CarnalDevices (8 page)

Phineas rests his head on Ambrose’s lap as his cock grows
flaccid. I hear only the rattle of the carriage, the steady
clop-clop-clop
of the horses’ hooves. The cathedral is mere moments away and my men are still
nude, their chests heaving and shining with perspiration.

“Are you satisfied?” I ask them.

“With Ambrose, yes, I am, thoroughly satisfied,” answers
Phineas. “However….”

“It is our turn,” finishes Ambrose as he looks at me with
lust in his gaze.

“The three of us,” adds Phineas.

“In the cathedral.” Why not sin at St. Paul’s? The idea
secretly pleases the hedonist in me.

The men quickly put on their clothing, and Ambrose anxiously
peers from a gap in the curtains as he buttons up his shirt. Seconds later, the
cab pulls up in front of the massive structure that is St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Twin spires rise above us, and a giant dome looms in the background. While
Phineas helps me disembark, Ambrose pays the driver.

Pride etched on his face, Ambrose introduces us to his
architectural masterpiece with a wave of his hand. “Welcome to St. Paul’s
Cathedral.” He takes a key from his pocket and opens one of the massive front
doors. “It will be the first cathedral in all of England to be wired with
electricity.”

For a moment, Ambrose disappears into the darkness. Phineas
remains by my side, his leather case in his hand. I hear a sharp
click
.
Light floods the interior, banishing the darkness. Electricity is truly a marvel!
It appears to be daylight!

“Much work still needs to be done,” Ambrose announces,
leading us farther inside.

The cathedral is bare. No pews. No altar. The finishings are
lacking, and the silent grandeur unnerves me. The beauty of the stained glass
is riveting. I examine the brilliance of the greens, blues, reds and yellows.
Never have I seen such a breathtaking sight.

According to the Darwinists, a political movement that is
rapidly gaining popularity, God does not exist. Just as Christianity supplanted
paganism, modern scientific beliefs should supplant religion. In some ways, I
agree with them. In my entire life, I have only attended church a few times. I
remember one day when my mother was holding my hand and we crossed the
threshold of one of Lower London’s small churches. The moment the priest saw
us, he came to the door with bold strides. At first I thought he wanted to
greet us. After all, my mother said the church was about acceptance and
forgiveness. It welcomed every pious soul. The priest, however, glared at me
and told us to leave. He castigated my mother for not having a wedding band,
for conceiving me in sin. Although I had been baptized in another of Lower
London’s churches—by a far more tolerant man of the cloth—this priest doubted
my soul could be saved. I was destined to go to hell just like my father, who
was undoubtedly a Gypsy, an Indian or a sailor from a foreign land. Never again
did I enter a place of worship. Neither did my mother.

Sinning at St. Paul’s Cathedral seems a most natural thing
to do. As I move beneath the domed ceiling, the electric lights play on the
gilded edge of my sari and it glitters in a shower of golden starlight.

“An artist will soon paint a sky and cherubs.” Ambrose looks
up at the bare dome.

I stand between both men, grasping their hands. This time, I
plan to share in their passions. Where will we engage in our sexual adventure?
I look around and then up. There is an area above us with a railing. Is this
where the choir will sing? I believe so.

“Ambrose, would this be a comfortable place for us?”

“Yes, it is an almost finished area where rugs have been
laid.”

“Show me.” I pull them both toward the narrow stairs.
“Phineas, you have the facilitator? The one designed for men?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I am sure Ambrose would like to try it.” I turn to the
architect. “If it is anything like the one I tried yesterday, you will wish to
have one of your very own.”

Ambrose’s eyes brighten with curiosity. We hurry up the
stairs. How will I share them? Images from the
Kama Sutra
dance in my
mind. It teaches a man the many ways to share a woman.

No, I do not like this phrasing. It teaches a woman the many
ways to enjoy more than one man. Much better.

Which position will I select? Which one appeals to me most?

Then again, why limit myself to one? Why not enjoy many?

A luxurious Persian rug covers the floor. An ideal location
for my fantasies. “Disrobe,” I tell them while relieving Phineas of his leather
case and pulling out the men’s facilitator.

