CarnalDevices (2 page)

“What do you feel when a man touches you?”

“Disgust. Boredom. Humiliation.” Occasionally I find a man
who provides me with some modicum of physical stimulation, but it is quite
rare. “Most of all, I feel…powerless.”

“Powerless?” she sputters incredulously. “What a grave error
in perception. You are a woman. You have
all
the power.” Her hand curls
into a fist.

“How can a woman wield authority when she must submit to a
man?” Women have no control over their lives. It is the way in England. Men
rule. Women follow. Wives are property. An unmarried woman’s only purpose is to
become a wife. Of course, I disapprove of such folly, but I cannot fight
against the beliefs ingrained in an entire society. I am powerless.

Or am I? Once, on Silverton Square, a working girl stationed
on the corner next to mine was beaten senseless by one of her clients. His
identity was no secret, and we girls looked out for one another because
bruisers like him are not uncommon in the alleyways of Lower London. I
suggested we pool some of our profits and pay for revenge. We hired two
strapping young dock workers and instructed them to beat the offender to within
an inch of his life. They did, and I must say the knowledge that I orchestrated
the entire event filled me with a sense of accomplishment and yes, even a
sudden rush of power.

“Do you wish to know one of my secrets?” Madam Rowena
whispers.

Curiosity awakens. “Please.”

“When I was younger and all manner of men entered my
bedchamber, they were at my mercy. They did what I allowed them to do. I made
sure they provided me with as much pleasure as I provided them. Sometimes
more,” she says in a seductive tone. “And they paid me dearly for my company.”

“But you are….” I search for an appropriate term, as I am in
awe of her accomplishments. “You are Madam Rowena, the proprietress of this
establishment.” She is somewhat of a legend in the shady underground world of
brothels. Most of these enterprises are owned by men, yet, according to what I
have gleaned from the other girls, Madam Rowena owns one hundred percent of
Carnal Pleasures.

“I used to be much like you, lost and disgruntled, until I
found a mentor who taught me the fundamental principles I adhere to even today.
He gave me a booklet titled
Myriad Methods to Manipulate Men
. It changed
my life.”

“Is this document still available?” I ask eagerly.

She laughs and the merry sound echoes in my small chamber.
Her broad smile exposes a row of perfectly shaped teeth. The severity vanishes
from her face and her angular features soften. The change is striking. I see
what men find attractive in her, a sense of nonchalance, confidence, combined
with sexuality that oozes from her pores. If there is a good time to be had, it
can be had in the arms of Rowena.

“Sexual gratification is all in the mind.” She rests her
fingers against my temple. “You must learn to understand how the mind connects
to the cock. And most importantly, how the mind connects to
this
.” With
her other hand, she flicks my nubbin and I stifle a gasp.

It takes me a moment to catch my breath. “To me, the sexual
act is all about filthy, dirty, depraved bodily functions.”

She sighs, and deep grooves furrow her brow. “Which explains
Mr. Tandenberry’s comments about your performance.”

Madam Rowena removes a folded sheet of paper from her copper
bustier and hands it to me. I glance at it and my mouth drops open. A
questionnaire? Clients evaluate the girls after bedding them? Sweet Lord above
us. “We’re
evaluated
?”

“Of course. You are my property for the duration of your
contract. If you perform poorly, my coffers suffer. I am a pampered woman,
accustomed to the best wines, furs and jewels. If a client is dissatisfied, I
need to know why so that I can remedy the situation.”

Pressing my lips together, I reluctantly peruse Mr.
Tandenberry’s assessment. Among a plethora of possible choices, including
seductive,
bewitching, sensual
and
erotic
, he circled
lackluster,
dispassionate
and
sullen
.In the space allocated for
additional comments, he provided a scathing review.

Showed not one iota of passion. This girl would be better
suited for a necrophile. She lay there as though dead and pretended it should
give me pleasure. Her dry cunny did not help matters. Although I will return to
this establishment, I will not request Miss India’s company nor will I
recommend her to my gentlemen friends.

The note crushes me and a flicker of fear rises in my
breast. If I do not perform to Madam Rowena’s exacting standards, she will
release me from my contract and cast me into the street, where I will have no
choice but to return to Silverton Square.

This possibility must not come to pass.

“When a client is dissatisfied, I offer a refund. In order
to make up for your shortcomings, you will be provided with training and then
you will bed him again.”

Training? “But he does not wish to bed me again.”

