Janine Ashbless: Carnal Machines: flash slash

Wheeee! - it's my turn on the Carnal Machines blogtour, now that Blogger is finally working again. I've already posted an excerpt from The Servant Question, my contribution to this delicious steampunk anthology. So instead today I thought I'd write you my very first piece of slash fiction.

It's nice and short, so read it before the lawyers get me.

Just a Spoonful

The extraordinary apparatus looks a little like a see-saw, inasmuch as there are two people sitting astride it facing each other, although the parts are more complex and the brasswork emits a regular and rather charming poot of steam as it labours. Mrs Banks is possessed of bounteous charms. Mr Banks would normally be described as having a dignified aspect, but both are currently naked and there is nothing dignified about his predicament. In addition they both have their wrists bound behind them, and they are tethered together not simply by the matrimonial knot but by a pair of slender brass rods, terminating in toothed jaws at either end, that grip their nipples cruelly. They can neither pull away nor close upon the other without causing great pain.

The young woman standing over them is slim and, unlike her prisoners, primly dressed. Not a bead of sweat mars her brow despite her current exertions: she is practically perfect in every way.

‘You, madam,’ she says, raising the thin switch in her right hand once more, ‘are a disgrace. You reach out for political responsibility, yet take none in the realm of your own power. You are invisible, ineffective, unfocused. You are barely a presence at all.’ The cane slashes down across the swell of Mrs Banks’ bottom, not for the first time, and she shrieks and jerks forward. The brass rods stab her husband. Then the diabolical nature of the mechanism upon which they are mounted becomes truly apparent: there is a phallus of stiff leather impaled between Mr Banks’ buttocks, and when his wife slides upon her saddle the motion is transferred by hidden and cunning means to that device, causing it to plunge in and out. He roars.

‘And you, sir,’ the young woman says calmly, ‘are worse. Mrs Banks is guilty of a benign neglect. You, on the other hands, are a martinet. A petty tyrant who undermines every good impulse and offers encouragement to no one.’ The whip lashes out again, upon masculine buttocks this time. When Mr Banks cries out and plunges, the glistening phallus that juts up from the apparatus into his wife’s spread sex spears her repeatedly, causing her to wail.

‘I have never,’ their tormenter continues in glacial tones, ‘in all of my years as a nanny, had cause to use the cane upon a child. It is their parents who need discipline. It is you, Mr and Mrs Banks, who need my firm correcting hand to realize the errors of your ways.’ She strikes out with the cool regular beat of a metronome, right and left, him and her, until they are squealing and shaking and wailing. ‘How long will it take you to realize the error of your selfish ways?’

‘Please, Nanny-!’

All the time, the two small wheels that jut from the body of the apparatus spin with a purring sound so faint it can hardly be heard above the dramatic hubbub. Both are composed of many small tongues of leather, and it is clear that they turn through a bath of fine golden oil. One laps incessantly at the pink bead between Mrs Banks’ open thighs; the other slathers the underside of Mr Banks’ tumescent member.

'You must learn,’ says the nanny, not even short of breath despite her continued calisthenics, ‘that everything you do causes others pain or pleasure. You are all connected. All responsible for one another. Do you understand this?’

The unbearable stimulation of her intimate pearl, the rigorous thrusting into her undercarriage and - yes – perhaps even the sharp pain slashing across her generous behind, are too much for Winifred Banks. Her screams no longer protesting but avid and wild, she comes to her sexual crisis. Her shudders, magnified by the machinery, ram home into George Banks’ impaled back passage and within seconds he erupts too, his emission jetting out with such force that it sprays his wife’s white belly and wobbling breasts.

‘Have you learned your lesson?’ asks the young woman, staying her hand. 'Will you be better parents from now on?'

‘Yes, Mary Poppins,’ sobs Mr Banks. ‘Oh yes.’

‘Excellent.’ She smiles, tightly. ‘Just as I always say: a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.’