“Miss Alicia!” the man said louder and Carrie shook her head several times.
Hadn’t she left the Club? Wasn’t she wearing the green velvet that night? The dark blue and black silk was soft, pillowing around her but beneath it, her petticoats were starched hard, rough against her belly and thighs between corset and the satin ties of her stockings. Where the hell were her pantaloons? Had she already been through a session? Was it too rough? Had she passed out? Is that what happened? Damn! Damn, damn, damn. She reached up a hand and the man took it, kindly helping her to her feet.

“I’m fine,” she groaned, pushed a loose wisp of hair that had fallen from her pompadour hairstyle. Strange, she seldom let them style her hair like that. It was too heavy with all the rats planted beneath her real hair and the million pins bothered her as they pinched and pulled at single strands to distraction. “I’m fine.” She finally looked up at him, not something a woman belonging to the Magnolia Men’s Club was likely to do … it always somehow got back to the Matron and Carrie always got sent down to the basement for punishment. She didn’t like that one damn bit, so she never, ever looked a man in the eyes inside the Club.

Luckily, this man was dressed modestly, obviously playing the roll of Master’s Assistant for the night. “Miss Alicia, I understand your sadness,” he said softly. “But the Matron has called for you and she wants to see you immediately. Perhaps you can rest afterwards.”

He took her upper arm and led her to the big pocket doors. Sliding them opened he led her inside before shutting them off from the rest of the big house. The Matron’s office was not a pleasant place and already her mind was spinning. What the hell had she done this time?

Carrie stood alone in the center of the room and the woman looked up at her. She slammed her quill to the desktop, splattering ink across the parchment she was writing on, making her irritated expression look even uglier. This was not a Matron Carrie knew, but that didn’t mean squat. There are literally hundreds of members from all over the world; they came to play their parts, take interesting rolls that suit their fantasies and press the envelope of every female’s tolerance. And for the first time, Carrie found herself wondering about the Matron … what did it take for a woman to raise herself to that position?

As the grey Matron glared, Carrie felt her knees again weaken. She swayed and the man caught her arm, steadying her. “May she sit, Matron?”

The old crone’s face scrunched and she waved her hand brusquely. “Fine. I certainly understand your mourning but let us not make this a dramatic event, Miss Alicia! Bring her a chair, Carl.”

Carrie lowered onto the proffered seat and sat primly, her hands locked on her knees and her eyes lowered.

“Now,” the Matron stood and paced. “I do not like this. I do not like this one bit!” She huffed and sped her pace, back and forth; her high buttoned and booted feet clunking on the carpet.

Carrie held her breath. When a Matron got that pissed off, there was hell to pay. Jesus, not the basement medical rooms! She’d been so good lately. It had been months since they’d dragged her down there, kicking and screaming to receive her punishment. There were nasty things down there; probes and needles, enema bags and whips. What the hell could anyone do to deserve that kind of treatment? She really had to get the hell out of this Club!

The Matron actually let loose with a squeal of frustration, shook herself like a dog then returned to her chair. The skin around her lips was white and taught, her hands were knotted in fists but her voice became calm and controlled.

“I do not like this as for some reason unknown to me, you, Miss Alicia are most popular here at the Magnolia Men’s Club. However …” she rolled her eyes and groaned a sigh, “the dearly departed Mr. Thornton Gallows was one of the three original founding fathers of this Club and he had apparently chosen to exercise his particular benefits.”

Carrie blinked. Who the hell was Thornton Gallows? And where the hell was this going? Was she to now play out a new scenario? Some kind of merry widow or something?

The Matron continued, her gnarled, long fingers holding a document. She adjusted her glasses and read silently then hissed and spoke. “Mr. Gallows had made several provisions on your behalf, young lady. He had purchased a house for you in Farmington. He’s provided a great deal of money which will be managed by an attorney retained by the estate. And … he had arranged for your freedom from the Magnolia Men’s Club … effective immediately.”

Huh? Carrie blinked. What were they up to? This made absolutely no sense, but the Club was big on fucking with your head, so she nodded sadly and played right along.

“Mr. Gallows was an extraordinarily foolish man in my opinion. But we are bound and committed to honor his wishes.” The Matron folded several documents and tucked them neatly into an envelope. “You are now to be known as the widow of a Mr. Stephan Hopkins, wealthy oil tycoon from Franklin, Pennsylvania. Now, missy, repeat that. Who are you?”

