The Sweet Science of Bruising

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The Sweet Science of Bruising
or

An Erotic Steampunk Melodrama in Three Acts

Nick Rowan



Act One

Chapter One





Lillian swallowed hard and closed the door of her house soundlessly behind her. She made her way across the backyard, heart thudding, and froze when the dog down the block barked once.

Silliness, pure silliness. She wasn't a skulking runaway to startle at every shadow. She was off on an adventure, a dangerous one, but still an adventure. Besides, she decided as she set her hand on the gate and let herself out of the yard, a man wouldn't sneak. He'd be quiet but he'd walk as if he had every right to be out and about.

And tonight, she was a man. She had cut off a good foot of her long black hair and burned it in the stove. The pants and shirt she wore, bought cheaply from a passing trader, made her feel immodest and half-dressed, as if she was going about in her underthings. The band that compressed her breasts chafed her ribs and the serape that concealed the rest of her shape made the night almost too warm. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of the band and itched abominably. The money pouch felt too heavy and she wondered if she should have brought less than five dollars.

But her driver, Elliot, had said the entry bribe was three dollars, a hefty price. The fight was illegal, bare-knuckle boxing being a violent affair, so they had to pay off the proper officials to even hold it. She had given Elliot his own three dollar entry fee, and another dollar to place a wager for her on whomever he thought likeliest to win.

No women were allowed at the illegal boxing matches. Most didn't venture abroad after dark. It was unseemly and dangerous. Abilene had been a cow town for many years, and even appointing Wild Bill Hickok as the Marshal hadn't totally salvaged it from the drovers and attendant low-lives. The streets were safer now, but decent folks stayed in. Unlike cities back east with street lamps and electric lights, the prairie nights were dark.

She stepped carefully, the fat orange moon lighting her way. It would be easy enough to step in a prairie dog hole and break her leg. That would be a fine way to be found in the morning, A lantern would have been a wise idea, but it also would have given her away.

In her long life of odd behavior, this would certainly set tongues wagging if word got out. It was no secret in Abilene, that the late Artemus Shaw had wanted a son and that he had raised his daughter to be as eccentric as he had been. He was a man ahead of his time, and because of him, her house was the most modern in town, with gaslights, indoor plumbing, including hot water, and even a telephone.

She'd heard the saying that curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought him back. In Lillian's world, that proverbial feline was nine times dead, despite reviving, and she was working on the rest of the cat colony.  And tonight, she would have a world of her curiosity satisfied.

Then perhaps she could invent for a while before being spurred into something new. Her insatiable curiosity drove her to read and invent and tinker. It broke up her sleep, waking her with half-formed ideas until she had taken to keeping a pencil by the bed. Let her maid, Flossie, complain of the scribbled-on sheets, she had no intention of losing ideas by waking completely or falling back into dreams.

She had improved both the kitchen water pump and the stove. She had rerouted the gaslights to something a bit less dangerous than an open flame on a tube of gas. But her prize was the soother.

Lillian was not married at the age of twenty-eight and never intended to be. Nor could she take a lover. She had begun inventing these shortly after her parents died, basing it on the drawings in an anatomy book, and did a small underground business among the ladies of Abilene. But her inventions lacked a certain verisimilitude. Gossip had it the men boxed naked. Ever the perfectionist, Lillian had taken matters into her own hands.

She made her way out of the little town and to the place where a caravan was parked, with a much larger drayage wagon near it. It was a long walk and the moccasins she had bought had thin places in the soles that didn't match her feet. She kept walking, carrying herself as tall as she could.

Tonight, she was a man, she reminded herself. She had pinned her braids tightly to the top of her head, hoping very much that the darkness and excitement would keep most men from looking too closely at her.

Men didn't really see women anyway, she'd found. For the most part, they saw dresses and bonnets, tipped their hats and went about their business. They recognized buggies or wagons or horses before they recognized a woman in a new dress or bonnet. She'd learned that years ago. At fourteen, she had worn her mother's favorite striped day dress outside on errands, and every man she passed had called her Ruth, her mother's name. Only the bank clerk had recognized her face. She planned to use this knowledge to her advantage.