This implement is different in shape and purpose. It is a
long sheath in which an erect member can be inserted. There is a handle on each
side, in addition to knobs and switches. I wonder how they are powered. Energy
cells? Placing the fingers of my left hand inside the cylinder, I flip a few of
the knobs with my right. The facilitator makes a high-pitched whine before
settling into a low moan, and I sense deep vibrations against my fingertips.
The interior is as supple as lambskin, but I believe it is a type of resin,
something that is easy to clean. I turn another knob, and beads swirl against
my fingers.

“What an imagination you have, Phineas, to conjure these
carnal devices.”

When I look up, my men are nude, their clothing strewn
about. Phineas is on his knees before Ambrose, engaging in what the
Kama
Sutra
calls mouth congress, or
the sucking of the mango fruit
.The
book also divides men into three categories according to their size. After a
few seconds of comparing, I decide Phineas is definitely a
bull
and
Ambrose a
horse
.

In the cab, my men were hidden in the shadows, but now the
electrical lights reveal every detail of their bodies, the sculpted muscle,
lean bellies, and firm, rounded buttocks. Swiftly I join them.

“Undress me.” The words no sooner escape my mouth than
Phineas springs to his feet, reaching for the buttons on my silk blouse, and
Ambrose grasps the part of the sari that drapes over my shoulder. How erotic to
be disrobed by two men, to enjoy the touch of four hands, two mouths and two
insistent members probing my flesh. Their demeanor is much gentler with me than
it is with each other and within moments my sari flutters to the floor and my
bare skin is pressed between theirs.

Their warmth seeps into my skin. My eyes close as fingers
flick my nipples and probe my cunny. A foot presses firmly against mine and I
eagerly spread my legs. My nubbin is alive with sensation and need. Moans fill
my ears and I cannot tell whose throat they are coming from. Delicious fingers
twist into the hair on my mound. Whose are they? I cannot tell. I am lost in
ecstasy. Hands rove over my body, cup my buttocks, squeeze my breasts, trail
along the inside of my thighs. Teeth nip my shoulders, and warm skin rubs
against mine.

Although I could enjoy this for hours, I think of Ambrose
and the facilitator. He should enjoy its pleasures, so I open my eyes and
struggle to come to my senses. My nubbin cries out for a man’s touch, but I
will wait.

“Lie down,” I tell Ambrose.

He lies on the rug, face up, his member jutting upward.

I kneel between his legs. “Phineas, take me from behind
while I pleasure Ambrose with the facilitator.”

Phineas drops to his knees behind me, placing his hands on
my hips and gripping me tight. While he drives his cock into my cunny, I
massage Ambrose’s bollocks. It is so difficult to focus on Ambrose’s tight sac
when Phineas plunges in and out in regular, pounding strokes. My cunny is wet,
as slippery as melted butter, and Phineas reaches in front of me to stimulate
my pearl.

“What skilled fingers you have.” My voice is low and
throaty.

He bites my neck and I gasp. It takes all my concentration
to position the facilitator over Ambrose’s ready cock, and when his appendage
has fully disappeared inside the cylinder, I turn the knob that activates the
beads.

“Ahhhhh!” Ambrose cries out, arching his back, thrusting his
cock farther into the carnal device. “Ecstasy!”

At this rate, he will finish within moments. He writhes and
his hips buck. His hands ball into fists and his moans become louder. I cannot
believe we are doing this in such a forbidden place, in a cathedral no less.
Yet it seems fitting to celebrate our attraction to each other in the place
that insists our conduct is immoral, even illegal.

“Try the switch on the side, the red one,” Phineas
recommends, his hands on my hips.

The moment I flick it, Ambrose shudders and grows still. His
face twists, almost as if he is experiencing pain, but I know he is in the
throes of ecstasy. He must not finish so soon, not before I get to experience
him for myself.

“Which do you prefer, Ambrose, me or the facilitator?”

“I want you, India,” he cries out. “You are beautiful beyond
imagining. I want to come inside you.”

