he will do a job for us, and then we will leave you in peace. Your Mister Heck has agreed to do as we say, and so long as no one here tries to thwart us, then we will not kill everyone in the Show. We are not completely without honor."

Black Paul showed a set of filthy teeth in a feral smile as though to demonstrate his honesty.

Heck 's eyes never once left Black Paul's pistols. "Do what they say."

She had no choice. At least, not at the moment. "I will," she said, ashamed of the weakness in her voice. She wanted to be like Maggie, wanted to make these men tremble at her strength. She was the one trembling.

Black Paul enjoyed her fear, savoring it like a heady wine.

"G-guh- good g-guh-g- girl."

* * * *

Trista discovered how little actual intelligence or foresight was required to become an outlaw when she heard Black Paul's plans.

"You want to use Benjamin to rob a bank?" She could not keep the incredulity from her voice. It seemed a preposterous suggestion, the likes of using shotgun blasts to kill a particularly pesky horsefly.

"That is what we wish," the thin-wristed man, named Sykes, replied.

"I don't think this is going to work." Before the outlaws'

scowls could turn deadly, she added, "Benjamin does not ...

think. No matter how it looked in the Show. He follows very specific instructions. That's all he's capable of doing. His actions are all determined in advance. He is not a real man, he—"

"No problem," Sykes explained. "We have a map of the bank we wish robbed. Scaled to the last inch. He need only walk through a door, down to the safe, rip the door from its hinges and then ... We can come in after him."

Trista wondered if an earlier attempt on this same bank was when Black Paul had been injured. Benjamin would be impervious to those same bullets that could fell a man. He need only be a walking target for any sheriff's men, she realized. Was it something she could do?

Yes.

For the safety of the Show folks, her family these last six months, she could. For Maggie, she could. However, using Benjamin for such a thing ... It offended her, not merely for the crime being perpetrated, but the perversion of science to do it ... If a man wanted to risk catching a bullet for a pocketful of loot that was likely to be lost in bottles or whorehouses, then who was Trista to stand in his way? No Sheriff she. Yet, the attempt to use science to make such a dangerous lifestyle somehow less life-threatening was ... It really steamed her up.

Still, what could she do with the lives of her crew at these cutthroats' mercy?

As she listened to their plan she found herself starting to think outside of their short-sighted parameters. Black Paul would stay behind with two of his men, while Sykes led the others to the Brisbane Bank. She would accompany the men.

Should Benjamin need some kind of adjustment, which Black Paul's men did not understand that she could not easily perform on the fly, then she would be on hand. She would also be a hostage.

She longed to see that Maggie was okay. Sure, Black Paul's men gave their word that no one was going to be killed, but what did that promise really mean? She could not see Maggie, though. Not at all. She had to listen to these men, listen to their fool's errand, and try to make it work.

Or did she?

An exceptionally dangerous plan occurred to her. It was beyond risky, and yet it was her only chance. As she created the punch cards, she started putting her plan to good use. If it succeeded, this would undoubtedly be Benjamin's showstopper, and if it failed, well ... Failure was not an option. She could only hope that the skills she had picked up both at the CCST School of Engineering, which seemed a whole lifetime ago, as well as the six months on the road with the Show, would be enough.

* * * *

The wee hours came alive with man-made thunder.

When Benjamin stormed through the front doors of the bank, Sykes and his men let out a whoop of joy. When Benjamin stomped his way inside, ignoring the hail of gunfire directed his way, they were even more pleased. When they finally heard those weapons run dry and the great, cogwork monstrosity tear a path through the counter and the hallway to the safe, they were raring to go. They charged into the bank, Sykes shoving the engineer ahead of him. The men with guns, a pair with stars on their chests, were watching Benjamin when the outlaws arrived, so Sykes' men got the drop on them. With Trista presented as a hostage, the lawmen dropped their weapons.

Sykes had his fellows quickly (and poorly, Trista noted) bind them and then followed Benjamin's progress.

The great cogwork man was standing before the safe, his massive iron head leaning against the still sealed door.

"Why hasn't he broke it open?" Sykes demanded.

"I didn't expect him to get shot quite so much! Benjamin is a delicate creation, not accustomed to such violence—"

"Make him work!" Sykes practically threw Trista at the great iron man, and she felt a flutter of hope in her heart.

She jammed another punch card into his mouth, triggering the next phase of her plan.

Sykes had left two of his men to guard the prisoners, but there were enough present that any success would prove good enough. Benjamin stomped again into action, following Trista's routine. The iron man rotated until he faced up the narrow hallway, the steam spilling from his seams making him into an incredibly life-like demon instead of some mere automaton. He strode toward the stunned outlaws, faster than he had been designed for, arms extended as wide as possible, stooped and rushing like a bull. Benjamin bowled right into Sykes and the first of his men, plowing them effectively into the ground before something seized up inside his leg joints, loud as gunshots. Momentum carried him forward, right into the others, pinning many of them beneath several hundred pounds of iron. The last of the men in the lot was thrown backwards to the floor, where he sat staring in shock and terror as though he could not wrap his brain around the notion that the cogwork man had betrayed them.

