Valves & Vixens, Volume 2 Read online

  This time I definitely passed out. The last thing I remember was that I slipped off the bed, and I think I remember one last moment when I thought that the girls were holding me tight between them in a net, just the way they had caught me all that time ago. Then all went dark and that is all I know, about the floating ship and her crew, and about Auntie Midnight.

  ***

  I am not old, I know that. If I had not been taken, I would now be married to Winter Plum, living in her household, maybe with a few children, and working for her family. If those children had been daughters, no doubt some of them would have gone the way of the Girls-That-Should-Never-Have-Been. Winter Plum and I could have looked forward to a long life with dutiful sons. But I would never have known the intense pains and pleasures of sex with the grimy girls (who are waiting somewhere around here right now with a good, strong net in their hands), I would never have licked a Lily, never have fed a fiery mouth, and I would never have given all my life force to Auntie Midnight, for her to power her ship.

  Now my body is frail like a grandfather’s, my beard is long and grey and I cannot move without a stick. I sit here on a rock by a mountain path, in a certain kind of location, waiting for the next young man to come along and take my place.

  Her Humble Servants

  J. Hepburn

  “You are a needlessly complicating fool, Owen.”

  “You will find that I am right, Ashton.”

  “You are trying to run before we are even crawling!”

  “And you are saying we should not plan to run because we have not walked!”

  “Aiming is one thing, Owen, you do not even have a target!”

  “Pshaw, my dear Ashton, pshaw.”

  Owen Hyde Hunter, as the taller and more nervously energetic of the pair, reached the workshop’s immense doors first. He stepped smartly forward to open the postern door set into them, holding it for Ashton Charles Wallace with a florid bow.

  “After you, my dear sir.”

  “You are too kind, my good sir.” Ashton, one arm occupied with a large parcel, doffed his hat with the other. A close observer may have noticed that although both young men were dressed in the clothes of respectable young gentlemen, the tailoring lacked a little something, as did the style, and, to a very close eye, the integrity of the cloth. The fact the cloth was of surprisingly light weight but not fineness could be explained equally well by the needs of a furnace-like summer’s day in Brisbane as by the fabric’s lower cost.

  When Owen closed the small door behind them, the clang it made echoed through the entire workshop.

  The skeleton of a four-wheeled carriage sat in the middle of the vaulted space, lit by windows high on the building’s solid walls. Above this, a fan driven by a windmill on the roof attempted with minimal success to suck hot, stale air out of the building.

  Ashton gestured at the carriage wildly. “Your ideas will be all very well for the second, or more likely third, prototype, but for right now...”

  A figure rose from behind the chassis. “Hark, have my men found something else to argue about?”

  Owen spread his arms in supplication. Ashton laughed in affected bitterness.

  In almost perfect unison, they both said “This young man is a fool!”

  The impatient, cocky strides of youth took them to the chassis and its halo of brass, steel and wooden shapes.

  A young woman, about their age, stepped lightly through the ironmongery to reach them. She was dressed in solid but well worn riding boots, a leather apron over thick stockings, and a curious leather corset with a scandalous lack of any blouse or chemise worn over or under it, resulting in her arms, shoulders, and the upper slopes of her breasts becoming painted with grease, oil, and soot made inky by sweat. The deep burn mark extending up her corset’s right cup to the edge was not continued on her breast, suggesting she had access to more practical clothes if required. However the burn mark on her right forearm, still livid and fresh, suggested her opinion of ‘required’ may need some consideration. Her face was smeared with more grease, save two perfectly clean circles around her eyes - doubtless made by the goggles now hanging by their strap around her neck.

  Holding her grease-smeared hands behind her, she leaned forwards as each young man in turn leaned in for a kiss on each cheek, deftly avoiding getting their jackets dirty but leaving greasy smears on faces already glistening with sweat.

  Her apron turned out to be a full skirt, extending only just past her knees.

  “Now, will you let me in upon your disagreement, or was it something so deep and mysterious my little woman’s brain could not hope to comprehend it?”

  “Gillian, my Gillian,” Ashton began with a sigh.

  “Storage!” Owen interrupted him explosively. “This lout seems to be happy with what has already been done, and is intent upon ignoring the possibilities of modulating power through storage!”

  Gillian Canly Ledwich let them both see her roll her eyes before she moved away, towards a porcelain sink bolted to one wall. She began cleaning her exposed skin with a thick, greasy-looking substance scooped from a small tub, releasing aromas of eucalyptus oils, ethanol, turpentine and lanolin strong enough to stun the unprepared. “What is your latest brain-wave, my darling Owen?”

  “Electricity!”

  This bought a raised eyebrow from Gillian as she knocked the tap on with her elbow. “You are thinking of Monsieur Planté’s rechargeable batteries?”

  “Exactly! We know how to make a generator which can produce a steady current, we know how to make...”

  “A second-rate motor,” Ashton intruded sharply. “Face it, his batteries are still useless for any practical purposes, and the efficiency losses alone...”

