Infernal Devices (All Steamed Up)

by Abigail Barnette

  “Oh yes,” she exclaimed in delighted approval. “This is amazing.”

  Permilia groaned, her eyes fixed on her maid riding the machine. The sight of the busty redhead grinding and moaning in the saddle, coupled with the hot suction of Permilia’s mouth, almost made Wallace spill then and there. He ordered her, “Get up.”

  Dreamily, Permilia stood, moving so close to the glass that her breath made an opaque ring on it. Molly’s face alternately grimaced and relaxed as she strove toward her climax, and Horace stood by, lazily stroking his erection as he enjoyed the show.

  Wallace found a male shield on a table by the door and rolled it down his cock. He lay back on the bench, not the most comfortable of positions, but it would do. “Come, Ophelia. Ride me.”

  Now, she hesitated. He understood her reluctance. He had not treated her gently the night before, so no wonder she would not be eager for him now. He sat up and beckoned her closer, and caught her hands in his when she neared. “You are afraid?”

  She nodded, looking more ashamed of her fright than of anything she had done with him so far tonight.

  “Hmm.” He nodded and swung his legs over the bench. “I loathe myself for hurting you, and for making you fear coupling. There is nothing in the world that is better than a slow, thorough fuck. But you have to be ready for it. Turn around, and let me see.”

  Confusion crinkled her brow, but she did as he asked with a whispered, “Yes, Master,” and faced the window. He pressed one hand against her knee, slowly sliding his palm up her leg, until his thumb grazed the silky curls at her core. Already, her wetness slicked her thighs, and she parted easily for him to rotated his thumb over her engorged bud.

  “Oh god, oh god!” Molly thrust her hips against the machine, then her body went rigid, her head thrown back, mouth agape.

  Permilia moaned, clamping her thighs on Wallace’s hand. “Please fuck me.”

  “Since you’ve been such a very good girl,” he said with a chuckle, then, gently, he drew her back to straddle his lap. When she stepped close enough, he lifted one of her legs and pulled it back, so her knee rested on the very edge of the bench. The other followed, leaving her poised, flushed and dripping, over his cock. He lowered her by increments, letting her feel every inch of him as he slid into her waiting cunt.

  On the other side of the glass, Horace rolled a male shield down his own member and greased himself, then stepped behind Molly and placed a hand at the small of her back. “Lean forward.”

  She did as he asked, and he pushed the wide tip of his cock into the crevice between the girl’s buttocks.

  Permilia’s arms lifted above her head to encircle his neck, her torso bowing. Her body stiffened. A high pitched wail rose from her throat, and her cunt gripped Wallace’s shaft in a torturous throb as she came.

  “I won’t flatter myself that it was solely my attentions that caused that,” he whispered against her ear. “Did you know that the most sexually sensitive part of your body is your mind? The sights you see, the sounds you hear…for me, the way you look right now, flushed and sweating, riding my cock, is far more exciting a spectacle than what’s going on through the glass.”

  As arched and extended as her body was, she whipped her hips in a grinding circle, then repeated the motion more slowly, drawing his breath from between his lips with a hiss.

  “This is so much better than before,” she moaned, bucking her pelvis against him. He held her with one hand gripping a breast and the other splayed over her mound, making it so easy to slide one finger between her swollen petals and saw against the hard nubbin there as she rocked his shaft inside of her.

  On the other side of the glass, Horace had buried a respectable length of his cock in Molly’s ass. The redhead huffed and panted, caught between exertion and rapture. The machine never slowed, still plowing into her with perfectly timed thrusts.

  “Imagine that you are in her place,” Wallace purred, pausing to lick a long path down Permilia’s neck. “Penetrated by two cocks, held between man and machine. Every move bringing you inescapable ecstasy.”

  She moaned and ground her hips against him. God, what he wouldn’t give to feel her fully, without the damned shield. Of course, when she was his wife, such precautions wouldn’t be necessary, at least, at home, in their own bedroom.

