Though Victoria shared her name with the reigning monarch, the similarities ended there. She very much doubted the ruler would condone—or even contemplate—an outfit such as the one she wore. The ornate gild of the mirror in her chambers framed a woman brimming with inner confidence, unashamed to express her sexuality where others chastised her loose morals, preferring to toe societal norms in dress and values.
Cupping the swell of her chest in the cream basque, Victoria flicked back her cascade of chestnut hair and smoothed the fabric down her lithe physique. The material’s earthy tones hugged her body all the way down past the wide dark green belt to the ruche of the skirt that finished scandalously thigh high. Fuck petticoats and bustles: they got in the way of a good time. Dainty bowed socks peeked above the fully laced cowhide boots that took over an inch below the knee, leaving a tantalising expanse of creamy leg on display.
She turned away from the mirror to admire the back view over her shoulder. The tiny backpack housed all her essentials—fan, hair comb, compass, and leather money pouch. Easing forward, the matching skirt crept up and rode perfectly close to exposing the hem of her low-cut panty barely half an inch above the visible crease formed where her thighs joined the pert curvature of her bottom. She’d overheard the pastor saying that a seat had been reserved in hell for her because good girls bend at the knee. Well, so be it. Better girls bend at the waist.
She paused. Made eye contact with him gripping the edge of the Swiss twilled calico bedsheets, wearing just a linen shirt and a promise. A stiff promise by all accounts. She cocked her head. “Do you find me a slummock, Henry? Like they say behind my back.”
His smile lifted. “I do not.”
Standing, she strode closer. Placed a dainty palm into his chest and shoved him back then straddled him. Drew a line up his thigh and skimmed the fullness of the shaft that pointed at his chin before shuffling forward and grinding her covered sex on it.
“What about now? Am I filthy strumpet?”
He grinned, dimples forming and traced fingertips along her thigh and under the pleat. “Undoubtedly. The finest calibre strumpet.”
“Mmm. And what if I behaved like this?” She fell to her hands and knees, her amulet swaying in front of her cleavage as she crawled provocatively up his body until her thighs brushed his cheeks. Upon sitting upright, she lifted her skirt and pulled aside her sticky underwear to his wide-eyed gaze. “Would the sight of my delicious, wet cunt for you to devour make me a worthless harlot? A whore?”
He craned his neck and made contact, kissing the matted tuft of hair and making her groan as his tongue foraged. Withdrawing, he affirmed: “Not at all.”
Grinding onto his mouth, she cupped her chest and pinched nipples spilling from the confines of the corset. “Then why do they say these things about me?”
Henry hooked his forearms over her thighs and held her against his exploring tongue, heat and juices coating his chin. When she lifted free, he smacked his wet lips and inhaled her femininity. “Because they are intimidated by your spirit. Your independence. They are afraid of you.” He licked a long line from the base of her dripping pussy, chasing a stray droplet and figure-eighting it around her emerging clit. “Of us.”
She took a shaky breath and pressed her wetness to his eager mouth again. Slid it back and forth. The undergarment tried to reseat itself so she tugged it aside once more and held it while she swung her juicy cunt like a pendulum, folds pierced on every stroke by his extended tongue until she couldn't take the torment and mashed into his face.
“Do you really think they are afraid?”
When she let him out for air, he gasped. “Yes! Petrified. Any technology that is sufficiently advanced beyond the comprehension of closed minds is tantamount to witchcraft.”
Victoria swooped her pussy back onto his mouth. Her jaw dropped as he fluttered circles and flicks across her needy nub. “Oh God, keep going.”
All the academics and naysayers in the land couldn't stop him. He kissed and lapped her womanhood. Drank her essence as it spilled and smeared. Drowned in her beauty, her radiance, her power when she peaked and crushed him to the wrought iron bed, its brass finials rattling as she shook.
He teased her all the way through her euphoric high with tiny kisses and laps around her distended lips that dripped to feed his hunger.
