Like a Wisp of Steam Read online

  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.

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  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.

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  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 f
irst 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.