  “Would be a step in the right direction, instead of refusing to believe the future could look any different!”

  Gillian raised her voice. “Gentlemen!”

  They clamped their jaws shut.

  Gillian very deliberately turned back to the sink to continue her washing. The men glared briefly at each other before haughtily turning on their heels. They removed their jackets, hanging them upon hooks on either side of a long work table. They removed their waistcoats without looking at each other, then their shirts, then their boots.

  Gillian finished her face, imperfectly but adequately, in enough time to enjoy the sight of two young men with boxer’s physiques stripped to their drawers - undershirts being too much for any save the determinedly traditional in these sub-tropical climes - before those physiques were concealed inside canvas trousers and shirts.

  The two men finally acknowledged each other’s presences once more as they pulled battered boots onto their feet. Gillian crossed to the table, drying her hands.

  Both men drew in breath to speak.

  “Gentlemen!”

  The men, rebuked, released their breaths silently.

  “We are agreed, are we not, that completion of the first prototype is of paramount importance?”

  Both men nodded in agreement.

  “And we are agreed, are we not, that experimentation is the very soul of progress?”

  Both men once more nodded, although Ashton scowled as he did so.

  “Owen?”

  “I finished the governor yesterday. I need merely to test it.”

  “Then what is your latest brainwave?”

  “Aha! Efficiency and adjust-ability, dear Gillian, efficiency and adjust-ability!”

  Ashton interjected. “Is it possible for you to stay with a mere one train of thought at a time?”

  Gillian gave Ashton a look that made him subside.

  Owen began wildly sketching in the air with his hands. “Even with this helical constant-flow boiler you designed, Gillian, we will need time for it to heat up, am I right? Time to light, time to develop a good fl
ame, time to heat. Even the best coal or charcoal will take time...”

  “Which is why we need liquid or gaseous fuels!”

  “When you have solved the safety problems with your alcohol burners, Ashton, I will be happy to have them in any car I have a hand in designing!”

  Gillian threw up her hands. “Enough! I have heard enough! You two will argue until you are both dead from exhaustion! Owen, you can draw up plans tomorrow, after, I stress after! You fit the governor, do I make myself clear?”

  Owen deflated. He nodded grumpily.

  “Thank you! Now, you were going to bring something for lunch. Have you at least managed to remember that during your constant bickering?”

  Owen looked at Ashton. “My dear sir, we are being impugned!”

  Ashton looked at Owen. “My good sir, our good intentions are being besmirched!”

  Gillian allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. “Well, gentlemen?”

  Ashton snatched up the parcel he had been carrying, presenting it with a bow as though it were a velvet cushion supporting a crown.

  Gillian took it. “Then I place a moratorium on any and all debate of an engineering nature until we have restored our own energies.”

  Owen retrieved two plates and three chipped glasses from one of the desk’s many drawers. Ashton seized one of the wheeled chairs by the work table, pushing it in front of him as they followed Gillian to where an upholstered bench seat retrieved from a damaged horse-drawn carriage sat to one side of the chassis.

  Ashton held the chair courteously for Gillian, who sat with the satisfaction of a woman who does not have to worry about a bustle.

  A pocket on the side of Gillian’s corset gave up a folding knife which cut the parcel’s string as easily as it would a single hair.

  The parcel gave up half a load of bread, three apples, a thick sausage and a large bottle of beer closed with a wired cork. Ashton took the bottle, opening it with ease to pour into the glasses still held by Owen. Gillian’s knife made short work of cutting slices of bread and sausage.

  Gillian kept one plate for herself, swapping the other for a glass of black beer.

  The three toasted their shared enterprise solemnly, then their health - each in turn - then the success of their lunch, taking small sips each time.

  “This colony,” Ashton said appreciatively, “has finally been able to brew a decent stout.”

  Owen laughed, not cruelly but not kindly. “How would you know what a decent stout tasted like? We were the same age when we left mother England’s shores, and we could each still remember the taste of our mother’s milk!”

  “My father can remember,” Ashton said with affected dignity. “This is from his supplies. He has pronounced it good. Do you pronounce it otherwise, sir?”

  “I will take action if you begin arguing once more in my presence today,” Gillian remarked, as one would upon the weather, before taking a substantial bite of bread and sausage.

  “I bow to your father’s prowess in the quality of stouts,” Owen conceded, changing tack as smoothly as a good racing yacht. “I do pronounce this good, and would like to know where we can procure more of it.”

  Ashton jerked his head towards one wall of the workshop. “Peg-leg’s Rest. But not for the likes of you or I, the landlord only sells it to special customers.”

  Owen froze, staring at his glass. “Ashton, my bosom companion, have you got us in trouble with your father? That is a place I would rather not be.”

  “Don’t be such an old woman! He gave it to me with his blessing. Finding a good stout can apparently put a man in such a good mood he gives it away to his wastrel son.”

  They toasted a father who could still be so generous after agreeing to invest in his wastrel son’s future as a private engineer.

