Playful, Historical Erotica
"The Girl Who Mounted Danny Olsen’s Instrument," a Dirty Martini Sex Story by Jeremy Edwards
When Sal first told her sister Fay of Professor Daniel Olsen, the younger Miss Levine had been immediately intrigued.
Sal’s preferences for intimate companionship ran to mannish—and not-so-mannish—women, rather than boyish men like Danny. But she was very discerning when it came to male comrades, and Fay had more than once profited from her sister’s habit of forming easy friendships with splendidly entertaining fellows. Sally would go boating with them, play cards with them, drink spirits with them . . . she just wouldn’t bed them. And this was where little sister stepped in.
Even compared to Sal’s other friends, Danny sounded like an especially irresistible rogue, a thoroughly good sort with charm twinkling out of both eyes and a naughty word always on his lips.
Her grandmother’s generous gift of a year in Paris had brought Fay many advantages. Grandmama was a free-thinking woman who did not subscribe to the notion that a twenty-two-year-old unmarried girl required a chaperone. Under her enlightened auspices, the loan of Grandmama’s well-appointed Left Bank apartments—and access to a portion of the bank account associated with them—left Fay free to enjoy life to the fullest while her benefactress traveled the world. Yes, Fay had greatly enjoyed herself . . . studying painting, venturing into modeling, and learning the cosmopolitan ways of Frenchwomen—and, particularly, the ways Frenchmen had of pleasing them.
And so it had felt slightly irrational when Sal’s amusing letters about touring the United States with Danny’s act made Fay wish she were with them. But there it was. The newspaper clippings Sal sent had offered Fay a half dozen images of Danny’s mischief-enlivened face; and Fay had kept these by her bed, for ready reference when sliding fingers under her nightclothes on a damp Paris night.
Fay had now returned to America, while Danny and Sal had sold the patent on their polite-conversation automaton. This had permitted Sal to give up the vaudeville life and inhabit her favorite environment: the inventor’s laboratory.
Professor Olsen—a medieval musicologist with a knack for showmanship and for pretending, by mutual agreement, that Sal’s inventions were his own—was finishing up one last tour with the automaton, according to the letter that awaited Fay when she disembarked in New York.
I do wish you would come to Hartford, Sal wrote.
With spring upon us, the city has become a bicyclist’s paradise. I recall your agility on these machines—Paris no doubt has further encouraged this talent of yours, among others—and hope to fascinate you with a new development of my own in this field. Perhaps you could assist me? Danny will be here on the twenty-fifth. If I can lure him away from the burlesque theater (we have quite a grand one!), I shall persuade him that my improvement to the science of bicycling should be the next miracle granted to the world by the ingenious Daniel Olsen. Perhaps, dear, you could assist me in entertaining Daniel as well. Knowing something of your tastes, I expect that you might find him diverting indeed.
Fay’s prompt reply was characterized chiefly by a discussion of trains and dates. She wrote the letter even before changing out of her harbor-arrival suit, moistening her travel undergarments as she considered the prospect of entertaining this Danny Olsen.
On the train a week later, Fay remembered precious incidents that Sal had described from across the Atlantic: Danny surprising Sal backstage—more than once—when she was completely undressed . . . Danny inviting Sal to share the company of a lady he was having a private supper with in a Chicago hotel. (Sal had shown interest, but the lady had declined.) Evidently Danny had a way of ogling, teasing, tickling, and even on occasion fondling his sapphic business partner that both parties found agreeable, despite the mutually understood impossibility of any direct erotic connection.
There had been one reference in Sal’s correspondence to “an affectionate pat on my nether cheeks” that had made Fay’s own nether cheeks tingle as she read it and reread it. Even now on the train to Hartford, she could see that phrase, in her sister’s distinctive handwriting, as if the letter were before her, instead of in a boudoir drawer back in New York. As she contemplated this scenario and numerous others she could stage from memory, it made Fay ache with desire to imagine herself in Sal’s place, with Danny’s lascivious eye upon her and his tongue wagging its way from one innuendo to the next.
Once again, Fay Levine’s travel underclothes grew moist.
***
The presence of the blond, grinning rascal in Sal’s laboratory prevented Fay from concentrating properly on the rapture of sisterly reunion.
“So this is the advertised sibling,” said Daniel Olsen, rising from the work stool he’d been straddling possessively. “Where have you been hiding her, Sal?”