A large black tent had been put up, and two big men stood at the door. Lillian held onto her bribe and marched up, like the young man she was pretending to be. She named herself Ben, after the recent president, and was prepared to say it if asked.

Ben wouldn't be afraid, even though the men were bigger than he was. He walked right in, slipped the bribe into the hand of the guard and took a place not far from the double ring of stakes and ropes that marked the fighting area.

The tent filled quickly, with white men from town, Chinese and black men from the railroad camp, rough looking men who had holed up at the abandoned fort, and Cheyenne from the local tribe. Each kept to their own group. Lillian felt small and a little scared as the men pushed in around her. They surrounded her, leaving her with no way out of the tent. She almost couldn't move. She didn't dare elbow for more space, politeness too ingrained even a decade after her mother's passing.

The interior was painted with scenes from Greek mythology, with spacers of the various Greek goddesses. They stood arrayed around the edge: regal Hera, stern and forbidding with her peacock's neck curling lewdly up her leg; martial Athena, in amazonian armor that left one breast bare; athletic Artemis, bare to the waist as she lifted her bow, the crescent moon on her brow; wanton Aphrodite, naked on her seashell. Between each, nude men competed in races, at throwing javelins, hurling discus and wrestling. The art surprised her, and set a much different tone than she had expected of such a disreputable event.

She was very near the ropes, just outside the outer rope barrier. Horse and sweat, coal and tar, tobacco and alcohol filled her nose. She couldn't sneeze, that would be disastrous. She had a squeak of a sneeze that could be mistaken for nothing other than a woman.

Someone passed her a lit cigar and she passed it to the man beside her, Mr. Jordan from the bank, she realized.  He barely noticed her with his eyes fixed on the ring, but took the cigar and puffed it as he waited. A flask came her way and she rubbed the mouth with her sleeve. She meant to take a small sip, just enough to give her some courage but, by trying not to touch the opening, she wound up pouring a healthy slug into her mouth. The cheap whiskey burned all the way down, but she managed not to sputter. She passed that on to Mr. Jordan as well. He made a disgusted face and passed it to the next man.

The men kept pressing. She saw many faces she knew, but kept her own hat pulled as low as she could and trusted her shorter stature to keep her from being recognized. Just when Lillian thought she would have to sneeze or shove or do something untoward, a bell sounded.

An older man in a vest and shirtsleeves, wearing a bowler hat over his mutton-chop whiskers, came out and stood in the middle of the ring. He looked over the crowd and nodded before vanishing. Lillian thought he looked at her a little too long. Then another man, a little younger, in a frock-coat and top hat with a sinister thin mustache came out and held up his hands. The crowd quieted. Lillian tried not to giggle. He looked like a melodrama villain, like the one she had seen last year when the traveling actors passed through. She doubted he would be tying anyone to a keg of gunpowder though.

He held up his hands and the men quieted. “Gentlemen, welcome to this evening's entertainment.” His voice was sharp and accented like something back east. There was a nasal sound to it and an edge as he launched into the announcement. “Tonight for your pleasure and edification, Turlough McGuire, the Belfast Assassin, will perform pugilistic feats never before seen by human beings. His opponent, your own Mr. George McKenzie, must last one full half of an hour or knock him out to win.” The man beckoned to someone backstage. When no one emerged, he continued. “Big George McKenzie, from Great Bend, able to lift a yearling calf from the ground or wrestle a steer barehanded, tonight will take on the undefeated Belfast Assassin in a match to the humiliation.”

Lillian watched avidly. George McKenzie was a roustabout and drifter, forever in trouble in the town. The big blond man would work for a month, or two months, on a ranch, and then come into town, drink and gamble away his earnings, get into a fight, spend a week in the jail and start it all over. It was said no woman was safe when he was around and that he stole chickens when no one was watching the hen house.

