Tags: new book launch, steampunk, vinnie tesla
The Erotofluidic Age
by Vinnie Tesla
Word Count: 61,849
List Price: $6.99
Also Available from the Amazon Kindle Store, Fictionwise, All Romance eBooks, Smashwords, the Apple iBookstore, Barnes&Noble.com, and many other fine online retailers.
In The Erotofluidic Age, Vinnie Tesla returns to the world of The Ontological Engine, adding two more works to his oeuvre. This new digital volume combines two short stories and a novella revolving around the same characters we met in the original story. He combines his love for the erotic with a truly comprehensive world of his own, a steampunk tale with a sense of humor to boot.
The journey begins in “The Ontological Engine,” when Daedalus Tesla, a Victorian gentleman who has dedicated his life to the pursuit of Knowledge and Science, discovers the powers hidden within ontological forces. He realizes that, by harnessing the Vital Fluids collected from aroused men and women, he can power his invention, a machine known as the Ontological Engine. But the ontological forces are uncontrollable, and Daedalus finds himself in an unexpected predicament.
In “Miss Pierce’s Position,” Daedalus continues his story, giving us a glimpse into what happened to him after the suspenseful ending of “The Ontological Engine.” Much to his chagrin, another engineer is brought in to assist him with his problem—a woman engineer. Despite his Victorian-era prejudices, he puts up with Miss Pierce’s presence in his laboratory so long as she doesn’t know the real purpose of his machine—that is, until she begins to ask questions and gain the upper hand.
“The Terminando” adds another dimension to the world Tesla has created, as we quickly realize that this time it is narrated from the perspective of Daedalus’s assistant, Victor. Victor, along with Daedalus’s “nephew,” the Geoduck Dewey, has found himself in dire straits, in another ontosphere altogether, a kind of parallel universe. It is up to him to adapt to the strange ’sphere he has found himself in, to understand the ways of the violas, and to put together a solution in time to save the world from certain ontological destruction.
About the author: Vinnie Tesla has worked (or at least drawn a paycheck) as a white- water guide, information architect, bicycle deliveryman (by, not of), porn video reviewer, and desktop publisher. His purchase, in adolescence, of a mass-market paperback of The Pearl was undoubtedly the pivotal event that turned him towards his calling as a fake Victorian pornographer. His subsequent internship at Circlet Press was just the icing on the cake. He has an intermittent blog at journal.vinnietesla.com and a bunch of free fiction online at vinnietesla.com/stories, including Victim/Vic- torian, the pornographic novella to which The Erotofluidic Age is a prequel. He lives in Somerville, Massachusetts with his spousalbeast.
The Ontological Engine“ is also available as an audiobook, read by the author, at http://www.circlet.com/?page_id=3#audiobooks.
And here is a Steamy Excerpt! (pun intended):
Chapter 3: The Viola
(in which our narrator, Victor Dalrymple, has been transported to a parallel universe to his own)
I found myself obscurely comforted by the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of a coal-fired steam locomotive. I was not alone for long–the next station was rather full, and eventually a man entered, begging my pardon for the intrusion, and sat across from me by the window. As he figures considerably in the narrative to come, I shall describe him in some detail now, though I made little enough note at the time. He reminded me a bit of Daedalus, with his dark complexion, modest stature, and an air of self-confidence to the point of arrogance. He was broader of build, though, with a face that might be termed cherubic were it less serious, and a faintly pugnacious swagger in place of Daedalus’s intellectual abstraction.
I knew that, for the time being, the less unnecessary interaction I engaged in with the natives of this ontosphere, the better. Who could say what chance remark would display incongruous ignorance (or knowledge), branding me as something other than I appeared? Thus, I responded to this newcomer with the vaguest and briefest possible greeting. He rested a folded newspaper on the seat at his side and fixed his attention on the rolling hills outside. My eyes were drawn to that newspaper. What information might it reveal to me about the state of the world in which I found myself trapped?
I was plunging towards the terrible Colossus of London, impoverished and friendless, having abandoned my only companion to slavery and left my only means of escape unguarded in an open field. Remorse, apprehension, and resolve all did battle within my breast.
