In the Year of Our Lord eighteen hundred eighty-eight, life slowly expanded from the farms to the new cities springing and growing about at a frenetic pace. Horse and buggy gave way to the new “electric cable cars” now racing down our ever-busy streets, and the powerful railways served to reduce travel time from weeks to days.
In addition, across the globe men experimented with lighter-than-air transport, seizing on the ideas of the Montgolfier brothers of our ally nation France. Designs seen by many as “outlandish” and “fantastic” permeated the skies about Europe, and capturing the fascination of our minds here in America. The phenomenon called “science” reared its shadow over us, and none could dare hope to escape it. After all, we were heading into what would soon be termed the Twentieth Century.
How do I know all of this, you may ask with great skepticism?
It is quite simple, dear friend.
I took part in aiding the new dawns of science, albeit in ways I had not intended. For you see, I was and am what you would call, in delicate terms, eccentric. I dabbled in the theories of steam-driven automation, having studied many of Pittsburgh’s newer steel-producing factories, and I admit with great willing that something about these machines aroused sensations best kept hidden from others in the larger society in which I find myself so reluctant to take part.
Over a period of weeks leading into months, ideas formed in the recesses of my mind, and I needed to channel them in a creative yet self-beneficial way. But, alas, none that I spoke with understood my plans, and rebuked me every way they chose. Those who did listen to, and that was a small number at that, jokingly suggested that I write a story such as I told them, and sell it to a dime novel publisher.
And as those weeks and months dragged about, my frustration at myself, coupled with my increasing disgust toward genteel and “normal” society, led me consider withdrawing away from all dealings with people, though I knew it was adversely affect all my business ventures, as they were needed for me to just live my daily existence.
Soon I found myself in my tiny apartment overlooking the dingy streets of the city, with my lamp illuminating the room. As I sat on my bed and stared out at the walls in front of me, my mind wandered adrift in the endless places of Time and Space. So content was I that my ears almost ignored the loud rapping on my door, followed by a screeching female voice addressing me in particular.
“Rogan! Thomas Rogan! Open this door immediately.”
With the greatest of reluctance I arose off my bed, striding to my door. Opening it, I was met by the stern gaze of my landlady, one Mrs. Rogers-Hodgson. She wasn’t exactly plain; in fact, Mrs. Rogers-Hodgson proved attractive in spite of her middle age. Her hair, grayish-brown in color, rested comfortably on her oval head, while her green-blue eyes showed no signs of aging. The shapely, well-endowed figure was accentuated by her violet gown. Overall, she exuded proper manners mixed with a latent naughtiness.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Rogers-Hodgson?” asked I politely.
Her strict appearance dissipated once she spoke to me.
“May I please come in?”
“Of course. Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
In a fluid movement, she crossed the threshold and walked to the chair adjacent to my bed. Following her lead, I returned to my bed and sat on its edge.
“Mrs. Rogers-Hodgson, if this concerns the rent money, I assure you –” I began before she stopped me.
“Thomas . . . we need to talk.” With the same fluid motion, Mrs. Rogers-Hodgson strode off the chair and placed her shapely womanhood next to me.
“What about?” I queried. She didn’t answer me right away.
“You aren’t quite yourself, young man. From the moment you met my gaze, I knew in my good Christian heart something troubles you.” Mrs. Rogers-Hodgson paused another minute to add on to her thinking. During the course of this, I began my own thinking in regards to our intimate talking session.
Now I could, to this day and beyond, never be sure but I swore teardrops rolled down her face, no doubt in sadness. Next she caressed my face with her hands and long fingers, as the tears continued flowing, though it may have been the lighting in my room playing an illusion before me. What did this mean? And why did she feel such emotional distress? With the greatest of all reluctance I pressed on further.
“I assure you, Mrs. Rogers-Hodgson, I am in no way wishing harm on you. While I may appear a trifle bit odd in your viewpoint. yours is a presence I highly revere.”
A small smile formed on her face, thereby reducing the years and the sadness even more, though I doubt she’d have been able to understand such a compliment.
“I know what you’re thinking, young man, and I so deeply thank you.”
A new idea formed in the recesses of my brain. There were few people in this town of Pittsburgh I had the ability to trust, but since I found myself drawn to Mrs. Rogers-Hodgson’s warm, glowing aura there was little to prevent this.