George came out, wearing nothing whatsoever. Lillian managed to keep her mouth from hanging open. Her own near-nakedness in the men's clothing was uncomfortable and odd. His was just shocking. She reminded herself this was why she had come tonight. He was a tall man, with sturdy muscles from much hard work, but a soft area around his middle. A dusting of chest hair thickened on his belly to a deep golden triangle.

She stared at her first sight of a man's penis. It hung, soft-looking, like a tube the size of a couple fingers, between his legs. Darker shapes moved behind it. She studied it, comparing it with her own devices at home, invented for the prevention of nervous hysteria. Her designs needed some serious revisions. She hoped to market the single most realistic, most effective device ever made for gentle ladies.

The men around the ring applauded. She wondered why he was naked.

“As we stand within this temple of sport, gentlemen, you will see on the walls, depictions of the Olympics, in which the competitors were always naked, displaying themselves in full view of their gods. And also to keep any women from slipping in on the sly.” An appropriate laugh met this. There could be no doubt that everyone in the ring was very male.

“Our man, Turlough, has fought fifty different men inside these ropes. And he has taken down every one of them. He puts them on the ground, and, like the Spartans of old, he fucks them into the dirt. Because that is his prize!”

Big George McKenzie looked a little worried at that statement, although he had to have known the stakes when he had signed on for the fight. Lillian watched curiously to see what the visitor would look like, too startled to even be horrified at the crude words.

“Straight from the Auld Sod, born in a bog and weaned on poteen, sent to America for killing a man with one blow of his mighty fist, Turlough, the Belfast Assassin!”

Another man, leaner, more scarred, but just as naked as George, came out from the curtains, followed by the man with the mutton-chops. He looked around the tent and his eyes settled on her. His scarred face crinkled and she saw a flash of white in amid the small, closely trimmed beard he wore. He was smiling, smiling at her. No, that was ridiculous, nobody knew she was a woman. She met his gaze and gave him a defiant sneer. When his attention turned, she stole a look down and saw the rather smaller cock between his legs was starting to grow. As she watched, it got noticeably longer and rather thicker.

He smiled, letting it turn vicious, his mustache and beard making it seem broader, and his badly scarred face—his cheeks shaved to show it better—wrinkling in odd ways. It went to a complete grimace, his crooked, sharp-looking teeth bared at the crowd in defiance, as if daring them to comment on his nakedness, on his tastes. He coupled it with a growl. A couple of the men stepped back from the ropes. Lillian kept looking, memorizing the relative size and shape. He gave her a wink and stepped to greet his opponent.

The men shook hands and went to their corners. The crowd got very quiet and the growing tension in the tent made Lillian's neck hair stand up. The fight was about to start. She wondered what was going to happen. Would one of them be hurt? Would Turlough really... She couldn't even think the word. The wait was interminable and her adventurous research was almost more excitement than she could bear. The man with the mutton chops hit a bell with a hammer and the fight was on.

Big George came out of his corner, almost rushing like a bull, ready to overwhelm his opponent with speed and weight. Turlough sidestepped him and Lillian heard a meaty thump as he punched George in the belly.

George gasped for air and landed one glancing blow on the side of Turlough's face, barely enough to turn the skin red. Turlough stayed in close and planted three more fists into George's belly in quick succession.

Lillian stood shocked at the violence and speed. All she had heard and read led her to believe boxing was a slow sport, in which the fighters circled a great deal more than they punched, for fear of breaking their hands. She thought about it. The blows were reasonable, going where Turlough would not hurt his hands, but where he would do damage to George.

The big local man landed in the dirt, wheezing.

“Get up, ya spawn of an English whore,” Turlough bellowed at him, aiming a kick at his shins. “Or go face down, just as your whore-mother undoubtedly caught you.”

George struggled back to his feet and Lillian could see he was looking at the way Turlough's cock had gotten harder with each punch and insult. The thing stood proud and dark now, looking like a weapon in itself. Thick and long, it was no wonder George didn't want it near him. Lillian wondered for a moment how they could possibly consummate the prize and then decided to simply watch and learn.