“My dear fellow,” the man across from me said, in a rather husky tenor, “if you want this newspaper so very much, you are quite welcome to it! I ask only that you leave the cross-word puzzle undone. I do so enjoy those.”
Apparently my look of apprehension and longing had been interpreted as being directed at this man’s newspaper. Well, no need to look a gift-horse in the mouth. I gratefully accepted the proffered document, and scanned the headlines:
THOPTER CROSSES CHANNEL; DAVIDSON, FITZHUGH GREETED BY CHEERING CROWDS IN NORMANDY
RAMSEY STEATED IN COMMONS; LIBERAL MP THIRD VIOLA
MofEF CALLS FOR 20% BUDGET INCREASE; DICKINSON CALLS SAFETY, COMFORT OF COMPULSORIES ‘NATIONAL DUTY’
The articles that followed were similarly gnomic, illuminating their subjects only in flashes. The thopter was some sort of flying-machine, it seemed. MofEF turned out to be the Minister of Erotofluidics. The second article’s dark hints about the growing power and legitimacy of the violas remained, however, opaque. The tone of the article suggested that they combine all the least-endearing qualities of Freemasons, Socialists, and malaria, but this was implied rather than ever stated.
“Quite an accomplishment, eh?” said the man across from me.
I started out of my studies and looked at him.
“The channel crossing,” he clarified.
I nodded agreeably. “Why, how long has it been since they were saying man would never fly?”
Somewhat disappointingly, he took the question as rhetorical, and merely nodded in answer.
“You’ll notice,” he said a moment later, cocking one eyebrow, “that they never mention that FitzHugh is another viola. Don’t want to ‘taint’ such an accomplishment for the Empire, no doubt.”
“The selective attention of the press is apparently a universal constant,” I ventured.
He chuckled heartily at this. “Just so, just so!” Then he extended one hand. “Alex Weaver,” he said.
I took it. “Victor Dalrymple.”
“A great pleasure,” he said warmly. He held the grip a moment longer, his eyes fixed on mine, and something in the tenor between us shifted, not unpleasantly.
“Where are you bound?” he inquired.
“London. There is some specialized scientific apparatus I need, and it seems the most likely place to start my search.”
He blinked several times at this, then lowered his head. “You may have some time to kill, then.”
I licked my lips. Darling Eleanor, you know better than any that my favour runs predominantly to your own sex. And yet the prospect of a dalliance with this fellow was singularly appealing to me at that moment. A distraction from the weight of my trouble seemed just the thing at that moment, and Mr. Weaver was an exceptionally personable individual. I shifted my position, better to accommodate the swelling of my pego, and Weaver’s eyes flickered downward appraisingly.
“I know a few ways to make the landscape pass a bit quicker, if you fancy a bit of risk,” Weaver offered.
“My luck with locomotive compartments has been passable in the past,” I said.
I was about to rise and go over to him when he beat me to the punch, gracefully sinking to the floor between my knees, his eyes fixed on mine in a most arresting fashion. He opened my flies with startlingly deft fingers, and extracted my rapidly hardening affair.
He pressed his hands against the tops of my thighs, darting for the head of my cock, then pausing for a moment to draw out the pleasure of anticipation for both of us. Then the heat and compression of his mouth was upon me, and I stifled a groan at the exquisite sensation.
* * * *
In some areas of endeavour, there is but a single perfect way to perform them; and all approaches are excellent exactly insofar as they approximate it. In others, there are as many forms of excellence as there are excellent practitioners, each adept perfecting his own craft, distinct from any other before or since. Such a realm, I believe, is cock-sucking, and just as there has never been a fellatrix so perfectly Eleanor Dalrymple-y as yourself, so the heights of Alexander Weaverdom I experienced that afternoon were beyond any I had ever before known.
He devoured me with an urgency befitting our risky circumstances, yet I venture that he would likely have displayed a similar impatience even in perfect seclusion. He groaned approvingly when I rested my hand on his head, and, by increments, I soon found myself pulling him down onto my rigid affair, heedless of the pomade that now coated my hands, egged on by his muffled sounds of encouragement, even as his eyes watered and his face flushed.