“Uh, may I ask you of this favor, Mrs. Rogers-Hodgson?” I queried sotto voce.
“Oh please, call me Susan,” she replied. Her countenance grew increasingly youthful by every second, and my rationale gradually wavered.
“Susan . . . doubtless you’re aware of my fascination for the ways of the new science, am I correct in assuming?”
A playfully rueful grin creased Susan’s face.
“What do you mean to astound me with?” she asked with a chuckle.
Dare I display my hidden secret?
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With the greatest of possible stealth (and with more than a dash of regretful reluctance) I led Susan down to the cellar, where I’d been toling in secret on my experiment. In my mind’s eye I doubted not it bothered her a tremendous deal, and it took forth all the good manners at my disposal not to disturb her personal traquility. I made it a point to ensure that she kept up with my rapid pace, as I took fast, long strides anytime I walked.
Several long minutes later we arrived at the wooden cherry door, behind which lay my temporary workshop. To my dismay we discovered it was dark, and illumination proved momentarily academic as I’d neglected to bring along a lantern or candle; evidently the new power of Edison’s incadescant “lighting bulb” was lost on the overseers of the building where we lived. Behind me I heard Susan rummaging about for some form of means to see our way around.
“Here, I found some matches and your lantern,” she called out, as a bright glimmer met my blue eyes. “Someday we must get at least one of Edison’s bulbs.”
“If only that were truly feasible,” I replied. “In the meantime, shall we?”
Gracefully she moved about to my position, shining as much light as possible even as I rummaged about trying to seek out the bit of homemade machinery I’d tinkered with, much to my own surprise. Now, it fits not my more modest mindset but I always fancied myself a bit of a dreamer, given the societal clime in which I resided; hence my outcast demeanor.
Yet I put that inner self-musing aside for the nonce, for once I felt the definitive sense of the machinery it made absolute reason if not outright certainty to activate it. Again out of my good manners, I opted to let Susan in on my soon-to-be-undiscovered secret.
“Susan! I’m over here. Can you find me?” I called out. Within a mere moment a burst of light from her lantern met my eyes, followed by her lithe, womanly figure. Waiting another few seconds wasn’t entirely unreasonable, I surmised silently.
“Are you ready to see my experiment?” I asked.
“Just what are you planning, Thomas Rogan?”
In reply I pulled an iron lever, thereby activating an electricity-generating device called a “dynamo.” Bursts of artificial illumination cascaded about the room, giving Susan a bit of a start yet she showed no display of anger or fear, but rather a mild form of bemused skepticism.
“Very impressive. But what else have you to show me?” she queried.
A small grin creased my face as I pointed out a bulky form lying down on my long worktable. It was covered by a plain white blanket, showing hints of the real mystery I was to soon reveal to Susan.
“Are you ready to truly see what I’ve been creating?” I asked.
“Go ahead. Try me.”
Swiftly I pulled off the blanket, and a sight met Susan’s eyes in a way neither of us could have ever calculated. For right in front of us was my great creation, a mannequin-like metallic form made of iron and copper scraps I’d acquired from the local steel factory which stood two blocks from my apartment on Carson Street. In a romantic whimsy I shaped the automaton in the feminine form, making her as physically attractive as I was able to muster.
She was very well-endowed of breast, without the need for modest dress on any part of her, including her lower genital region which was lushly adorned with concentrated shavings of steel wire. Her face, while youthful and lovely, remained stoically silent, and her oval-shaped head was adorned by a plain copper headpiece. Black globes of opaque glass made up her eyes.
So rapt was I by my own handiwork that I failed to notice Susan standing behind, her own face aghast.
“What kind of sexual blasphemy is this?!” she hissed. “And whose face did you use for this — abomination?!”
For a fair amount of time did I hesitate, knowing fully the consequences I brought on myself regading the lovely metal female before us. But I also believed in forthright honesty with friends, and I counted Susan among the very few close friends within my small circle.
I turned about slowly, my eyes pleading with her.
“Susan . . . it wasn’t my intent to offend you, and I haven’t any desire to do so now but please listen.” Breathing heavily I paused another few seconds, already taxing her patience. “For a long time I’ve adored and worshipped you from afar, but since you were married I dared not tell you before. And with your husband’s sudden passing I realized you needed the time to grieve him, and then to start a new life.