  If she even wants to be married to you, when she finds out.

  That sobering thought certainly gave him a bit more control than he’d had a moment before, though it slipped rapidly when Permilia begged, “Harder! Fuck me harder!”

  He lifted her from his lap, and while she still whimpered in disappointment, bent her over the bench and positioned himself behind her kneeling form. He entered her in one long stroke that forced the breath from her lungs, then gripped the hair at the base of her neck, not out of cruelty, but a gentle tug that brought her head up.

  “You want it harder?” he hissed into her ear, slamming his hips forward, driving himself even deeper into her body.

  “Oh yes!” she shrieked, jerking her hips back to meet his.

  Though it should have been him giving the commands, he would let her breech of etiquette pass without comment this time. He acquiesced to her plea with vigor, rutting into her so hard that her knees lifted from the floor. Permilia’s cries escalated in melodious concert with the redhead on the other side of the glass, and they reached completion within seconds of each other. Wallace let all thoughts of control flee as he pumped into her with fast, brutal thrusts, erupting inside of her with a roar.

  It took him a moment to get his breath, and another to realize that he’d collapsed over her back and pinned her to the bench. He eased himself from her body and stood on trembling legs. On the other side of the window, Horace helped Molly down from the now-silent machine, then pulled a curtain closed on the other side of the glass.

  “I suppose that means the show is over,” Permilia said with a giggle.

  To Wallace’s surprise, he laughed, as well, but he quickly smothered the sound. He had a distinctive laugh.

  Permilia sat up quickly. “Did you just say something?”

  “No.” He mimicked a cough. “No, just clearing my throat.”

  Her forehead wrinkled. Before she could think any further on the subject, he offered her his hand. She took it, climbing to her feet and taking a step back. “Oh dear. I feel a bit…”

  “Exhausted?” He held her against him, taking her weight gladly. She filled his arms as though she were made to fit him, and he lowered his nose to her curls to smell the rosewater on her hair.

  * * * *

  Firmly wrapped in her coat, Permilia allowed Wallace to hand her into the coach. “Before I go, there is one question I would like to ask, if you would permit me.”

  He nodded, holding up a hand to stall the driver. “Yes?”

  “Your tattoo. The man with Molly had one, as well. A heart, and in the same place as your spade. What does it mean?”

  “Oh, nothing. Every member of the club has one,” he lied smoothly.

  Chewing her lip thoughtfully a moment, she countered, “But they don’t. Pardon me, I don’t mean to argue. I’m merely confused. The few men I have seen…exposed, as it were, in the club do not have the same tattoo.”

  A surge of protective jealousy caught him quite off guard. “I don’t know that I like the idea of you looking at other men while in my company.”

  “Unless they’re on the other side of a secret window,” she corrected with a sly smile. “No matter. If you won’t give me the answer I seek, I shall find it out elsewhere.”

  He laughed. “Good luck to you, then, for you will need it.”

  Something passed over her features, something strangely like suspicion, but it disappeared as quickly as it had arisen. “You don’t know me that well, sir. Good evening, then, Master.”

  “Good evening, Ophelia.” He took her proffered hand and brushed her knuckles over his lips through the leather mask. With a signal to the driver, the cab rattled off into the
night.

  Chapter Eight

  In the posh London townhouse that was the home of the Deering family, every gas light was lit, every sideboard laden down with food, every surface dusted sparkling clean for a party thrown in honor of Miss Permilia Deering and her intended, Wallace Sterling.

  Miss Permilia Deering herself seemed to be the only fixture in the home that was not party-ready. “This is a mistake.”

  “No, running around London in the dead of night is a mistake.” Molly studied her mistress through dark-ringed eyes. “I should have known better. I swear, my head had only just hit the pillow when it was time to get up again.”

  Permilia pursed her lips. Of course Molly would be exhausted. Any woman would be, after what had gone on at the club the night before. But Molly didn’t know that it had been Permilia watching her from the other side of the glass, and it seemed it would be more comfortable for both of them if it were to stay that way. “Are you nearly done?”