The fight didn't last much longer. Big George, winded from Turlough's early blows, stood and wobbled to the growing vocal disgust of the crowd. He got his defense up, but Turlough went through it easily, landing a hard haymaker to George's jaw. George spun around and went down on his face in the dirt. The men around Lillian jeered and shouted crudities into the ring. She felt her face flaming under the brim of the hat at their language.

“Aww, little boy never saw a man get fucked, did he?” asked the man who had passed her the bottle earlier.

“Maybe the pretty boy wants a taste of that mighty prick himself,” jeered Mr. Jordan.

Lillian's face flamed again, but she reminded herself that Ben would say nothing. He would stand. She stiffened her spine and watched as Turlough made a show of shoving George's legs apart and spitting on his rear. Once, twice and three times. The pure contempt on his face made Lillian shudder. George fought, squirming and kicking, not wanting to take what was coming.

Turlough grabbed his hair and slammed his head into the ground. “Welching on the deal, you great lummox. You lost and now you won't pay out your side of the bet?”

Then he drove his cock into George with a war-cry. George screamed. Turlough was nothing resembling gentle with him, and George yelled clear through, pounding on the dirt. He swung an arm back at Turlough, who caught it and shoved it up into the middle of his back.

Lillian decided that if this was what people did with each other bed, she wanted no part of it. She would stay with her devices. Much less chance of harm or pregnancy with things she controlled.

“Hold still, ya gob-shite.” Turlough seized the back of George's neck and held him still. He slammed his hips against the man's buttocks, making George howl. “A better fuck than your English mother,” Turlough announced.

He pulled away from George, and stood up. He walked the perimeter of the ring, his cock still hard and red, smeared with a bit of blood. He held his fists, also smeared with George McKenzie's blood, cocked and ready.

“Anyone dare to come in and face me?” he dared the crowd, looking into their faces and offering. He struck a pose in a few feet down from Lillian. “Come on, you lily-livered, pox-rotted bastards. Anyone who can stand in here for half an hour gets five hundred dollars, cash money.”

No one volunteered to duck under the ropes. Lillian felt an odd urge to do so rising in her. She squelched it with firm logic. Of course the deal was a fake. An outfit like this wouldn't carry that much money with them. Too, Big George couldn't fight this man. And she knew nothing of fighting at all. Still, thoughts of ducking in, punching him very scientifically—belly, groin, temple and ear, just as she had once seen in a drawing of vulnerable points in a book—and knocking him down amused her for a moment.

“But you're a bunch of water-hearted weaklings, not fit to try drinking with a real Irishman, never you mind fighting with one.” He called out the bigger men in the crowd. But when he reached Lillian, he paused and dropped the fists. “Here's a little boy come to see the fights. I wouldn't be asking you into the ring, lad, oh no. But I've a fine bunk in the wagon that needs filling.”

The men around her laughed and Mr. Jordan's hand shoved in the small of her back, slamming her into the ropes. She bit down on the gasp and made no sound. Instead, she looked up at The Belfast Assassin with as much fury as she could put in her eyes and her jaw set firm.

She elbowed back against Mr. Jordan, giving herself some breathing room, shook off and stood back. She gave Turlough a little incline of her head.

“He's brave enough. Come back when you've grown, son, and we'll give it a try.” Turlough swung a very slow, playful punch at her jaw and Lillian met it. He didn't hurt her, his hand barely grazed her chin. “Brave lad,” Turlough repeated and moved along, calling out the bigger men to come and fight him for real money.

His cock still hadn't gone down and he thrust his hips obscenely at William Tucker, who owned the livery stable. “Still got a few good blows left in me,” Turlough yelled, to the crowd's applause.

Finally, the mutton-chopped man caught Turlough's arm and tugged him out of the tent. Big George lay on the floor of the ring, moving gingerly, as if every part of his body hurt and had gone weak.

The announcer came back out. “Thank you gentlemen for coming to this evening's entertainment. We hope to see you tomorrow night.”