“Ever since I started the factory job that led to this culmination, I struggled to find the time and means to fully explain this to you. You’ve been very kind and understanding throughout all of these things, and for that I wish to thank you most sincerely.”
My words seemed to impress her heart sufficiently, for she allowed herself a small smile.
“I accept your words’ intent,” she said. “Now . . . whose face did you use? Hmmm?”
Drawing in another heavy breath, I prepared myself for the worst.
“It’s you.”
A strange calm overtook Susan, followed by a burst of hearty laughter.
“Oh, you silly man!” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“But I meant no –”
“It matters not why you built this — her — me — oh, it. I have but another thing to ask of you, okay?”
“What is it, Susan?”
Another grin creased her face, and her eyes took on an almost occult twinkle. What had she on her mind? Dare I humor her? Or no?
“Just this, Thomas old boy.” She moved quite close to me, softly blowing on my face mischievously. I wasn’t prepared for her next query.
“Just exactly how do you, shall we say . . . turn her on?”
******************************************************************************
Over the next hour or so Susan and I activated every single piece of the secret machinery I had attained over these last months. My nerves grew ever so taxed, but I dared not cave in to my own unease. By contrast, a delicious dreaminess completely overtook Susan; it is as if she allowed her modest inhibitions fade away, giving way to a new sense of sexual fulfillment.
The machines emitted so much noise, it was a wonder we weren’t detected by the other tenants of the apartment building. Dynamos and bubbling heating units ran at full speed, and the heat within the room intensified. Then the moment of truth arrived.
It was time to activate my female automaton.
“Susan, would you be so kind as to hand me that pail of water and the accompanying funnel?”
Rapidly and with the best of enthusiasm she granted my request, so much so that a few drops of water from the pail spilled onto my feet. Ignoring this, I opened a small hatch on the machine-woman’s left shoulder and placed the funnel’s opening into the hole, pouring in the water as carefully as possible.
Once this was accomplished, I cranked the reclining table to a position where the auto-woman appeared to stand staight up. Drawing in a long, heavy sigh I closed my eyes, as though I were praying to the Almighty for any sort of divine guidance. Yet none as such was forthcoming, so resultantly I put aside all remaining reservations and set about activating the machine-female.
“This is it. Are you prepared for this . . . miracle?” I asked of Susan.
She stood haughtily behind me, giving quite a melodramatic sigh.
“That is why we’re here, isn’t it?”
Nodding my head in agreement, I strode and opened another hatch, this one located between the automaton’s rather gigantic breasts. My fingers felt clammy with sweat as I struggled to switch on her main power engine, and I realized I’d taken on a great burden not unlike that which Dr. Frankenstein undertook in Mary Shelley’s book. However, my goal was ever so nearer and the desire to see her become “alive” further stripped away my worries and concerns.
A final click, a turning of gears, and with the replacement of the main chest hatch, my creation (whom I shall afterwards dub The Steam-Powered Mistress) gradually gained physical momentum. Slowly she lifted her left are and swung it about toward me, brushing her long copper fingers astride my shirt
Next she made her initial step to freedom as she stretched her legs to the floor, breaking the leather straps that once held her down. Total movement now achieved, she elevated her pace accordingly. As with the creature in Mrs. Shelley’s unusual tale, my Steam-Powered Mistress exhibited bouts of clumsiness, knocking bottles and beakers off my table. It proved a struggle to keep her under control, but with Susan’s help I was able to prevent further destruction of my workshop. A sense of woe-laced weariness overtook my thinking, but by contrast Susan was giggling heartily, to which I tried my damnedest to not take offense.
The Steam-Powered Mistress resumed her docile demeanor, her opaque glass eyes seeing absolutely naught in front of her.
“Well, Thomas my dear, I think I must say I’m suffciently impressed,” said Susan.
“Really? How so?” asked I blankly.
She drew herself close to me, eyes glittering in her occult manner.
“Oh . . . wait and see,” she answered, moving her finger across my mouth.
For the next several weeks Susan and I discussed, in the greatest detail, the long-term future plannings regarding the Steam-Powered Mistress. As much as I deeply appreciated the attention Susan gave, it dawned ever so slowly on me that she was somewhat irrational if not downright mad with insanity. However, I kept many such thoughts to myself for the nonce.