“He will when I offer you for free.”

Oh. Can training teach me methods to feign arousal and fool
a man into believing I am interested in his attentions? Because I have great
difficulty believing Madam Rowena’s assertion that the mind and sexual organs
are linked.

“With proper training, you can earn more money than any
other lady who works for me.” She eyes me as a gemologist would eye an uncut
diamond.

“I will try,” I say anxiously, returning the evaluation to
her. Its words are etched in my memory. “I promise.”

“Since you agree to my terms, I will schedule a session with
Phineas. Dress for seduction. He will be here within the hour.”

Phineas Felter? The only man who graces her bed?
He
will
teach me how to pleasure men?

Chapter Two

I have barely finished donning my evening attire when a
sharp knock at my door makes me jump. I open it and find myself looking into
the pale-blue pupils of a tall, middle-aged gentleman. Madam Rowena looms
behind him, her hawkish eyes trailing down my copper-reinforced corset and the
sheer fabric of my skirt.

“Phineas, I would like you to meet Miss India, who is most
desperately in need of your tutelage.”

The way she enunciates “desperately” fills me with a sense
of trepidation.

“Pleased to meet you, India.”

He extends a hand and I shake it. His touch is warm, gentle,
and best of all, reassuring. I stand aside, allowing them both to enter. As
Madam Rowena looks away from me to pull another sheet of paper from her
bustier, Phineas Felter gives me an affectionate smile.

“Before continuing,” Madam Rowena announces, “you must sign
our confidentiality clause. Whatever transpires between you and Mr. Felter must
remain between you and Mr. Felter. If you breach this clause, your contract
rescinds automatically, and my coachman will promptly deposit you at Silverton
Square with only the clothes on your back.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say meekly, but inside I am seething. Being
under someone else’s control rankles me. I wish to be free, as I was before my
sponsor’s ill-timed passing.

I take the paper to my small writing desk and peruse each paragraph
to ensure it truly does consist of a confidentiality agreement.

“She is
reading
the agreement,” says Phineas, as
though I possess an unusual skill, much like a performing bear riding a
velocipede around a ring.

“India is the most educated of all my ladies.”

They do not even show me the courtesy of lowering their
voices. They simply speak as though I am not in the room.

“How did you obtain such a rarity?” he asks.

Obtain? “I am not merchandise. And yes, I will read the
document to ensure I am not being sold into slavery to the Sultan of Sudan.”

To my astonishment, they look at each another and burst into
laughter.

“I will enjoy working with this fine young lady,” Phineas
says, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “She has a sharp mind.”

“Please teach her how to use it.” Madam Rowena expels a long
sigh.

When I am satisfied with the document’s wording, I take my
quill pen and scratch my signature at the bottom of the page. The moment I give
her the paper, Madam Rowena turns to leave.

“Good luck, Phineas. Although I have full confidence in your
abilities, I fear you will need it.”

After the door closes, I remain seated, letting Phineas
appraise me. His eyes travel from my soft curls to my long, coltish legs and to
my ankle-high boots. He carries a brown leather case, which he holds most
possessively, and I wonder what it contains. Unlike Madam Rowena, his presence
does not send chills of apprehension down my spine, and for that I am grateful.

“Let me introduce myself,” he begins, depositing his case on
my bed. “My name is Phineas Felter. I studied at Cambridge University, where I
obtained a degree in psychology with a specialty in sexology. My thesis was
entitled
Fantasy, Fulfillment and Fornication
—
How the Mind Rules the
Body during Sexual Activity
.I have published many articles on the
subject over the past few decades.”

“I did not know it was possible to research sexual habits in
university. How fascinating.” While there is a hint of sarcasm in my speech,
part of me is intrigued by his field of study.

Phineas waves at the shelf of books over my writing desk.
“Since you are well read, perhaps you have heard of some of my publications.”

Doubtful. But I listen politely as he provides me with a
list.

“
Deflowering the Delicate Damsel
?”

I shake my head in amusement. My days as a delicate damsel
are a faint memory.

“
Carnal Contraptions and Devices for Desire—Utilizing
Artificial Means to Stimulate Arousal and Orgasm
?”

Another shake of my head, and I wonder what type of devices
he means.

“
How to Have a Happy Housewife—Maintaining Passion in the
Matrimonial Bed
?”

“Once again, no.”

“
Loss of Libido—Causes and Cures?
Or
The
Licentious Libertine—Why Married Men Consort with Courtesans
?”