“Paris,” Fay answered for herself, a bit breathlessly. The man, in the flesh, was everything suggested by his pictures; and he promised also to be everything suggested by Sal’s candid letters.
“Ah, Paris,” Danny repeated, the word reverberating on his palate with overtones of the Folies Bergère. “An admirable choice of hiding place. But next time, may I hide with you? We can let Sally count to ten. Better still,” he amended, looking Fay up and down, “ten million.”
“Don’t let Daniel’s pronounced shyness discourage you,” said Sal, with an eyebrow cocked. “I’m sure in time you can draw him out.”
Danny continued to address Fay. “Your sister has just been showing me her box. I’ve waited months for the privilege of seeing it.”
To a casual onlooker, Sal might have appeared unmoved by her colleague’s jest. But her sister recognized the appreciative dimples that coaxed at the corners of her mouth.
“He means my invention, of course. The box I’ve attached to this bicycle.” She patted the seat of what Fay only now observed was no ordinary vehicle.
“What the devil is it?”
“An autonavigation machine.” Sal nodded at the heavy-looking metal box that had been affixed to the handlebars. “It’s based on essentially the same principle as the Pianola. My device reads a rolled-up map, then translates the cyclist’s desired route into the appropriate maneuvers.”
“But how does—”
“Naturally, the map must be specially prepared in advance, with the rider’s planned route scored onto it with the dull end of a needle.”
“Which, as we know, can be found in the dull end of a haystack.”
Dan’s unanticipated interjection made Fay shriek with laughter. No man of hers in Paris, however sensually sophisticated, had shown a wit such as this.
“Thank you, Professor Olsen,” said Sal. “Now, as you pedal, the map scrolls past the reading apparatus. And when the route indicates a turn to the left or right, the mechanism at the bottom of the box guides the front wheel in the correct direction. We make certain that any map we use is precisely oriented to north versus south; and there’s a compass fastened to the reader, to keep the orientation true every inch of the way.”
“Sis, you are unquestionably a genius.”
Sal beamed.
“And yet I must ask: what is the purpose?”
Sal shrugged. “For me, clever inventions constitute their own purpose.”
Fay understood, and, impulsively, she hugged her big sister. “Congratulations, then. How may I help?”
“These autonavicycles require painstaking manual assembly, and so far I have only the one. Eventually we’ll mass-produce them. But while I begin to construct more units and Danny dreams up the best method of creating a sensation for them, I need someone to test this prototype. Would you ride it for me tomorrow?”
“Certainly,” said Fay. It did sound like a terrific adventure. Still, she hoped this adventure would not keep her away from the laboratory—and Danny—the entire day.
“The public has an insatiable hunger for novelty,” said Dan self-importantly. “We inventors do all we can to gratify this appetite.”
Sal snorted. “‘We inventors,’ indeed! You can save that balderdash for ‘the public,’ Olsen. Fay already knows you couldn’t build an X out of two chopsticks.”
“Inventor,” Dan returned without hesitation, “noun: One who specializes in modern advances.” He winked at Fay, who blushed merrily. “I rest my case.”
“Rest it somewhere else, if you don’t mind. I have a map to score.”
Dan’s eyes lit up with inspiration. “Here—why don’t we do a ‘blind’ test? That is to say, we’ll map out Kid Sister’s route without telling her what it is. This way, we’ll know she’s not influencing the trajectory of the instrument—even in what Dr. James would call a ‘subconscious’ manner.”
“An excellent suggestion,” said Sal. “Deep down, perhaps you really are a scientist.”
“Watch your language,” Dan replied, apparently untroubled by the fact that he was contradicting his recently expressed desire to usurp Sal’s profession. “Scientist, pshaw. I’ll have you know it’s my flair for the theatrical that prompted the idea.”
Fay tittered, and Sal put her tongue out at each of them in turn.
Stepping out of the bath that evening, Fay perfumed her body with a liquor she’d brought from France in an exotic phial. Having smoothed her fragrant hands over her throat and bosom, she instinctively slapped her own derriere—as if encouraging a not-yet-present lover.