At last, he pushed back against my hands and then, after a few heaving gasps, took my shaft in his hand and squeezed. “What a marvellous cock you have, Dalrymple,” he murmured to me, though I blush to quote it. “How I long to taste your hot spunk.”
I gasped at that confession, and my cock surged in his hand.
“Say that again, and you shall,” I admitted to him.
He nodded, stroking my cock. “I want you to spend in my mouth, Dalrymple. I want to take your sperm in my–”
Some sixth sense alerted him to the imminence of my climax, and he sealed his lips over the head of my member just as I bit back a long groan and ejaculated in several long surges.
I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by the sensation, and when I opened them again, he was seated across from me, taming his hair with one hand and dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief in the other. “Best put that rammer away, or the rest will be wanting some, too,” he said, nodding to my still-exposed genitals.
“Just so,” I said, and had only just fastened the last button when a train-butch suddenly thrust his head through the compartment’s curtains. “Newspaper, si–” he began, then, seeing that I was already adequately supplied, began again: “Candy, cigars, roast nuts?”
“No, thank you,” I said. My meagre funds left no room for indulgences. I inclined my head, however, towards my compartment-mate. The butch followed my motion and noticed him for the first time, swallowing hard and paling slightly. He opened his mouth, presumably to repeat his practised pitch, but no sound came out.
My new friend seemed neither surprised nor perturbed by this odd response, but smiled reassuringly. “I’ll have a packet of nuts, if it is not too much trouble,” he said.
He might have said “I’ll have your spleen on a pointed stick” for all the pleasure the butch showed at the news.
The butch yelped and disappeared.
There was a moment’s silence.
Then the butch was edging back into the car, quite the reverse of his original heedless rush. He extended the waxed-paper bag between two fingertips. The bag was taken, and silver flashed through the air in a sparkling arc. The boy had barely the presence of mind to fumblingly catch the tossed coin after it after it had bounced off of his sternum. “A shilling for your troubles,” my seatmate said.
The boy stared at it, saucer-eyed. “Thank you,” he mumbled.
Weaver cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.
“…sir.” said the butch.
A second coin followed the first. “Excellent lad. Now be off, and God keep you.”
The butch disappeared in an instant, and my seatmate took a nut, then offered the bag to me.
I gratefully took as many as seemed consistent with courtesy. “Did that boy know you?”
He chuckled. “Not personally,” he said.
“You were very generous with him,” I said.
“I do what I can to show that we violas aren’t such terrible monsters.”
“Monsters!” I exclaimed. “Why, if you are any sort of exemplar, I shall have to join them myself!”
My new friend positively threw back his head and howled with laughter. I chuckled wanly myself, concerned that I had somehow revealed my ignorance of this ontosphere’s peculiarities. He leaned forward and companionably gripped me by the shoulder. “Unless you have discovered the secrets of ontological engineering, I am afraid that may prove difficult.”
I gaped, but he was fortuitously occupied with wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes, and failed to notice my expression.
I was mulling how to further probe my new friend’s knowledge of these matters when he ventured: “I say, not to pry, but do you know where you will be staying in London?”
“I do not!” I admitted. “How did you guess?”
He leaned forward. “Quite frankly, Dalrymple, you appear to be a man beset by troubles. Your trousers, fine though they are, have seen better days, your hair is a mess, and, most strikingly of all, you have apparently failed to note that you have boarded the northbound train to Manchester, not the southbound to London.”
I used several words which I try not to deploy lightly, but which seemed entirely warranted by current circumstances.
“Further,” he continued, “if I am any judge of such things (and I fancy that I am), you had not spent in several days, at least.”
I pursed my lips. The bare rudiments of such a plan as I possessed were now in shambles. I doubted I could even afford a rail ticket to London, the shorter distance having consumed more than half of my funds.
Weaver cleared his throat. “My club does have spare rooms,” he ventured. “Generally available for brothers in need of them, but a friend of the Brotherhood such as yourself would be welcome to stay for a short time.”
I shook my head sadly. “You have already shown me considerable kindness, Weaver,” I protested. “To take further charity from you–”
“Well, perhaps it needn’t be charity,” he interrupted. “Are you a man of trade?”