“What an impressive array of articles. I’m afraid I prefer
to read fiction or history books. They nourish my imagination and my mind.” My
shelves are filled with romance and adventure novels as well as accounts of
historical battles and archaeological discoveries. Newspapers cover my shelves
too, for I like to keep abreast of what is going on in the world, the conquest
of India, impending war with France, Canada’s looming independence. “Each
evening, after fulfilling the obligations of my contract, I enjoy sitting and
reading. It takes me away from this prison. Carnal Pleasures is a gilded cage,
but a cage nonetheless.”

“I see.” He removes a pair of spectacles from his pocket.
Then he pulls a fountain pen as well as a pad of paper from his mysterious
leather case and begins to make copious notes.

I use this as an opportunity to examine him more closely. He
is fit and attractive in a scholarly, bookish manner. His suit, a pair of
straight-legged trousers with a matching jacket, is meant for a university
professor. The spectacles heighten his air of intelligence. His lips are thin,
yet sensual, and his eyes are a calm, dreamy shade of blue. Even though I do
not know him, I feel I can trust him.

What does he look like underneath? Although he expresses no
physical interest in me, I find myself speculating about the hair on his chest,
the firmness of his thighs, how his arms would feel if they were wrapped around
me.

Where is this arousal coming from?

I have absolutely no idea. Never in my life have I
encountered someone like Phineas.

He puts away his writing implements, strides toward me and
places his fingers against my temples. “In my opinion, the cage exists here,
entirely in your mind. It is a figment of your imagination.”

His words are harsh, but his touch is a gentle caress.
Before answering, I collect my thoughts. “You are mistaken,” I correct him.
“Carnal Pleasures is my prison. My contract binds me to it.”

He crosses his arms. “It seems I will need to alter your
perception of your situation.”

“If only it were so simple. My problem does not exist in my
mind, it—”

“Why, of course it does, my sweet. Did Madam Rowena not
offer you your freedom?”

I see myself reflected in his spectacles and momentary
confusion clouds my thoughts. “Y-yes,” I stammer. He is correct. Yet incorrect
as well.

“You were given the opportunity for early release from your
gilded cage. Why didn’t you take it?”

“Because.…” A long sigh escapes me. “My only other option is
Silverton Square.”

“Is it?”

I cast down my eyes.

“Let us begin with simpler things.” He sits on the bed,
rests his elbows on his thighs and steeples his fingers. “Where did you receive
your education?”

“I never knew my father. My mother died during the typhus
epidemic when I was twelve. I was sent to a workhouse, where my best hope for
the future was to become a scullery maid or a cook’s helper. The conditions were
abhorrent.” I sit at my writing desk, crossing my legs and rubbing my hands
against my thighs. It is a time in my life I prefer not to revisit, much like
all those months on Silverton Square. “And then a miracle happened. A wealthy
woman decided to sponsor three orphans and we were sent to Pennyworth’s School
for Girls as scholarship students.”

“Hmmm,” Phineas utters pensively.

My life began that day, a life of promise and possibility.
Although I did not have the high social status of the girls whose wealthy
families sent them to Pennyworth’s, and most of those girls looked down their
elegant noses at me, the scholarship rescued me from the extreme poverty of the
workhouse. “For the first time, I saw a future over the horizon instead of
bleak clouds. I was learning how to become a lady, how to conduct myself in
genteel society, how to carry on conversations that would hold a man’s
attention.”

“This appealed to you. I see. And once you graduated from
the school, what did you see for yourself?”

“Freedom. But my freedom was taken away when my sponsor
died. The scholarship fund died with her and so did my hopes. I was barely
seventeen.”

“Tell me in concrete terms what you planned to do after
graduating.”

I pause, suddenly uncertain.

“Because scholarship students do not marry wealthy
gentlemen. They do not join the ranks of high society.”

The words are rowels digging into my skin. “Had I completed
my studies, I would never have heard of Silverton Square.” I pin him down with
a glare.

“True. But let me be honest with you, India, perhaps
brutally so. After finishing school, scholarship students become governesses or
ladies-in-waiting. These occupations offer very little in terms of freedom.
Even finding a gentleman of a lower class to marry you—a woman without a family
or a dowry—would have been difficult, most likely impossible,” he says bluntly.
“Do not misunderstand me. Compared to the workhouse and Silverton Square,
finishing school was a blessing. But it did not truly offer you the freedom you
dreamed of. That freedom was an illusion.”