Reflections, by Webster Murray (prints available at ObsessionArt.com)
When the curtain went up in the burlesque house, Fay and Sal were among the few women there who were audience members rather than performers. Sally matched Dan ogle for ogle as the pair of them relished the dancing girls; Fay, for her part, undressed the handsome comedians with her eyes and, increasingly over the course of the show, watched Daniel watching the girls. She wondered cautiously if he would truly want to bed her afterward. Or did he, in fact, prefer the dancing girls? Was his rakish demeanor toward her in the laboratory merely along the lines of his playful rapport with Sal, rather than an expression of more ardent passions? Did he wish to engage only on the verbal level with intellectual girls like herself, while reserving his carnal attentions for women, like those onstage, who specialized in the more physical arts?
Immediately upon exiting the theater, Danny disappeared from sight. Fay lifted her brow in question.
“Stage door,” Sal shrugged.
As the two women walked the short way to Sally’s residence, Fay felt the warm tension of lust clamoring for satisfaction under her skirts. Alone in Sal’s guest bedroom that night, she fucked her own honeyed fingertips and quivered beneath the memory of Danny’s insinuating gaze.
***
Sal had left the house early to go to the laboratory, but she was absent for the moment when Fay arrived a little later. She was surprised to find Danny bending over the special bicycle with a wrench, apparently tinkering with the saddle.
“I thought Sally did all the real work around here.”
He turned to face her, smirking as usual. “No fair surprising me with my tool in hand.” He stroked the bicycle seat in a manner that Fay found deliciously suggestive.
She wondered what he had done the night before, after gaining entry through the stage door. To be sure, she had the general idea; but she wanted to visualize it in full, authentic detail—imagining herself in a dancer’s skirt . . . baring her arse in some corner of a dressing-room, for example, and shrieking gleefully while being handled by waggish, masculine digits.
“I was just making a minute adjustment. One wants the saddle to fit snugly and comfortably, so that the cyclist has a most pleasurable ride.” He pointed out the details of the saddle assembly, which Fay had not studied before. “You see, it’s made up of three independent parts, with hinges between them for fine-tuned positioning. Fortunately, I’m a bit of an expert in this area.”
A chuckle came from the doorway. Sal had returned unbeknownst to Fay, whose back was to the entrance. “Uh-oh. If Danny’s showing off an area of his expertise, I’m not sure I should be here.”
“Of course,” Dan continued, ignoring Sal, “such an adjustment is best done with the rider upon the machine. However, I think you’ll find I’ve done a satisfactory job, and I trust you’ll have a nice morning astride Dr. Olsen’s latest instrument.”
The sun was shining and an impudent little wind blowing when Fay straddled the “instrument,” waved a gangplank goodbye to Sal and Danny, and began pedaling. The inventors laughed as the bicycle carried Fay in an enormous arc across the street, as evidently they had instructed it to take her in the direction opposite that of her initial orientation.
The rider, naturally, had control of the braking mechanism, and Fay halted in mid-arc to let a streetcar go by, glancing back to smile at the entrepreneurs. When her way was clear, she resumed pedaling, finished the direction-reversing maneuver, and proceeded on a straight course down the boulevard.
As she settled in for the ride, she wiggled her crotch animalistically atop the saddle—and it was then she first noticed the rather intense degree of comfort it offered. It seemed to provide for pressure in exactly the right places. She purred as she acquainted herself with its satisfying firmness.
Pedaling swiftly but almost effortlessly down the straightaway, Fay observed that the comfort hidden under her haunches was rapidly evolving into something more, something distinctly stimulating to her feminine anatomy. And when the bicycle suddenly autonavigated itself around a corner at one of the city’s major intersections, she squealed in unrepressed delight, an effervescence of sensation traveling up from her quickening cunt as she shifted her weight for the turn.
A pushcart vendor, startled by her vocalized happiness, tipped his cap to Fay and raised his eyebrows inquisitively as she passed.
“Sorry!” she shouted back at him. “I’m—I’m from out of town.”
She fleetingly wondered if some sort of mechanical device was pleasuring her. Had Sal invented a pedal-powered woman’s comforter? But no, Fay realized, the vibrations were coming only from her—and, of course, from the road. It was clear that her exquisite joy was due simply to the ingenious arrangement of the saddle.
There was no doubt about it: Daniel Olsen might not know how to build even the most primitive machine, but he did know a great deal about female pleasure. By means of the “minute adjustment” he had made to the positioning of the bicycle seat, he had contrived to situate the component parts so that reliable contact with Fay’s pouting slit, through the thin fabric of her skirt and her underwear, was ensured—and contact with her hard little button fully facilitated.
The description of Hartford as a “bicyclist’s paradise” might have been hyperbolic when Sal wrote it in her letter . . . but no longer.
