CarnalDevices (3 page)

“Learn from this,” he whispered in my ear as he placed the
book in my hands.

After leafing through it on multiple occasions over the past
several days, I find that I agree with his assertions. For Indians, the sexual
act has been elevated to an art form.

I regard my image in the mirror. Phineas’ cheek is still
pressed against my own and I reach up to stroke his face and run my fingers
through his hair. “I am the daughter of an Indian rajah, well-mannered,
sophisticated, and I rebelled against my father after meeting a dashing British
lieutenant commander who initiated me to carnal pleasures by means of the
Kama
Sutra
.” There, the dream has burst free! “I am not a prostitute. I am a
courtesan, highly skilled in the pleasures of the flesh.”

Phineas breaks into an enthusiastic smile. Even his eyes appear
to be a warmer shade of blue, similar to a lake on a sun-drenched August
afternoon.

“I am exotic and men find me alluring.” At last, I am no
longer a wanton Gypsy girl. She has been banished from my life. “I am India,
originally from Rajasthan.” My name suits my new persona to perfection.

“Very good, India,” Phineas encourages, hugging me tighter.
“Go on.”

“I do not succumb to men. They succumb to me. They are
wealthy. They are educated. They are powerful. They are
mine
.” The last
word is uttered with a growl of determination.

“Then
be
that woman.” He gives me a shake. “
Be
her.
”

“How? I can envision her, but how do I breathe life into
her?” I answer my own question. “With imagination and intellect.” And the
Kama
Sutra
.

“And with the aid of my carnal devices.”

Carnal devices? I turn to face Phineas. He cocks his head at
the leather case on my bed. The side is clearly emblazoned with the words
Phineas
Felter’s Fornication Facilitators
.

“In addition to being a scholar, I am a tinkerer. My
facilitators—also known as carnal devices—are designed to help women indulge in
the art of self-pleasure, but they can also be used by couples.”

My curiosity piques.

“Furthermore, I have invented a similar device for men. I
dispute the common belief that men must control nocturnal emissions, that
self-pleasuring leads to all sorts of maladies, such as lethargy and dementia.
My research proves that regular sexual interactions—even solitary
ones—contribute to health and well-being. Men require release. It is a
necessity, not a vice.”

The avalanche of information is simply too much. “Beg your
pardon?” In all honesty, I self-pleasure several times a week, since men never
bring me anywhere near climax, but I have never heard of instruments that can
help a woman attain orgasm any better than her own hand. What on earth does
such a device look like?”

Phineas walks to the bed and beckons me to follow. He opens
the case and pulls out a behemoth of a device, a long, shiny cylindrical
object, much like a man’s erect member, only with a handle adorned with many,
many brass knobs and switches. Branching out from the base of the cylinder is a
two-pronged protrusion, undoubtedly shaped to fit on either side of a woman’s
nubbin.

“It is…” Truly terrifying. How can this monstrosity be used
to produce pleasure? “Am I to insert this horror into my cunny?”

“Most certainly. And please refrain from calling it a
horror. This is my most popular model. Ladies in high society are quite fond of
it. It teaches them the meaning of
ecstasy
.”

“It is rather…intimidating.”

Phineas’ laughter sweeps over me. “Madam Rowena helped me
develop this particular version, so I guarantee that it has been tested and
tested and tested again until she was fully sated.”

“Is this why you visited her bedchamber? You paid her to
help create this device?” The long cylinder gleams and glistens under the light
of my gas lamp.

He grins, appearing suddenly playful and boyish. “Not at
all. Rowena pays me to pleasure her. That is our arrangement. It is a mutually
satisfying agreement, one that has lasted many years, and I hope it will last
many more. She obtains sexual gratification and I obtain valuable research
material for my essays and my tinkering.”

“
She
pays
you
?” I gasp in disbelief. “How is
it possible for an educated man such as yourself to sell his services as a…male
whore?”

“Being a male whore, as you say, can be most enjoyable. And
lucrative. You must begin to enjoy your profession as well, India of
Rajasthan.”