“Of a sort,” I equivocated. “I have some skill in book-keeping….” Then I drew a deep breath and gambled. “And some little knowledge of… of ontological engineering.”
Weaver raised his eyebrows. “Practical ontological engineering?”
“Extremely,” I responded, with all the conviction I could muster.
“You are serious, aren’t you,” Weaver breathed.
“Then, yes, I believe a barter could be very mutually beneficial.”
* * * *
The club in question was, Weaver revealed, the Fraternal Order of St. Joan.
“This is–pardon my asking–a papist organization?”
“Not at all,” he reassured me. “It is, by and large, a perfectly ordinary gentleman’s club.”
“Good cigars, bad port, late-night rubbers, and uninformed political opinion?”
“I see you have some familiarity with the genre.”
“The Daguerreotype Society is my preferred watering hole in London. Or, at least it was, back in–” I caught myself before saying more than I meant to. “–its heyday.”
* * * *
From the station, we caught a hansom-cab to the club, which turned out to be a rather imposing brick building with a neoclassical façade, dominated by Joan herself, twice life-sized, in marble, decked in a suit of plate mail, hair cropped scandalously short, and gazing out at the busy street with a sort of martial calm. We passed that unnerving sentry’s scrutiny into a tiled receiving room, where Weaver had a brief consultation with a fresh-faced young man, then led me through a handsome common room with a large fireplace. A dozen or so brothers were taking their leisure, reading the newspaper or clustered about the billiard tables. As with many clubs, the members of the Order of St. Joan appeared to be rather a type. At first glance, I thought them rather a young group, but a second look showed a fair proportion of grey hairs among the assembled gentlemen; it was the smallish builds and clean-shaven faces of the Joanites that had misled me. Before I could make further study of the matter, we had reached a stairwell, which proved to lead up to a snug but well-appointed room on the first floor.
“It isn’t much,” he said as he led me in, “but–”
“Not a word of it!” I interrupted him. “You have been an enormous benefactor to me already. I do not know how I can thank you enough.” I shut the door behind him, and it closed with a satisfying click. “But I do have a notion of how I can start.”
I pressed him up against the shut door and kissed him, his mouth opening eagerly to me after a moment, his hands sliding under my jacket to embrace me. We enjoyed each other’s mouths for a long moment before I pulled back and gasped for breath.
“Your generosity with me is an area where I am not in a position to even the score at the time. Your cock-sucking, however, is.”
He drew breath between his teeth, and his hands slipped down to his trousers, where they began to unfasten the buttons.
“I’m going to suck your cock, Weaver,” I announced. “You denied me the opportunity on the train, but you won’t deny me now.”
His expression changed. “My… cock,” he said, in a curious tone.
“Yes,” I persisted, and attempted to emulate his own thrilling knack for randy language: “I’m going to take your rigid pego in my mouth and suck on it until you spend.”
When Weaver spoke, it was in a curious sort of flat voice. “You don’t know what a viola is, do you?”
I swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very much on the spot. “Well… it’s a sort of Whiggish… group,” I ventured.
Weaver nodded slightly, and his hands reversed their prior process, re-fastening his trouser buttons. He disentangled himself from me and opened a cabinet on one side of the room, revealing a small but well-stocked bar. He poured two whiskies, and handed me one of them.
“Dalrymple, I am, as I have told you, a viola. That means that, although I am a gentleman, I have the body of a woman.” He took a largish drink of his whiskey as I digested this information.
“Where?” I asked.
He snorted, followed by a brief but intense coughing fit. “Under my clothes, you great twit!” he gasped between coughs and gulps of breath.
“So you’re really a–?”
With an effort, he composed himself. “I am really a gentleman,” he said firmly, “though I was not born so.”
I digested this intelligence. “So all the members of your club…?”
“Are the same in this regard.”
“Fascinating!” I said, looking at my friend in a new light. He, in turn, gazed fixedly at his drink. I realized that he was apprehensive as to my reaction.
“I’ve never gamahuched a gentleman before,” I allowed. “But, if you will permit me, I should very much like to essay it.”
He grinned and rose to his feet. “I was so hoping you would say that.”
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