By then, Trista had Sykes' guns in hand, holding it as Maggie had shown her. Her stance was impressive to behold, though she could not hit a rain barrel at five paces. "Give up,"

she said, a little of Maggie's ice finding its way into her voice.

Sure, she felt as frail as a daisy in a tornado inside, but she scared the man. He thrust his hands up.

Out front, she heard a fresh volley of gunshots. The lawmen were putting things to right, and she heard their calls for surrender. When they came back to find her with the others, they scratched their heads and wondered just how a gal like her could have undone the plans of so many tough hombres.

"A little knowledge," she replied, absolutely out of context but somehow appropriate, "is a dangerous thing."

"Isn't that Black Paul's man?" one of the lawmen asked, indicating Sykes.

"Yes," Trista said, "and I know where Black Paul is holed up."

When the other lawman said to his partner, "Well then, let's go get him," Trista stopped them.

"He says he'll hurt the crew. That might not amount to much for you, but I've lived and worked with these folks for

... for quite a time. They're important to me."

When the first of the lawmen asked, "Got a sweetheart there, huh?" Trista blushed.

"Let me try to flush him out," she said.

"You have a plan?"

She looked to the captured outlaws and nodded. "Yes I do," she said, though she was still assembling the particulars.

* * * *

Maggie's eyes were wide with concern and more than a little relief when Trista snuck into her wagon before dawn.

"Are you alright?" was quickly followed by, "Wherever did you find these?" when Trista pushed Sykes' pistols into her hands.

"I believe..." Trista wet her lips, but they still felt dry as her tongue rasped across them. "I'm about to do something absolutely stupid, Maggie. And I need to know if you can keep me safe."

"Of course." This was a simple matter of fact and needing no soul searching. It raised Trista's spirits enough for her to keep heart and hope. Not that she expected a different answer, but hearing her own faith validated was something indescribably uplifting. Maggie continued, "Is Black Paul really in Heck's wagon?"

Trista nodded. "And I'm going to lure him far enough from our camp that the law can take him away without too much of a ruckus."

"You don't sound so confident about that last part."

"You ever notice how a man," Trista asked, "sometimes doesn't think too clearly when he's relying on a woman?" For a moment, Trista was not quite sure if she was speaking about Black Paul or her lawmen allies. "Best to have someone I trust watching out for me."

Maggie inspected the cylinders and loads and then nodded once. Hardness found its way into her face and eyes. "I'm your gal."

* * * *

Nerves and pain made the stutter even worse. "W- where are m-muh- my m-muh—"

"Your men have been caught out. Benji didn't quite help out as much as they hoped." Trista said. "Sykes sent me to fetch you. The law shot him, but he—"

Black Paul's silver six guns came out in a flash, shaking in his trembling paws. "W-wheh-where?"

"I can take you to him."

Black Paul stared hard enough to look into her soul.

He'll see my treachery, she thought. Even Heck must see it. Heck was sitting mum silent, but speaking volumes with his body. Heck, who had possibly inappropriate affection for the man whose job she now held. Heck, who had lost that man and who seemed to be preparing himself to lose another steamwork engineer, even now.

"I don't," Black Paul paused for nearly a second, face stern, defiant against the stutter that threatened his next word, "trust," prematurely emphasized, "you."

"I can understand that." She spoke softly and slowly, hoping that this might help to keep the terror that shook her insides out of her words. "But if you want to see your ... your friend again, well..."

Black Paul's eyes softened at her use of that word,

"friend." Was Sykes truly this outlaw's boon companion?

"If you want to see him," she added, "then you'll have to come with me."

Was it her earnestness that convinced him? Was it the pain of his wound? Regardless of motive, he weakly tottered after her. Outside the wagon, he howled for his men to come help him to his horse. Then, he spotted something he did not like.

Trista soon discovered what captivated his attention: A couple of men crept through the shadows beneath a nearby supply cart. The stars upon their chests need not gleam for her to know them to be the lawmen. So much for the plan.

"Traitorous b-b-bitch."

"I'm not sorry," she said, though that was a bald-faced lie.

The wounded man looked like some kicked puppy.

"K-kih-kill—"

Of course, his men were already ahead of him. They brought their rifles to bear on the skulking shapes. A pair of nearly simultaneous reports broke the predawn still. Not Black Paul's men, not the law, either. These came from Maggie's wagon. The outlaws dropped their weapons, gun hands ruined.

The outlaw leader himself brought his guns to bear on Trista. The engineer stood her ground, brave in the hope that he would not shoot her in the face. He stared her in the eyes and aimed lower before he squeezed. Gut shots, the sort of damage that would leave her in agony for hours.

If they had drilled their way into her guts, that is.

Old Benji came through for her one last time; at least the piece of iron she had taken from his thigh and beaten into a rough half circle around her torso did. Black Paul's rounds ricocheted, one digging a groove across his right cheek, the other smacking up dirt between his feet.