During the course of one of our discussions, a sudden din of noise reached our ears. I ran immediately to my basement workshop, with Susan following not that far behind. Upon entering the shop, we were aghast to see the Steam-Powered Mistress grabbing my remaining bottles and flasks, as if attempting to tidy up. Her means, however, proved quite unorthodox; she ingested one bottle of liquid contents after another, yet she displayed no signs of wear or corrosion on her form. Still and all, it seemed irrevocably mindless to my own rationale. Again the sound of Susan’s overly amused laughter cascaded all about the room.
“My dearest Thomas,” she told me, “we’ll make a grand fortune with your machine-woman!” Even in the dim lighting of my workshop, her eyes widened to an almost frightening level rarely seen in any decent comely woman. Once more I decided to humor the woman.
“Just how do we mean to achieve this?”
A smaller burst of laughter escaped her throat.
“Careful, careful. We mustn’t be too impatient, must we?”
By this stage my patience taxed itself to unbearable limits, and it was all I could do to maintain what temper I had left within.
And behind me (though I scarcely noticed it), the Steam-Powered Mistress’ facial expression seemed to change for the worse . . .
******************************************************************************
I debated within myself whether I ought to continue with Susan’s mad schemes for the Steam-Powered Mistress, and each time I found myself having the same answer repeatedly: there’s not to be much of a choice in this matter.
During one of the few moments I was alone with the Mistress, I looked at her over and over, trying to ascertain what it was about her that proved so alluring. Granted, it began with her artificial perfection, but over time there was a lot more than even I was aware of. But for the sake of repetition, what that something was remained a mystery that not even Nick Carter or the new detective Sherlock Holmes had the capability to solve.
And so without any further delay, I opted to fully follow Susan’s plans, whether for good or ill.
Leaving the Mistress behind for the time being, I strode back to my small apartment, where I’d met up with Susan, her shirt unbuttoned in a most immodest manner. Her hair, once done up in a housefrock style, now hung very loosely about her, going just above her gigantic bosoms. Her glittering eyes gazed quite deeply into me.
“Hello,” she said in a playfully coy voice.
“Hello Susan, I’ve opted to follow your plans though I must admit now, and I mean no offense to your decency, I do so with the most of reluctance.”
For the first time since our involvement with the Mistress, her countenance showed great skepticism.
“Oh? Why do you tell me this?”
“I fear for not only our own welfare, but that of the Mistress.”
“Really? How . . . interesting. But do let’s not dawdle about, hm? We’ve matters to attend. Besides,” she said, further unbuttoning her shirt, “I wouldn’t give you reason to worry, now would I?”
Her ample breasts met my forlorn gaze, and I found myself wavering in my resolve. It was as if I were cheating on the Mistress, who’d become my truest of loves albeit in the inanimate sense. But too, the Mistress, after all, is only copper, steel, gears, some glass, and naught else. Still, it alleviated my concerns not at all.
Shaking my head to rearrange my inner thoughts, I felt my heart tighten.
“No, dearest Susan . . . I do trust you.”
She placed her hands on my shoulders, blowing softly into my face.
“Splendid, my dearest Thomas. Now, shall we return to your place?”
Drawn in by her exquisitely seductive beauty, I allowed myself to be pulled by Susan’s strong arms and hands, as she guided me back to my modest domicile. Yet somewhere in the back of my mind’s eye I felt great pains regarding the Mistress, yet there was naught I could to aid the matter.
“Now, dearest Thomas, let’s discuss our plans more intimately, shall we?” asked Susan.
I formulated a plan to appease all involved, especially the Steam-Powered Mistress.
“Why not have the Mistress join us?” I queried, expecting Susan to take the greatest of all possible offense. Yet much to my surprised awe, her youthful countenance took on an even brighter auric glow.
“Let’s send for her, shall we?” cooed she.
Within the space of one hour, we retrieved the Steam-Powered Mistress, now dormant for the moment, and headed back upstairs as silently as possible. Of course, I’d remembered to grab the water bucket needed to fuel her internal workings, taking care not to dawdle about too much. Carrying both the Mistress and the bucket proved rather taxing on my strength level (as the Mistress was heavy), but we couldn’t risk allowing the other tenants to gaze upon us, hence our use of the silence.