Fay was no stranger to the sensual possibilities of bicycling for a creative-minded woman; but thanks to Danny, she was now getting the ride of a woman’s dreams. This would have been a favor to treasure even had it been given impersonally by an anonymous technician. But the knowledge that it had been deliberately given to Fay in particular by the knicker-moistening Danny Olsen made it almost too easy for her to thrill herself to complete jouissance within the first mile of her trip.
As the spasms shook through her, she bit her lip to avoid attracting the attention of every vendor, pedestrian, and horse in the vicinity.
Thank goodness for Sal’s map machine, she thought, as she emerged from her first climax and began working her rump to frig herself toward the next. Fay could not, under these conditions, have trusted herself to keep track of where she was going.
She calculated that by the time she reached her destination—wherever that might be—she would be the most sexually stimulated woman in the state of Connecticut. How enthusiastically she embraced this status!
The autonavicycle’s maiden voyage was a smooth one, punctuated by several more turns as well as the many episodes of womanly gratification that Fay kept bestowing on her pussy—helping herself repeatedly to the machine’s availability as if eating sweets one after another. After what must have been five miles, the navigational box made a loud click, and Fay felt the brakes slowly engaging. (Sal had, she assumed, used some kind of hydraulic system to ensure that the instrument would not stop so suddenly as to throw its rider.)
The journey had been invigorating, to say the least. Her legs ached cheerfully from the cycling exertion, and, most of all, her muff and her clitty pulsed wearily with contentment.
She looked around to see where Sal’s map had led her, and found that she was in front of a small hotel. She was startled to note a familiar figure loitering outside the door.
“Did you enjoy the ride?” he said meaningfully.
“Why, this is a surprise!”
“Not for me.”
Fay laughed. “Oh, Danny.”
“At your service.”
His benign tampering with the bicycle had proved him well worthy of such a claim, she reflected.
“Sal and I speculated that my hotel would make a convenient destination for you.”
Dismounting, Fay sensed her knees threatening to give way under her, as the cumulative effect of her exercise, in all its forms, caught up with her. Meanwhile her skin prickled pleasantly all over as Danny’s gaze caressed her.
“A self-guiding bicycle is a marvelous thing to experience, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes,” answered Fay. “Especially when properly adjusted.”
Dan bowed his head in a dramatic show of humility-tempered pride.
“However did you manage to arrive here in time to greet me?”
“I came by streetcar. They go right by the building.”
“Is Sal here too?”
“Sal? Why should she be?” laughed Danny. “We don’t need Sal for what I have in mind—and, if I’m not mistaken, what you have in mind.”
Fay smiled greedily, a woman who had satiated herself on sweets and was now eyeing the cake. “You’re not mistaken at all. Why, you could have had me last night, if you hadn’t vanished—and I, you.”
“Ah, but you’re forgetting my flair for the theatrical. What fun I thought it would be to fuck you first in absentia, with a bicycle seat acting on my behalf! The girls backstage approved of the scheme as well.”
Fay shivered both hot and cold at the vision of Danny telling the dancers how he planned to nurture her between the legs.
Dan tipped the doorman, leaving the cycle in his custody. As he escorted Fay up to his room, she could smell her own excitement in the air.
His bed had been made up and then turned down, underscoring the fact that he had been waiting to receive her here. Fay loosened her hair, pausing in front of the mirror to check her face for flecks of mud from the bicycle ride. Dan embraced her from behind, squeezing her tightly but not, just yet, intimately.
She moved his hands up so that they cupped her breasts. While he responded with caresses there, she urged her rump against his groin, raking her cheeks with his hardness.
He nibbled her throat while he undressed her, and she bade goodbye to the damp cling of her drawers as they fell on the carpet. Giggling, she extricated herself from his grasp and dashed to the bed, sprawling on her back in her most inviting posture.
He approached with measured, even graceful, steps, showing her that he savored the tableau spread before him. When at last he arrived, he sat on the bed and petted her thigh, stroking her mere inches from her aroused sex.
“So this is the pretty little cunny that’s been playing with our autonavicycle,” he cooed, echoing his first words upon meeting her. “Imagine—these soft, wet lips, riding tight to the saddle, having themselves such a fine time.”
Fay giggled again, amusement and sexual excitation simultaneously coursing through her. She was both relaxed and emboldened by Daniel’s manner in the bedroom. “I don’t have to imagine it, you silly man—I was there.”