"It's over," Trista said, and Black Paul's pistols rolled down his fingers. A vast relief filled his face as surrender dropped his shoulders. He might have actually laughed, if the lawmen's guns had not roared, dropping him where he stood.

Trista reached a single hand toward him, her eyes wide and unbelieving as the outlaw crashed to the earth, twitching and kicking up grit for three horrible seconds.

When Maggie called her name, Trista ran to her, found safety in her arms and wept. So very cold.

* * * *

When the lawmen came by later to give her a commendation and reward for the capture of Black Paul and his gang—no small sum—the cold returned.

Maggie had tears in her eyes when she saw the money.

She got even sadder when the story appeared first in the local paper and then in papers all the way back to New York City. Girl Scientist Stops Bank Robbery, the headline read.

Shortly after that, letters found their way to Trista, offers of patronage, of a government position as part of a new Marshaling force using steam engineering and science, and even a letter from Wayne Foglio, begging for her to return to the CCST School of Engineering as an assistant professor.

One night, after the flood of letters began pouring in, Maggie found a smile, one that proved to be rich with misery.

Trista asked, "What's wrong?"

The Shooting Lady indicated the letters with a sweep of her hand. "This is your chance, honey. With the right one of these and the money you've been saving? You're done with this Traveling Show."

Trista thought on this and her head began to bob. "I doubt anything short of a miracle will get Benjamin up and running again. I don't know what Heck would want me to do around here."

"Remember what I told you, sweetie? About leaving this life. This is your big chance."

Trista felt a pang of loneliness. "Come with me? We can both live pretty easy on any of these—"

"I'm no kept woman." That puckish glow appeared for a moment, until Maggie shook her head in slow and gentle negation. "I can't get away, just yet," she said. "Without Benjamin, Heck needs me more than ever. Sure, we have the kitschy shows and the tricks, but without either the cogwork man or the Shooting Lady? There's nothing that Buffalo Bill can't offer ... Maybe he'll sell, but I don't see that happening."

She noisily swallowed, pride maybe, and added, "They need me here, and I ... I need to stay."

They embraced, and when it was done, Maggie said, "Don't become a stranger."

The world seemed terribly cold.

For a while.

* * * *

Heck's reply was a simple nod and a grin. "I figured you'd be heading out. Love to keep you, but ... I can't compete with real money."

Unable to find the words to thank him, she hugged him. He reciprocated. "You'll always have a home in Heck Lansdale's Traveling Show of Steam and Irons," he said, "though I suppose the name could do with a change."

When she finally took leave of Lansdale's Show, Trista left a chunk of reward money for him. Enough to buy a better Benjamin.

* * * *

"You look so smart," Cecilia said upon seeing Trista in her government-issued uniform.

The uniform—snug pants, shiny boots, crisp blue cavalry coat over starched white blouse, gleaming buckles and tight straps—certainly felt good. When she had looked at her own reflection, Trista saw a very different woman than the one she had been. A woman who stood up straighter, a woman who exuded confidence. She wondered: Is that me?

"Thank you." Trista smiled instead of saying anything about the gold band on Cecilia's left ring finger. She had already heard the details: bowing to her father's

"encouragement," Cecilia Foglio had become Mrs. Cecilia Pedigrew, wife of the school's newest assistant professor.

Happily so, by appearances. Not quite so heartbreaking as Trista expected it might have been.

Headmaster Wayne Foglio tried to hide his nausea behind a tight lipped grin. "To what do we owe this visit?"

"I've come for that old skyship," Trista said, offering up a ream of official paperwork for its release.

"Care to give an old friend a ride?" Cecilia asked, and Trista felt a wistful smile.

"Actually," she said, watching Dr. Foglio turn a deeper shade of green, "I'd love to."

* * * *

There was nothing more romantic than floating half a mile over a metropolis like Washington, DC, under the brilliant illumination of a fat October moon. Trista and Maggie sat together in the newly refurbished skyship, kissing in the harvest red glow of that autumnal moon, their hands playing over each others' bodies, their minds and hearts dedicated to the sweet succor found in a lover's arms.

"Don't you have a line of headmasters' daughters waiting to be deflowered in such a vessel as this?" Maggie asked between kisses. The altitude was making her nervous, but the smile shone through.

Trista thought about her question and recalled Cecilia's earnest naiveté. Standing in her father's office, she had seemed somehow cloistered, ignorant of the world, and that innocence robbed her of a vitality that someone like Maggie had in spades. Trista finally shook her head. "Let them wait."

Words were lost to kisses and caresses and the moans and heat of their union, and when the whistles sounded, the cogwork monitoring steam release system Trista had designed kept them afloat and free of crashing fears.

There was little time or need for such earthly distractions, as they plumbed whole universes in each other's arms.

Table of Contents

Like A Wisp of Steam: Steampunk Erotica

CONTENTS

Introduction

The Innocent's Progress

An Extempore Romance

Hysterical Friction

In the Flask

Steam and Iron, Musk and Flesh