As Susan re-opened the door to my home, I struggled to carry the Mistress inside, looking about to see whether we’d been spied upon. Assuring myself that no one witnessed our actions, I saundered inside with the Mistress leaning heavily against my slender frame.
“Lock the door,” commanded Susan, to which I did gladly.
Dragging the Mistress to nearby wall, I leaned her up and gazed on her in reverent awe. The light emitting through my window added a heavenly glow to the Mistress, even giving her eyes a twinkle of exuberance. Behind me, Susan eyed the Mistress hypnotically as she licked her lips.
“Now we can start,” she said.
“With what?”
A laugh escaped her throat . . .
******************************************************************************
As I looked on in dumbstruck fascination, Susan unbuttoned her shirt even more, then move to her long dress. Slowly and with great dance-like precision, she next undid the strings about her shapely waist, letting the dress fall to the floor.
Much like Adam in the Bible, I found myself increasingly tempted by the apple that was Susan’s unleashed beauty, as her clothing became more scarce on her form with each move she’d made. Just what this entailed for the Steam-Powered Mistress, I could as yet not fathom a guess. I found my reason and rational processes to be quite addled by the sight now before me.
Her clothing now completely removed, Susan bade me forward.
“Now, dearest Thomas, start up your Mistress,” she commanded.
“But what is the purpose of this charade you plan?”
Her countenance grew surprisingly malevolent in tone.
“Do as I order you. Now! Or I shall have your life made into total misery.”
Shrugging my shoulders in weary resignation, I opened the chest hatch of the Mistress and activated the main engine that fueled her man-made life essence, taking great care to keep the adjacent chamber sufficiently filled with water so as to not create a seizure. As before, the Steam-Powered Mistress took some time to reach full functional capacity, but once she was set it was beyond I’d ever planned for or dreamed upon.
For the Mistress walked ever so slowly to the position closest to Susan, her copper face and opaque eyes displaying no emotion in any way. In contrast Susan licked her lips in grim satisfaction, even going as far as fondling the Mistress’ large breasts and hirsute lower region.
“Which of the two of us do you prefer? Myself, pure flesh-and-blood beauty? Or your toy woman, who cannot even think, feel, or enjoy any part of you?” Between glimpses of Susan and the Mistress, I swore an occult sense overtook the whole atmosphere of the apartment. Unsure whether it was due to the poor lighting of my lamp, the creeping-in of night, or a combination of both, I began noticing a subtle change in the Steam-Powered Mistress.
It seemed that her facial features somehow . . . changed! Again, I believed it to be no more than a trick played on my tired eyes and addled mind. Mayhap this is what Susan had in mind for my great experiment. However, I had to know fully for all certainty.
“Susan . . . are you absolute sure you know what it is you’re doing?” I queried.
A dark laugh reached my ears.
“Oh, my dear sweet gullible Thomas,” she purred. “Surely you knew I wasn’t going to allow one such as yourself to keep this grand secret cloistered from me, didn’t you? It was I who guarded your so-called ‘scientific research’ from all prying eyes and faces in our community.” She continued fondling the Mistress as she spoke. “There is one other thing I neglected to ask of you, dearest Thomas.”
“And what might that be?”
She smiled in quite a satanic, almost evil manner even as her calculating mind toiled endlessly.
“Why not make her . . . think? Or did that not enter into your brain?”
I admitted to my inner self that Susan did make a lot of sense in that regard, yet that kind of medical science was far beyond my knowledge, and to get not only a brain but also other vital female and other sundry organs proved problematic at best, and at worst ghastly and ghoulish. Not unlike the plight of Dr. Victor Frankenstein, or even in a minor sense that of one Captain Nemo in Mr. Verne’s tale of the oceanic depths.
In the absence of verbal utterance on my part, another shrug of my shoulders told Susan all there was needed to be known.
“Well . . .” she told me, “let us away and see how we can alleviate this, hm?”
My stomach tightened, as though God Himself gripped it.
And right beside my unwanted dominating female accomplice, a lone teardrop rolled down the saddened and now-frightened face of the Steam-Powered Mistress . . .
timepoet77 