I glower at him, wishing my stare could set him aflame.
However, he speaks the truth and it slides between my ribs like a whetted
blade.

“You are eighteen years old, correct?”

I nod.

“You are a grown woman. Focus on what you have now. Turn
your gilded cage into an open sky where you can spread your wings and soar.”

When I speak, I sound disgruntled, irate. “So I should shut
the door to my past?” Yet in my heart I recognize the necessity of doing so, of
relinquishing the dream, letting it fly off into the aether. My future would
never have been the glamorous one that I dreamed of, where a handsome
aristocrat kneeled before me and asked for my hand in marriage.

“The past can never be regained. We live in the present, and
we plan for the future. That is all we can do.”

My lips stretch into an imitation of a smile. “Do you also
have a degree in philosophy, Mr. Felter?”

He chuckles. “Please, call me Phineas.”

“Phineas.” The name is as soft and serene as the blue of his
eyes.

“Take a look at yourself.” He takes me by the hand and
positions me before my full-length mirror. “What do you see?”

My bustier pushes my breasts into creamy, caramel-colored
mounds. Beneath the long, transparent organza that constitutes my skirt, my
black undergarments peek through, as do my garters. Too much rouge highlights
my cheekbones and my lips are a vivid, vermillion shade. “A common whore.”

Phineas sighs. “You are stubborn, India. Do you know what I
see?”

He stands behind me, both hands gripping my upper arms. His
touch is firm, and it awakens a longing in me. Why? Why does he have this
effect?

Because he is first and foremost a man of intellect and
physical considerations are of secondary importance to him. Yes, it makes
sense. He appeals to my mind, unlike other men I have encountered who are of a
baser nature. How refreshing.

And titillating. Often, I shrink at a man’s touch or simply
tolerate it. Seldom do I welcome it. I lean back, pressing my body against his.
Phineas responds by wrapping his arms around my waist.

“I will tell you what I see. A woman with infinite
potential. A woman who can reinvent herself and become whoever she wishes.
Create your own identity, India. Who do you wish to be?”

He makes it sound like a simple task, as easy as donning a
new gown for a masquerade ball. “Honestly, I do not know. For so long, I have
thought of myself as a whore, a prostitute, a woman of ill repute.”

“Unacceptable.” His hands slide down to my hips and stop
there. Most men would have gone directly to my rounded buttocks.

“Look at the beauty beneath the rouge and the prostitute’s
common apparel.” He snaps one of my garters, and I start. “For example, you can
use your heritage to your advantage.”

“My heritage?” What a tactful way of referring to my tainted
blood. “You mean my dark-skinned father, who must have been a Gypsy?” My mother
never spoke of him. Once, when I pressed her for information, a faraway look
haunted her features, and she turned to hide her tears. After that, I no longer
pried for information, even though I longed to know more about him, where he
came from, why he left us.

“No one at Carnal Pleasures knows your true lineage, India.
In fact, it seems a mystery even to you. So invent it.”

“How?”

“Perhaps your father was an Italian aristocrat who owned vineyards
in Sicily and died in a mysterious shipwreck in the Mediterranean.”

Interesting. I ponder further possibilities.

“You could choose to be a hot-blooded Spaniard, the daughter
of a wealthy merchant and a famed flamenco dancer.” His cheek presses against
mine and he holds me closer. “The point is, India, be who you want to be. Do
not let others define who you are. Play with a fantasy. You are limited only by
your imagination.”

My imagination. I can spin a wild tale and become anyone I
please.

There is a book that I hide in the bottom drawer of my night
table, the
Kama Sutra
. It was a gift from the very first man who paid
for my services at Carnal Pleasures. I put some effort into pleasing him, since
he was different from the laborers who tried to catch my eye at Silverton
Square. He was clean, articulate and accomplished, a middle-aged lieutenant
commander who piloted airships.

Throughout our interlude, where he took me in various
positions, including standing against the wall, he prattled endlessly about the
Kama Sutra
. He said the positions were exquisite, not vulgar, and they
required a woman to be a full participant in the lovemaking process, not a limp
rag doll. When we twined our bodies together in an upright position, he
compared me to a vine climbing up a tree and I thought the metaphor to be most
poetic. Although Indians lagged behind the British in terms of military
advancements, he said, they far exceeded the British in terms of their
lovemaking abilities.