by Sahara Kelly
She risked a quick look at him. Yes, he was surfacing from his chemically induced euphoria. This was not a comforting thought.
“We shall certainly talk about it, Randall my love. Come, let’s return to the Hall where we can discuss our options.” She turned gracefully. “I need to make sure Lord Harbury has regular nourishment, Doctor. I’m told it’s essential to keep the levels of nutrients constant in his system. You probably understand better than I.”
She laid a gentle hand on the doctor’s sleeve, inviting him silently to commiserate with her, agree with her and bid them farewell, all in one comprehensive gesture.
It worked. It always did.
“Of course, my lady. My Lord.” Henderson bowed. “We are at your disposal, any time. All you need do is summon me and I’ll be more than thrilled to attend to your wishes.”
There was more, considerably more, as Alwynne led Randall from the laboratory to somewhere safer. And once there, she realized it had been a close thing.
“Puling sycophant.”
Her husband hissed the insult, turning his gaze on his wife. “Find out how, get a candidate and have him repeat the process on me.”
She’d known it was coming, but still… “You must allow me time, Randall. Something like this must be done in extreme secrecy.”
“Now.” He stared at her, his unblinking gaze nailing her to the spot.
It was times like these that frightened the unflappable Lady Harbury. Moments when her husband was at his most unpredictable, his most terrifying. With his intellect restored, but also with the deteriorating mental processes, he was a mix of madness and brilliance.
And so dangerous even she was terrified of him.
*~~*~~*
Portia’s brains were spinning as she all but staggered from the facility she’d just cleaned. She had the presence of mind to drag her sweeper and cleaning supplies with her, but it was more a reflex than a conscious decision.
He’s alive. Devon Harbury lives.
She leaned against the wall outside the door and drew in some deep breaths, fighting for a modicum of control.
The implications of her discovery washed over her in a wave, blinding her for a moment with their magnitude. She sucked in another breath and forced her body to move, to function, to do what it was supposed to do in the way it was supposed to do it.
One foot in front of the other…that’s it.
Through sheer luck she found the cleaning supplies closet and went inside, blessing the small gas lamp and the abundant storage space. Her mind still tumbled over itself, but she managed to stow her equipment and return everything to its proper place. She even rinsed the dirt container from the sweeper—something that clearly hadn’t been done in quite some time.
She couldn’t finish.
Leaving it soaking, she found the only chair, pushed cleaning cloths off the seat, and almost fell into it, her hands shaking with shock. And not a little outrage.
She was certainly surprised at the sight of several nude men on stretchers with some sort of device attached to their nether regions. But she had two younger brothers, so she wasn’t completely ignorant of what men possessed between their legs.
However, she was at a loss as to the function of the lab or the experiment for which they had allegedly volunteered.
That was an out and out lie. Not one of those men had volunteered, she knew.
Particularly not Devon, since he was supposed to be dead and dead men seldom volunteered for anything at all.
Her thoughts continued to imitate a waterfall in full spate. Devon was alive. Therefore…therefore the Harburys hadn’t inherited, since there was nothing to inherit. But they had. And they were living there, at the Hall, as if they owned it.
Which they would have done if Devon had died.
But he hadn’t. He was in the basement with something nasty strapped to his man parts.
Which made no sense.
Portia picked up the skirt of her apron, stuffed it in her mouth, and screamed. After which she felt a lot better and was able to settle down to something resembling coherent thought.
So the Harburys had obviously engineered Devon’s “death” in order to get the Hall. Which led to a big “why” question. Their finances had never been in doubt—Randall Harbury had inherited a fortune twice the size of an Indian Rajah’s, elephants included. So if money wasn’t the objective, then what was?
The title? Perhaps, but there were many other prestigious titles that could easily have been obtained, one way or another. Portia had read of more than a few impoverished noblemen auctioning off their family history, lands and titles, just to get out of debt and start over.
No, the logical assumption was the interestingly equipped Harbury Hall itself.
And, realized Portia, its astoundingly convenient laboratory arrangement. The sub levels beneath, the power supplies, the entire setup was conducive to uninterrupted scientific experimentation.
Out of the scrutinizing gaze of anyone who might ask questions.
She grimaced as her thought processes led her to the next conclusion. The Harburys wanted the Hall for some personal reasons, unspecified, that required secrecy and a large laboratory facility.
Somewhere they could harness gentlemen to something with odd devices.
If only she could get her mind off the sight of Devon’s…assets….encased by a large tube and wired to a bank of dials. It had been a mind-searing experience. One she’d like to repeat. Without the scientific equipment.
She grimaced. There was one extremely important element she’d completely neglected—clues as to Miranda’s whereabouts. That should have been her top priority, although she now considered it a given that whatever had happened to her sister, had happened here at Harbury. There were far too many unanswered questions. This wasn’t a place where good things transpired, she’d bet her last penny on it.