I turn off the facilitator, place it on the floor next to
me, and lean forward so that Phineas’ cock slips out of me. Positioning myself
over Ambrose, I lower myself over his member. While he is not as large as
Phineas, the sensation is nonetheless marvelous. I lean forward, my breasts
brushing against his chest, and he suddenly wraps his arms around me, turns
over and pins me beneath him. Oh yes! The excitement of it! His eyes stare into
mine. He begins to pound his cock into me. Over and over, over and over, until
I am lost in pleasure so intense I cry out and dig my nails into his back. His
voice joins mine and he closes his eyes. His orgasm lasts longer than any I
have witnessed a man have in the past. At last, small, ever-diminishing tremors
overcome his body. When his wildfire passions are soothed, his eyes flutter
open.

“This has been the sweetest night of all.” Ambrose cups my
chin in his hand. He kisses me passionately, his tongue probing deep, and then
looks over at Phineas, who is sitting beside us on the rug. “Now pound your
cock into her, Phineas. I want to see her climax.”

* * * * *

Hand in hand with Phineas, I enter Carnal Pleasures, my sari
slightly askew and my hair mussed. After trying more passionate positions, we
left St. Paul’s at dawn, stepped into a hansom cab and drove Ambrose to his
home in a well-to-do area of Upper London. He took me aside and placed several
gold sovereigns in my palm, profusely thanking me for my services and for
helping him come to terms with the fact that he was not an aberration after
all.

The coins jingle and clink in my purse. My first excursion
to the Steam Society exceeded my expectations and I have Phineas to thank for
it. Grateful, I squeeze his arm. He smiles at me, the corners of his eyes
crinkling, his blue eyes shining.

“I have learned much about myself in the past few days,” I
say.

“As have I.”

Carnal Pleasures is quieter at this early morning hour, but
a few clients remain in the entertainment area. The stage is empty. Girls
stopped singing and dancing quite some time ago. A few men in various states of
intoxication sit at the bar, scantily clad girls draped on their arms. At the
far end, Madam Rowena sits on a plush leather chair with the regal bearing of a
queen on her throne. When I catch her eye, a wide smile comes over my face and
I rush over to her.

“Success!” I exclaim, sitting next to her and gushing about
my escapade. “They let me enter and I met the most handsome architect. I
seduced him—the
new India
seduced him—and I am no longer earning mere
shillings!” As stated in my contract, sixty percent of my earnings go to Madam
Rowena, so I proceed to empty my purse into her open palms.

Her eyebrows arch at the sight of so many gold coins. Her
painted mouth curves upward. “Oh my, India! I knew I chose well when I took you
away from Silverton Square.” She pushes the coins back into my purse, her iron
rings glittering. “Keep these. All of them. You have earned every one.”

“Thank you, Madam.” Her generosity is unexpected. Money
means everything to Madam Rowena and she never allows girls to keep all their
earnings. I am grateful.

“I take it you have found some measure of joy in your
occupation,” she asks.

“Thanks to Phineas, I have discovered how to include
imagination and intellect in my profession. And I have discovered that the mind
can indeed rule the body during sexual intercourse.”

Phineas pulls up a chair and joins us. “India learns quickly.
She is as intelligent as she is beautiful.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. I ponder my future. A section of
the
Kama Sutra
is devoted to the courtesan, explaining how to obtain
clients, how to keep them, even how to be rid of them if the union does not prove
fruitful. I must peruse the book in more detail if I am to permanently elevate
myself above the status of prostitute. I must also familiarize myself with the
sexual positions in order to please my clients—and just as importantly,
myself—and keep them entranced, entertained and willing to shower me with gold
coins.

“You were correct, Phineas. There is more freedom at Carnal
Pleasures than I ever imagined. I am not trapped. My cage was here.” I tap my
temple. “With your help, I set myself free.”

I clasp his hand in mine. Madam Rowena regards my gesture
with interest. Or jealousy? She purses her lips, runs her fingers through the
hair loosely piled on her head. Does she disapprove of my familiarity? Does she
have feelings for Phineas? Oh dear, I believe she does! She gazes at him with
more than deep friendship.

“Your future need not be confined to my establishment,” she
says, placing her hand on Phineas’ thigh. “Five years ago, I employed a very
talented girl, so talented with her body and so financially shrewd that in no
time at all she saved enough money to buy a small house in Paris. She started
her life over again, reinvented herself the way you are reinventing yourself
now. Last month, she sent me a letter saying she is to be married soon.”