“Well, I had to imagine it. I nearly rubbed myself raw imagining it. The idea of you squirming yourself juicy all the way here had me beside myself.”
His speech made her pussy trickle before his delighted eyes. “Touch it, Danny. Touch it, please.”
He did. “You see, Kid Sister, this is the work my hands are best suited for.”
“Yes, you’re—oh!—you’re skilled indeed. Ohhh . . .”
His hands worked her tenderly, and so very effectively. His light touch tickled and warmed, greeted and explored and—where she responded most vigorously—reinforced. And this master in the art of bicycle-seat adjustment was also master of the little bicycle bell that crowned her slit, knowing precisely when and how to make it tingle. Soon she was climaxing. And unlike in the street, she made no effort to suppress her own cries.
“I was quite affronted that you never wrote me from Paris,” Danny murmured in her ear. “You wrote Sal constantly.”
“But I didn’t know you,” she panted.
“Scarcely an excuse,” he teased. “With no epistles from the charming girl in Paris, I had to buy my own French letters. Look—I have one right here.” He opened the nightstand drawer.
“Shall we read it together? You can correct my pronunciation.”
“I’m confident your pronunciation will be flawless,” she assured him, sitting up. “However, might I suggest that your attire is imperfect for the occasion? That is to say, there’s far too much of it.”
He grinned indulgently while she unfastened buttons upstairs and down. Then, before letting him stand to complete his disrobing, she clutched his solid shaft and kissed its tip. When he rose and shed the trousers, she admired the rugged blond curls at his loins and the trail of fur that added definition to his torso.
Danny obtained the aforementioned French letter from the drawer, then situated it on his person. Fay patted the bed.
“Now then . . . I’m a cyclist, remember?”
He winked his comprehension and readily accommodated her, lying face up beside her and patting his abdomen like she’d patted the mattress.
And Fay Levine straddled gratification and sank herself down onto satisfaction. She rode Danny Olsen’s instrument, with memories of her recent cycling adventure whirring in her head like the scroll inside Sal’s metal box. In Fay’s sexually fevered imagination, the professor and the bicycle seemed to merge into a fantastic man-machine, whose every mechanical nuance and every lewd utterance were calculated to make her roar with the ultimate female ecstasy.
They spent as one, with Fay nearly weeping from the joy of having her snatch stuffed full of delectable male, and Danny wincing in bliss while he told her what a sweet-fucking little cunny-angel she was.
***
“Tonight it’s back to your dancing girls, I suppose,” said Fay bravely, toying with the fat fleshiness of Daniel’s coiled phallus.
“Why? Are you returning to New York this afternoon?”
“No. But I just thought . . .”
“You just thought I’d be content to fuck you once and forget about you, Fay Levine?”
“Maybe.”
He laughed. “Now, I ask you: why the hell would Professor Daniel Olsen sully his hands preparing a bicycle seat for a girl he only intended to fuck the once?”
She felt the smile burning forth on her face. “I admit I didn’t consider it from that perspective.”
“We haven’t determined where or how we’ll be testing Sal’s prototype next. But wherever it is, I hope you’ll be right there with me, taking rides every day. Both on and off the bicycle.”
“Well . . . it is a splendid instrument,” said Fay. “And Sally did ask me to keep you entertained.”
“Of course she did,” said Danny. “Sal has always known what’s best for me.”
In a little while they stood together outside the hotel.
“I suppose one of us must ride this contraption back to the laboratory, while the other goes by streetcar.” Dan unlatched the metal box, flipped a switch that Fay realized must reverse navigational direction, and shut the lid again. “Do you crave another trip on that ingratiating saddle?”
“I’m not sure my little cunny can absorb any more pleasure this morning,” Fay confessed. Then she gave Danny a Danny-style smirk and mounted the machine. “But we shall find out, my cunny and I.”
“I salute you both.”
The spirited slap he gave her bottom sizzled grandly through Fay as she pedaled happily up the street.
~
If you enjoyed this story, you'll also enjoy The Pleasure Dial: An Erotocomedic Novel of Old-Time Radio, by Jeremy Edwards. (Erotic eBook available at OCEroticBooks.com, $4.99!)
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To read another erotic story featuring Sal and Danny, check out Jeremy Edward's "Dr. Olsen's Loquacious Automaton."
Copyright December 2011, Jeremy Edwards
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.