This must be why I signed the confidentiality clause, to
protect his reputation. A man paid to service a woman? What an unusual concept.
“Other than Madam Rowena, does anyone else give you money in exchange for your
sexual expertise?”

“Lonely wives whose husbands serve in the military and are
absent for lengthy periods, widows who long for a man’s touch, women who wish
to improve their skills in bed in order to prevent their husbands from
wandering into establishments such as Carnal Pleasures. I have also paid for
sex in order to conduct research for my journal articles. To examine all
aspects of sexuality, I have interviewed and bedded countless women over the
course of my career. Does this answer your question?”

“It does.” When I look at him, I see him in a completely
different light. Yes, I admire him for his intellectual ability, but he is a
far more complex man than I first imagined. He values the mind as well as the
lustful predilections of the body. It also makes me wonder what kind of fodder
I might provide for his future research.

“In the guise of India of Rajasthan, I want you to meet
these men you speak of. Choose a location where you can meet these powerful,
wealthy men—”

“The Steam Society,” I answer immediately. It maddens me
that men have access to private clubs while women must settle for sitting in
the open in tea houses. “Upper London’s intelligentsia gathers there to relax,
smoke fine cigars and discuss the latest happenings in politics and commerce.
They also have members who specialize in the fields of engineering and
medicine.” The lieutenant commander belongs to this elite society.

“You set the bar very high, India. I admire your lofty
ambition.”

It is one thing to consider going there, but quite another
to arrive unannounced. “The Steam Society is a private men’s club. How will I
gain access?” I glance at Phineas and bite my lower lip. “I can only assume
that you are a member. After all, your abilities as a tinkerer, particularly in
the domain of sexology, should be enough for them to invite you to be part of
their inner circle.”

“You are quite perspicacious, my sweet. I am indeed a member
of the Steam Society. However, no woman has ever been allowed on the premises.”

“With your help, India of Rajasthan will attempt to be the
first,” I say.

“Very well.” He smiles and touches my cheek. “Tomorrow
evening, you will dress in a manner suited for your new identity and we will go
to the Steam Society together.”

“Thank you, Phineas. I look forward to stepping beyond the
boundaries of Carnal Pleasures.” It will be refreshing to leave the premises. I
seldom do, although I am free to go wherever I please during daylight hours.

“It is best if you first gather information about the men
you may meet there in order to pinpoint their desires and weaknesses. Rowena
gives you cards for your clients, does she not?”

“The infamous cards.” I roll my eyes at the ceiling in
irritation.

“You read the cards, do you not?” His formerly pleasant
voice turns to the consistency of gravel crunching under the wheels of a hansom
cab. “They offer invaluable information about your clients.”

My downcast expression says it all. Madam Rowena writes
details about our clients, and we ladies of the evening are supposed to read
them, learn from them and use them to enhance the client’s experience. I
remember a few odd bits.
Favors fellatio. Has a domineering wife and
therefore prefers a compliant lady. Fantasizes about strong Amazons. Is a
constable at Scotland Yard and enjoys being manacled to the bed. Wishes to be
scolded by a sharp-tongued headmistress.

“If you do not change your ways,” Phineas says in the same
gravelly tone, “Madam Rowena will return you to your place of origin.”

“I know,” I say petulantly. “From now on, I will pay
attention to the cards.”

He proffers the fornication facilitator as though expecting
me to take it. “Do you enjoy the sexual act?”

“It is awkward and burdensome.”

“Every time?” His eyebrows arch and his voice rises.

“Almost.”

A sigh of discouragement heaves from his lungs.

“However,” I continue, “some of the descriptions in the
Kama
Sutra
set my blood aflame. For instance, during role reversal, when the
woman sits on the man and stimulates him by rising up and down, much like a
lady on a trotting horse. I find the idea most interesting.”

“The
Kama Sutra
? There is hope for you, then,” he
says in approval. “Tell me about the times you experienced physical pleasure.”

“When the man let me do what I wished. When the power to
pleasure rested in my hands. It is important to have some measure of control.
Power, if you will.”