  Truth be told, Permilia was a bit jealous of her maid. Molly had been so beautiful and free, so seemingly unashamed of her body and its responses. She could be. She was just a servant, who cared what she did in her private life? As far as most of Permilia’s peers were concerned, servants didn’t have private lives.

  It would have been so much less complicated.

  Molly tucked another of Permilia’s glossy black ringlets into place and secured it with a pin. There were so many in the mass of hair secured at the back of her head that Permilia was certain she must have gained a stone in pins alone.

  “Finished,” Molly declared, a skeptical look on her face. “Are you sure you don’t want it arranged the way it was last night?”

  “No!” Permilia stood and went to her full-length looking glass and raked her eyes over her reflection. Her gown was lovely, but the furthest thing from immodest. Her hair was tightly, perhaps unfashionably, coiffed. There would be no mistaking her for the seductress that had gone to the Two Aces the night before. “Imagine if someone at this party actually went to…you know where. I wouldn’t want them to recognize me!”

  “I suppose if they did, they couldn’t very well call you out. At least, not without revealing that they were there, themselves.”

  Permilia scowled. “That’s not the point. Now run off. I have to go downstairs to my—” she made a retching noise, “—intended.”

  Downstairs, the guests literally glittered, all decked out in their finest jewels for the social occasion of the year. Even Mrs. Sterling had arrived bedecked in jewels, though it would cause much whispering behind many hands. Widowed now for five years, Mrs. Sterling had been left with only the smallest yearly allowance. Practically a pauper, she had been completely reliant upon her grown sons for her well-being. To their credit, they had provided for her admirably, allowing their mother to live in style. Still, the ton wished to force her into the role of a tragic widow, though she would not comply. Permilia rather liked that about her.

  Beside Mrs. Sterling stood two of her sons. Horace, the youngest of the three, was a handsome man with dark hair that grew carelessly to his shoulders. His shirt was not starched, and his coat was wrinkled. Permilia couldn’t remember meeting him at a time when his coat was not wrinkled. Beside him stood her fiance, Mr. Wallace “Cold Fish” Sterling.

  “Permilia.” He nodded to her, then reached to take her hand.

  It so shocked Permilia that she jerked away quickly. He had never made any physical gesture toward her, proper or improper. Perhaps the official announcement of their engagement would lead to some sort of expression of affection from him. Permilia extended her hand as though she hadn’t just recoiled from him, and he took it cautiously, brushing a kiss over her knuckles. She repressed an unladylike and completely unexpected shiver. She had not thought such a reaction was possible in the context of her intended.

  “What a lovely occasion,” he observed mildly.

  “Yes, very…lovely.” What on earth was she supposed to talk to him about for the rest of their lives? There didn’t seem to be a strong opinion or unchecked feeling in his entire being!

  Of course, that had been one of the things she had quite liked about him when she’d accepted his proposal. He’d seemed harmless, and unlikely to cause any untoward excitement in their shared lives. No gambling, no mistresses, no horrid scandals. Just as Permilia had envisioned her life.

  Unfortunately, she suspected that a harmless and unexciting man was quite unlikely to chain her to a wall and make her scream with pleasure.

  A hot flush crept up her neck at the memory of her stranger. It was difficult to imagine that beneath Wallace’s immaculately pressed clothes there could be a body of such sinful decadence as the stranger had, or that Wallace’s fingers could possess the same skill to bring her to a crisis again and again.

  “Permilia, dear, are you feeling ill?” Mrs. Sterling studied her with narrow eyes, and Permilia realized that she hadn’t responded to Wallace’s statement, and that she stared at him rather intently.

  Since the woman had provided her with an opportunity, Permilia nodded weakly and replied, “Yes, I’m sorry. The heat is…so oppressive, I fear I may…”

  Wallace caught her by the arm as she listed slightly on her feet, and Mrs. Sterling gasped, alerting the attention of party goers like a pebble disturbing a pond, sending out ripples of gossip that would spread across the most exclusive circles in London.