The men slipped out of the tent in ones and twos. Lillian waited until she could move freely and then stalked out into the night. She headed back for town alone, keeping well away from the few groups of men headed that direction. She grumbled at herself for not thinking to bring a lantern along. She took it carefully, wary of hunting snakes. Not even her best walking boots would protect her from snakebite, and if she made it the doctor's door, she would likely lose the leg at best. She walked slowly, not wanting to break her ankle in a prairie dog hole or cut herself on a sharp rock.

Her own dooryard looked better than anything she'd ever seen. Her heart pumped too fast and her breath caught at the memory of the match.

Lillian let herself in and hurried up the steps. Flossie would be in first thing tomorrow. Everything had to be in order by then. She hid the clothing in a dark closet corner whose cobwebs said Flossie often overlooked it.  She washed her hands and face, taking care not to get too much dirt on the towel. Then she brushed out her hair.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror, lit only by the streaming silver moonlight. Her black hair hung against her breasts, which curved pale as alabaster, pale as she had always wished they were. She cupped them with a gentle squeeze that sent sparks through her.

The men had been flat there, and she wondered what the boxer's chest would feel like under her hand. She liked the weight of her breasts in her hands. She liked the feel of her skin when she stroked it. She wondered if a man would be so nice to touch.

Turlough had been badly scarred. She wanted to touch the scars and wondered if he would let her. She imagined how the ridges would feel under her fingers. She squeezed her breasts again, tapping the stiffening nipples, pushing them in. She imagined the big, blood-smeared hand that had tapped her jaw doing this, the rough fingers pressing her nipples in until she felt all damp and swollen in her secret parts.

Lillian knew the words men called those parts, but all of them sounded so crude. She had held a hand-mirror between her legs more than once, looking to see what there was, in order to get her inventions right and properly placed. The look of it, pink and soft, wasn't awful, but she preferred to imagine it as a red velvet settee instead. It felt sweetly velvet-like under her fingers. And she imagined it would quite comfortable to any male occupant she allowed.

She preferred the devices. They could move and aid her fingers. She had heard hushed whispers among the ladies in the sewing circles and at tea about how some young man or another had ruined his health abusing himself for mere idle pleasure. On the other hand, the handsome young doctor who had just moved to town did an excellent trade in the prevention of nervous hysteria.

Women out here on the prairie were sterner stuff than their citified sisters back east. But some of the wealthier ones, the ones who didn't work all day and half the night, fancied themselves as delicate as any city flower. The banker's wife, Jessamyn, had fainting fits. Lillian suspected her corset was simply laced too tightly. And Margaret, whose husband owned the saloon, was given to pacing along the balcony of the house at all hours of the night with insomnia. Lillian unlocked the lowest drawer of her dresser, the one Flossie was not allowed into.

There would be no insomnia for her, no fainting or loss of appetite. She wasn't sure she believed in hysteria, but she did like her device.

Lillian climbed into the bed with her toy. She wound it up. She'd use the more elaborate one that was powered by the gaslights later. Gaslight was slowly catching on here, and the supply was chancy. Clockwork was much more reliable.

She wound the device and let it vibrate in her hand for a second before she laid it between her legs. It slid right in with a gentle push, since she was already wet from thinking about Turlough.

She imagined the big man above her, thrusting into her as he had pounded into Big George. Maybe he would be more gentle with a lady. Lillian shoved the vibrator in hard and fast. She didn't want to bleed but she didn't want him to be gentle either. She wanted him to fuck her.

She came as she thought the word and her eyes flew open. She tapped the hot little button at the front that usually sent her right off and spasmed again, her channel clutching at the vibrator. It kept buzzing and she gave another thrust of it and screamed.

Lillian lay panting amid the covers. She had never managed three so quickly. She hadn't even had to wind the vibrator twice. Twice was usually the limit on the first winding. Sometimes she had trouble even making one.

She tucked the toy under her pillow and nestled down under the feather bed. Turlough's scarred face giving her a smile and calling her brave was the last thing she saw behind her eyes before sleep took her.



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