When spent, she eased away, connected to him only by silvery webs of arousal. Relished the afterglow as his elevated breaths tickled her thatch, before hooking her leg away over him and flopping alongside, stroking his shoulder. “But they are saying what we have created will change the world. Will diminish the need for man. They refuse to back it.”
Rolling his head to rest on the cool sheet, he regarded her. The strength and conviction she consistently portrayed had blips of vulnerability and this was one of them. He stroked her cheek. “Because they do not understand. They are afraid it will empower women, and feel they cannot be part of some tool engineered to undermine their dominance.”
He detected a change in her demeanour as he rebuilt her confidence in the project and cupped her cheek to stroke one high cheekbone. “We will find backers, if not in this godforsaken city then the next. Someone who believes in you, as I do. You will show them, Victoria. You will rebalance society.”
She sighed. “I hope you are right.”
“I know I am.”
The glow from the orgasm crept from her decolletage and he reached to brush its warmth. She ran her fingertips down from his shoulder, over toned abs peeking from below the pale green linen and circled his cock. Enclosed it. Slid her hand to its base and back up to massage the ridge. Basked in its power as it swelled in her grip.
“Do you think there's a chance they could be right? That we will replace this or, at least, be instrumental in its diminishment?” She squeezed.
Henry took a breath. “Shall we try it and find out?”
Her mouth fell open. “You finished it?”
He nodded. “Last night. I was going to surprise you.”
She chewed her lip, eyes ablaze with wonder, sat up and offered her hand to help him up too.
-=[]=-
The workshop was only a fifteen-minute walk but it seemed twice that for two reasons. One, the unseasonable humidity, and two, the stares, mumbles and finger-pointing as the pair made their way along the cobbled din of buses and street sellers foisting fruit, vegetables, meat, fish, milk and cloth to the public.
Off the main thoroughfare through a shady alley, Henry unlocked the side door of the workspace, took off his top hat and stepped through behind her. It was cooler inside and disturbed dust particles from the wood shavings on the floor hung like fireflies in the shafts of sunlight through the wooden wall slats.
Stooping through the joining doorway to the smaller back room, Henry hung his long black coat on a hook by the entrance and flicked the cloth off the freestanding device in the centre of the room.
It stood waist high on four metal feet with transverse and diagonal crossbeams for support. A series of pistons and a crankshaft occupied the middle section of the frame. An elaborate array of gears mounted on a brass rod towards the back were set either side of a pair of weights and a pendulum. A large wooden handle like a boat wheel finished off the contraption, connected via a shaft to the outside rear.
Front and centre on another brass rod was a protruding arm. And on the end of it was a gently tapered rubber cylinder. A series of similar rubber ends of varying dimensions were hung from hooks on the left edge of the frame.
Victoria stroked the contraption she had designed. She'd travelled from the midlands and brought the plans to Henry who owned the workshop and was renowned for his exquisite craftsmanship. He'd loved the idea of the female pleasure machine, sourcing the harder-to-fabricate components using his network of contacts, and making the rest. The design had evolved slightly from the original blueprints, but the essence was the same: automated rapture.
The two of them exchanged a glance and Henry stepped to the rear. “Are you still wet from before?” Victoria nodded. “Then I shall start it up while you get in position.”
He set about connecting the wheel to the lowest gear and winding the weights to their highest position while trying not to be distracted by Victoria bending at the waist and slithering her wet knickers to the floor. Her behind was truly a work of art.
She piled up and dragged a stack of boxes, positioning them in front of the machine, perched a burgundy cushion on top and draped a cloth over the lot.
Henry manually wound the crankshaft to its maximum extent, like threading a sewing needle on a machine, while Victoria slid between the boxes and the rubber phallus, easing herself back onto it, gasping as each inch disappeared. He watched, hardening at the sight of her pussy lips splitting around the thick rubber and descending until the fake cock was nestled deep inside her. She wiggled her rump and cooed, “Ready.”