“You already have much power, although you seem blind to it.
Men seek something that only you can give. They are willing to pay handsomely
for what you offer. That is power.”

He thrusts the facilitator into my unwilling palms. “Let us
begin by changing your perception of the sexual act.”

The carnal device is heavy, unwieldy. The cylinder must be a
full nine inches and its girth is considerable. It resembles metal, but it has
a softer consistency and I cannot identify the material.

“It is made from the latest metal alloy, coated with
phenol-formaldehyde resin, and it yields beneath your touch. Hold the shaft.”
His eyes sparkle and he seems quite amused by my discomposure.

Overcome by a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, I
reluctantly hold the contraption while Phineas presses a few knobs, and the
entire nine inches whirs and turns beneath my grip. Dear Lord, what a
fascinating sensation under my palms, as if a series of beads is hidden inside
the cylinder and they are massaging my flesh. How enjoyable. What would this
feel like if it were inside me?

Phineas flips a switch and the beads rotate in an entirely
different direction. They are positioned throughout the entire member, and the
sensation is most pleasing. A man’s penis cannot duplicate these motions.
Perhaps the facilitator will provide me with sufficient stimulation to attain a
more intense climax. The longer I hold the shaft, the more certain I am that
the temperature is changing. Yes, it is indeed growing warmer. What a brilliant
substitute for a man! “And what of the, uh, protrusion?”

“The clitoral stimulator?” he says unabashedly. “It was
constructed to Rowena’s exacting specifications and will have you shouting my
name in gratitude.”

I picture myself lying on my back, too enraptured to count
the cracks in the ceiling, screaming, “Phineas! Phineas!”

He simultaneously depresses a knob and a switch, and the
stimulator vibrates and rotates at the same time. A soft, humming noise
emanates from the contraption. I place my index finger between the prongs. The
tips are flexible, fashioned from a different material, and I can imagine them
molding themselves to my pearl. The sensation is heavenly, even against my
finger.

“Do you wish to try it?”

“Absolutely.” The facilitator is appealing and no longer
frightens me.

“First, I must prepare you.” Phineas sweeps me into his
arms, crushing my breasts against his chest. “It is a myth that the modern male
has no interest in foreplay. It is essential. Only an uncivilized brute would
enter a woman without prelude.”

He takes the facilitator from me and drops it on the bed. He
tips my chin and kisses me, a long burning kiss. I reciprocate, melting into
him, experiencing greater need than I ever have. I truly desire this man. He
understands me. He wants me to expand my horizons and be happy for the first
time since leaving Pennyworth’s. When our lips part, I am panting heavily and
my bustier restricts my breathing. I must remove it.

“Unclasp me.” I spin around, hold up my hair and wait for
him to free me from my corset-tight apparel.

With dexterous fingers, he unhooks the eyelets and throws
the copper-ornamented undergarment on the bed next to the still-humming
facilitator. I inhale a deep breath. It felt so good to be in his arms. No
feeling of degradation, of being used. He wants to pleasure me. Therefore, I
wish to pleasure him in return.

I turn around, my breasts exposed, and let my hair cascade
over my shoulders. He cups my twin mounds and leans forward until his expert
mouth makes contact with my nipples. They awaken, forming erect points that I
tease and rub against his lips.

Phineas pauses and stares into my eyes. “Since you are India
of Rajasthan, do you wish to share a page from the
Kama Sutra
with me?”

I gaze at him with the confident demeanor of a woman who has
been trained in the art of carnal enchantments. Taking a long breath to
consider my next actions, I push my shoulders back, which further enhances my
breasts. What pleasures should I share? I twine my arms around his neck. “When
I cling to you in a loving embrace, press my hand against the back of your
head, and tilt my head to meet your lips, this is called
Jataveshtitaka
,
or the twining of the creeper.” Gently, I kiss him, my fingers running through
his hair, our lips exploring, our tongues tasting. When the kiss comes to an
end, I want more. I hold him tightly, uttering soft needful moans in his ear.
“Let us engage in congress, and I will teach you the meaning of bliss.”