Believing that her legs would now support her, she stood and decided to finish rinsing the sweeper basket. It shone now, the mesh clean, the housing sparkling. Probably right off the factory floor, thought Portia as she used the drying fan to ensure all the drops of water evaporated. Her finishing touch for equipment like this was always to wipe a soft cloth over the exposed surfaces. She knew tarnish would appear if she didn’t and she liked seeing the final gleam of spotless metal.
Her apron would do fine, and she untied it, folding it into a handy pad. She was almost done when something snagged one of the ruffles around the pocket edge
She stopped and leaned in to the basket, seeing it was caught beneath one of the exhaust flaps. With difficulty, she unsnapped the plate and reached beneath to free the cloth. As she did, whatever it was caught on came with it, and Portia found herself staring at something small and sparkling.
Oh my God.
It was Miranda’s locket.
*~~*~~*
Devon shivered with fatigue as he lay on the wooden cot, attempting to find some position that didn’t make his body ache any more than it already did. His cock was flaccid—the orgasm they allowed him at the end of his “session” was always a painful relief. But it was no pleasure, just a physical necessity.
Again, he found himself wondering why such extreme measures were necessary. He and his fellow inmates generated energy, he knew. What the energy was used for he didn’t know, but had stopped worrying about months before.
The nature of the energy itself still puzzled him, though. There were various sources of electrical energies, gas was becoming more and more useful, and there were also versions of hydropower beginning to make inroads into the scientific community.
So why the psychical energies, drawn from a savagely aroused male denied release? Was that energy different in some way? And how was it gathered? Certainly it felt to him like his cock was steaming with the need to spend, but that was only a sensation.
Once again he pulled up his mental image of the cock-clamping device. He could best describe it as an oddly shaped Leyden jar, which fit snugly
into the rubber ring used to secure it to his cock. Even though they shaved his crotch, it wasn’t a pure vacuum but enough of one that the pressure inside could be manipulated.
It was almost as if gentle fingers were massaging his most delicate flesh, stroking his cock, arousing him to fever pitch. And then it would stop.
Doubtless this was controlled through the tubing that fed into and out of the jar, tight rubber valves opening and closing the tiny feeder holes as necessary.
That was all well and good as an effective masturbatory system, little else.
Then he had a sudden moment of enlightenment and nearly smacked himself hard.
He’d been so focused on his damn cock, he’d ignored what was right in front of his face. Or, in this case, over his head.
In the ceiling, directly above each table, was what looked like a handcrafted piece of grillwork. It was concave, bowing upward, edged with some ornate scrolls incised over the surface, making it appear to be an entirely decorative feature.
He mentally reviewed it and realized the design was specifically engineered to gather anything beneath it. He suspected perhaps it was originally meant to capture vapors, or anything swirling at ceiling level. The fumes would then have been vented, probably through some piping ducts, to the outside.
It would have been relatively simple to alter the ductwork and set up a system designed to capture psychical energy, which most believed originated in the brain.
It would seem the theory was correct and here was Devon, an unwilling participant, proving the efficacy of psychical energies.
If it hadn’t worked, they wouldn’t have continued to frig him every few days. Which, although blunt, was pretty much the only way to accurately describe what was happening to him.
Every time he and his fellow inmates were summoned and restrained, they were rendered erect and sexually aroused to the highest levels. At that point, Devon knew that things got vague for him. He never really lost consciousness, but sustaining that kind of physical intensity obliterated most other more mundane responses.
He could not recall how long he’d been there, nor if anyone had spoken to him. It was as if he entered a kind of faint, not asleep but not awake either. That would be when his subconscious surfaced, he guessed. And whatever psychical abilities he possessed would be maximized.
If only he could follow those ducts and find out where they funneled those nebulous waves of energy.
Then he sighed. He was battered, bruised and weak. He had no hope of escaping the room he was in, let alone exploring the tunnels and pipes between the levels.
He had been pronounced dead.
He was very afraid he was starting to believe it.
Chapter 8
Early the following morning, Emily Warren entered the laboratory with her spirits soaring. They’d received the highest accolade from the Harburys, Dr. Henderson was beside himself with joy, and Galatea surveyed them both with an enigmatically blank stare. Unless she was activated, in which case she moved around the room, unaware of her nakedness, still expressionless and tethered to her energy source. After a few forays under the watchful gaze of her mentor, they’d put her back on her stand.
In Emily’s opinion, Galatea’s entertainment value was questionable.
Already Henderson had mentioned a research plan to create a mobile energy source. That would be the next step—freeing his creation from the umbilical cord discreetly attached to her ankle.
Straightening her skirt, Emily knew she couldn’t give two hoots about Miss Perfect Man-made Woman. Or her energy source. It was time for Emily to begin claiming her reward.
She walked down past the lab tables and then paused as an odd sound echoed around the room.
It sounded like…
Oh God.
Silently, she crept forward again, her heart thundering beneath the buckles of her corset.
There they were. Emily’s worst nightmare was coming true right in front of her eyes.