  “For goodness sake, Wallace, take her to get some air.” Mrs. Sterling shooed at them with her hands, and Wallace slipped Permilia’s arm into his to guide her through the crowded parlor and onto the terrace behind the house.

  “I’m sorry,” Permilia said, fanning her face with her hand in the cool night air. “I didn’t mean to cause a spectacle.”

  “No, of course not,” Wallace said kindly. “Mother will be furious. There’s nothing more scandalous than the bride fainting at her own engagement party.”

  Permilia gaped at him. She’d never heard so much as an ill-word from Wallace’s mouth, let alone directed at his mother, and here he was, being almost…sarcastic.

  Misinterpreting her silence as a lack of understanding, he hurried to catch her up, “Because they’ll think that you are—”

  “Oh, yes, I know what they will think.” That was enough of that line of conversation. She had weeks before she would have to think about bearing Wallace’s children and the act that preceded them.

  Still, she couldn’t help but wonder, now that she had a bit of experience with the matter, if Wallace would even be capable of fulfilling his role in the bedroom. This was the first time that he’d even made a suggestion toward their inevitable intimacy, and roundabout though it had been, he didn’t seem at all comfortable having said it.

  As if his lack of boldness somehow added to hers, she smiled up at him adoringly and said, “I hope she is not too embarrassed. Especially since I was not faint at all.”

  “You weren’t?” He raised one eyebrow, and for a moment Permilia could not help but think of the stranger.

  Somehow, she had difficulty imagining that beneath his mask the stranger would look anything like Wallace. No, the stranger would likely have smoldering dark eyes and a face from a classical painting, with a pouting mouth and youthful skin. Wallace, while not hideously ugly, was certainly no one to paint into a renaissance scene.

  “I was merely anxious to get you alone.” She went to one of the low stone benches and seated herself upon it, banishing all thoughts of the stranger from her mind. “We agreed to be married rather hastily, and there are a great many things I’m not informed of.”

  “You may feel free to ask me any questions that you like, and I will attempt to answer them to the best of my ability.” He seated himself beside her, not too close. “Are you having regrets about accepting my proposal?”

  “Regrets?” She shook her head, though inside she screamed her “yes” to the heavens. “No, of course not. I’m just looking forward to our future. I’m not entirely sure what k
ind of man you are.”

  He looked worried at that. “Have I…done something? To spark your suspicion?”

  She chewed her lip. This bit was tricky. What if she went too far? What if she shocked him so that he broke their engagement? Not that it would be an altogether horrible thing. She’d have more time to spend with her masked stranger, after all... No! She had to think about how that would look for her, and for her family. She must tread carefully. “Nothing you have done. Just…things you haven’t done at all.”

  “Oh?” He sat beside her, so close that his thigh brushed hers through their clothing. “In what ways have I neglected you?”

  “Well, in the first place…the only time you’ve ever actually touched me was just a moment ago.” Her cheeks warmed. She couldn’t believe she was broaching such a subject with him. “What I mean to say is, you’ve been very proper, and I appreciate that you respect the societal strictures that bind us, however—”

  “You fear I have no…romantic inclination toward you because I’ve not tossed you over my shoulder and dragged you off to a cave somewhere?”

  It took her a moment to realize that he was, in fact, teasing her. “Wallace, you have a sense of humor!”

  “I do.” He chuckled, a warm, rich sound that raised prickles on the back of her neck. How odd that his voice had never done that to her before. He continued, “But I am also a good judge of people. I doubted your father would have appreciated it if I had been overly familiar.”

  Through the French doors, Permilia spotted her father, the colonel, greeting well-wishers and drinking too many brandies. Above his thick white mutton-chops, his nose sat like a great, red, potato. For all his wealth, her father was still a soldier. He would have made quick work of any man who laid an ill-intentioned hand upon his daughter.