  Gillian settled back in her chair, stretching her legs in front of her. Her leather corset was cut high on her hips and her bosom both, letting her bend her waist but not her back. It was covered, on the front and both sides, with pockets, hooks and fasteners. Her thick gloves were hung on the left hip, an assortment of spanners from the right.

  Both men unabashedly let their gazes slide from her ankles up to her neck as she leaned back in the chair.

  She smirked at them.”Oh, la, you two could turn a poor girl’s head.”

  ***

  “It’s the perfect solution! We...”

  Gillian gently pushed a finger against Owen’s lips before he could hit his full verbal stride. He deflated.

  She gently removed her finger, leaving a thicker smear of grease adding to the slight sheen already present. “You do remember the last time you had an idea, and I asked you...”

  “To write it down first so I knew what I was talking about,” Owen completed. He sighed. “I’m sorry, Gillian. If we started now...”

  She raised a warning finger. “Owen, you are a genius, your idea for a condenser will make this car viable for a land as parched as this, but Ashton is right about you needing to focus.”

  Owen slumped. He was sitting on one of the workshop chairs so he could more comfortably install his prototype governor in the car’s engine. Then he sighed as he wiped sweat off his brow with his already damp sleeve. “You’re right, Gillian. But how can I concentrate on any old mundane thing when...”

  “By writing it down,” she interrupted him firmly. “Tomorrow.”

  “You are, as always, right, and I am grateful.” Over his shirt, Owen wore a leather waistcoat similar in fashion to Gillian’s corset, with pockets and straps covering the front. It bore a large burn low on the left side.

  “Of course I am. Without me, you two would spend half your time arguing and the rest of the time, eating and sleeping.”

  Owen had the honesty and grace to nod ruefully. “To say nothing of your skill at fabrication. I swear, half mine and Ashton’s designs only work because you help make them.”

  Gillian, standing before him, leaned forwards. “And do I hear your thanks?”

  Owen leaned towards her to slide his lips over hers. “Frequently,” he murmured.

  “Is that right?”

  He kissed her more firmly, their lips parting as they pressed hungrily against each other.

  Gillian reached out with her spare hand to seize the back of his head, pulling him against her mouth.

  She didn’t let him go until he made an exaggerated choking sound.

  “That’s better,” she murmured when there was enough space between them for him to breathe. “You didn’t kiss me properly when you arrived.”

  “I was wearing my good clothes.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember.”

  He rubbed his thumb gently over her cheek, feeling traces of grease without using enough pressure to smear over her skin. “You smell of grease,” he said.

  “You smell of man.”

  She pulled him back into an aggressive kiss, catching him off guard, then released him entirely. “I need more than kissing.”

  A grin split his face as she undid the straps holding her skirt closed. He leaned backwards to undo his fly buttons, then had to struggle a little more with the buttons on his drawers as Gillian, naked from her hips to the tops of her stockings, clicked her tongue impatiently.

  His cock, when it finally emerged, was half erect and growing rapidly. Gillian reached down to seize it, purring deep in her throat as she stepped forward over the chair.

  He slid his hands up her legs, from her linen stockings to the brief stretch of bare skin above them, before tickling his fingers up to her quim, making her shiver.

  Gillian deftly flicked open one of the pouches on his waistcoat, pulling out a small package of waxed paper. The paper revealed a condom. Bending down, she kissed him again as she deftly clothed his cock without needing to look or fumble. With her corset keeping
her back straight, that meant having to push her hips back, away from his hands. Snarling with impatience, she gave his sheathed cock a few quick tugs to make sure it was hard enough, then stepped forward as she lifted the fingers of her other hand up to her mouth.

  He stopped her. “Let me.” He licked the index and middle fingers of his right hand, making sure they glistened with moisture before he inserted them slowly into her as she gasped, her legs quivering briefly.

  He worked his fingers inside her, moving them around, twisting his hand, as she bit her bottom lip.

  “In my professional opinion, you’re well lubricated.”

  “Then get your fingers out so you can get your thomas in!”

  She reached between them to spread herself with one hand and guide him with the other as she lowered herself onto him.

  He braced her with both hands firmly around her waist, taking her weight with little strain.

  They groaned in unison as she sank down around him. His body shuddered more while her voice quavered more.

  Her hand, briefly forgotten, slipped out from between them only when it risked between squashed by her thigh against his. As his arms wrapped around her, hers lifted to drape over his shoulders.

  His leather waistcoat, covered with pockets and hooks, pressed against her likewise covered corset. They both moaned with frustration at feeling how many layers separated their naked skin.

  “Should have undressed,” he muttered into her shoulder.

  “It would take too long to get me in and out of a corset,” she said, then wriggled her hips. “And tell me I’m not squeezing you more while I’m wearing it.”

  His reply was not intelligible as words.

  She tried to lift herself up with her legs, but the chair rattled forwards on its castors as she misjudged the angle.

  “Ballocks!” She snarled. “Keep us still!”

  He managed to kick them backwards, towards the car, but every time she pushed down, he had to coordinate.

  “Surely we’ve tried this before,” he gasped.