Henderson’s naked ass was pumping hard—into Galatea. The creature herself was lifting her hips, thrusting in concert, nude and entwined around her human lover. Her legs were spread wide, bent at the knees, one calf resting above his arse as she locked him against her. The tubing bounced in time with Henderson’s pounding.
Her face was still a blank, her eyes staring, not focusing on the man fucking her, or anything at all. Her body was, apparently, responding in some way that might have been incorporated during construction.
It wasn’t the kind of thing an assistant would notice or question. But whether there were thoughts or emotions in that lovely head? Emily couldn’t guess. There was no brain, so how could there be?
Even though she was distraught at seeing the potential setback of her carefully constructed plans, Emily couldn’t help being aroused by the sight of such energetic sexual activity.
Henderson was pistoning into Galatea, slapping her flesh with his balls taut and buttocks rock hard. His body was not unattractive, and when viewed from this angle, above a creature that redefined physical perfection, it was a prurient yet incendiary picture.
She knew what Galatea would be feeling, could the creature develop a sudden human nervous system. She knew the rise of desire, the rushing tingle at the base of the spine signaling the rise of her paroxysm of pleasure. And she knew the wonder of riding those paroxysms around a hard cock deep inside.
She knew the one presently inside Galatea very well indeed. And her anger ignited.
“What the devil?”
Henderson cried out, a mixture of startled shock and completion. His face reddened, his lips curved into a grimace and the cry turned into a groan as he shuddered his release into Galatea’s now motionless body.
“How could you, Doctor? This is…this is an obscenity against science.” Emily poured on the outrage and maidenly fury.
Henderson’s expression hardened as he pulled himself out of Galatea. “You’re a fine one to talk. We’ve been fucking for a while now. You didn’t seem to find it distasteful.”
“I,” she began, “am human. In case you haven’t noticed. My body is warm and wet. Slippery with my juices when you stick your cock in me. Remember?” She glared at him. “Besides. The first time you touched me, you did so quite intentionally. I thought that today, now the experiments are over for a while, we could discuss our marriage plans.”
Henderson blinked at her, then casually pushed himself away from Galatea’s legs, standing and reaching for his breeches. “You are jesting, of course.”
Emily was ready for him. “You took my body, Doctor. More than a few times. I have every right to expect a declaration. In fact I believe we would make a very satisfactory couple, given my abilities to assist you in the laboratory. Combined with our most pleasant sexual interactions, I can see no obstruction to a happy future together.”
“Really?” He pulled on his shirt and buttoned it, raising an eyebrow at her. “You are quite funny, you know.”
She readied herself for her second volley. “You’re refusing to make an honest woman of me?”
“Refusing?” He snorted. “I cannot refuse what I never considered in the first place.” He fastened his cravat. “You’re quite satisfactory when it comes to fucking, I’ll agree. Of course, I’d expect no less of your kind.”
“My what?”
He waved his hand in her direction. “Your sort. You know, the lower classes.”
Emily’s teeth clenched. “That is rude, disrespectful and arrogant.”
“You would think so, naturally.” He wandered over to a table and picked up his cuff links. “Sadly, you know no better.” He glanced at her. “I shall wed, in the course of things. But she will have to have a good name, a solid dowry and perhaps a small estate. Yes, I think definitely a small estate. Nothing overtly showy, since I shall continue my life’s work here if I can, because these facilities are outstanding. And if Lord Harbury sees fit to reward my efforts with some financial appreciation, so much the better.”
&
nbsp; “I see.”
Emily paced, allowing him to believe she was devastated. Which she was, in a way. But she had predicted his attitude if not his downright appallingly snooty pronouncements. It was time for her to produce what she considered her trump card.
“In that case, Doctor, I’m afraid I shall have to go to the authorities.”
He paused. “About what?”
“About the young girl who went missing the night of the Mechanical Ball.” She leaned against the opposite table and watched him, watched his eyes shift and his throat move as he swallowed.
He’d be thinking now, wondering probably how best to silence her.
“I’m not sure if you heard, Doctor, but there is an inspector prowling around Harbury Hall. He’s been sent by the Lord Lieutenant to look into her disappearance.” She studied the fingernails of one hand. “It would be quite awful if word got out that you’d used her face in one of your experiments, now, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, let’s see if I can help. Even though I’m far beneath your sort.” Emily couldn’t resist the jibe. Arrogant sod.
“A young lady receives a note, written on paper that can quite easily be linked to your laboratory through that ornate little crest you designed. Oh goodness, silly me. I used a piece of your writing paper, Doctor.” She fluttered her eyelashes.
“Bitch.”
“Name calling won’t help. Especially when they learn that a certain piece of the missing girl’s jewelry might well be somewhere in one of your laboratory coats.”
He stared at her, his face a mask. “How much?”
She smiled and took a deep breath. “That’s better. I have worked it out quite carefully. I believe a thousand pounds a year would be a suitable gesture of your appreciation for my assistance during this time of scientific progress, don’t you?”
Incredibly, he laughed. “A thousand pounds. What a nice round figure.”