Carrie cleared her throat. “Mrs. Stephan Hopkins, Matron.”

“Your widow’s weeds are laid out in your room. A maid will help you dress and Carl will escort you out. Your things are packed and,” she snorted with disgust, “it seems Mr. Gallows had already sent several trunks of new clothing to the house, as well as furnished the place for you. Foolishness, pure foolishness. Now … go!”

Carrie stood and Carl again gripped her arm. Playing her roll well, she sighed sorrowfully and leaned against him as he led her from the office. “Miss Alicia, perhaps you can rest on the train,” he said softly as they left, the pocket doors whispering closed.

They walked the hall and into the grand foyer. There at the bottom of the steps, typical Club activity. A man grunted over the back side of a half naked woman, fucking her hard against the stair. He quickly moved away, a snapping slurp sounded as his cock pulled free and he briskly adjusted his clothing for modesty. He nodded respectfully to Carrie. “Widow,” he said with a quiet grunt.

Carrie circled him and raised her skirts a few inches to climb the stairs, stepping carefully to avoid the coil of the initiated woman’s chain, delicately twisted and glistening in the gas lamplight. The woman did not move or change position. Her wrists were raw around the tight rough ropes binding her hands to the banister. God, I gotta get out of this damn Club! Carrie thought. The sight disgusted her.

Carl, again holding her arm, led her to a room she had never used but what the hell. If they wanted to play games, she could play along. Waiting in the hall, he opened the door and waved Carrie to enter.

The little maid quickly stripped her to the bone and replaced every item … plus pantaloons … with crisp, uncomfortable black widow’s clothing. Carrie sat as the maid adjusted and tidied her hair then curtsied and handed over a large carpetbag which Carl took the moment the door again opened. In a way it was all kind of fun and she wondered … what was about to happen to prevent the Widow Hopkins’ exit?

The fucking couple had vacated the stairway and at the massive front door, two young boys stood, grunting and lifting a heavy trunk. Boys? I’ve never seen young boys in here before. Now that seems illegal as hell! Good lord, what those kids might see in here!

She stopped on the dead center of the round grand foyer Persian carpet and waited. To her amazement, Carl simply reached out and opened the massive front door. Carrie again thought she’d faint. In fact, she was almost positive she’d faint! She stood still as stone as the boys hauled the trunk out, Carl took her arm in his big hand.

“Come now, Miss Alicia. It is time to leave.”

She blinked, blinked again and again. There were no cars on the street, no smells of exhaust or rumble of the city. Not even snow. It was obviously a bright summer day!
Billowing trees dropped large, waving, cool patches of shade across the sidewalk. The road was no longer a narrow alley but a wide avenue; no ugly old structures clogged her view. Across the street, a vibrant green lawn rolled for several yards before breaking at the white porch steps of a brilliant mansion. The property boasted a greenhouse, the peaked glass roof of which flashed and reflected the sunshine with painful radiance. Carrie had never seen that place before! A magnificent piece of history … gone. Lost. She’d never even heard stories of such a place and Carrie was an addict where Pittsburgh Victorian history was concerned. It was all so sad … but before her eyes … so real and vividly alive! Nothing was as she knew it and she nearly swooned with the visions. The view from the Magnolia Men’s Club front door was like watching a period film gone three dimensional!

At the front curb stood a polished black and brass adorned carriage with two patient horses. They turned and seemed to eye her suspiciously. Don’t look at me like I don’t belong here, you dumb animals! It’s you who doesn’t belong here. What the hell is going on?

Carl tugged and she finally stepped past the threshold and onto the cool stone porch. “Come, you must not miss your train.”

She permitted him to guide her into the carriage and she sat, her eyes wild, trying to take in everything that couldn’t possibly be there and suddenly she became aware of Carl so close she could smell the starch in his high, painfully white, stiff collar. He pressed the envelope the Matron had shown her into Carrie’s trembling hand.

“This holds all your papers, Alicia. Your train tickets, money you’ll need. Everything. You will be met at the station by the attorney, a Mr. Fulton Meyers. All will be well,” he sighed and slid a fingertip along her jaw. “You are free, my dear. Be happy. We will miss you sorely.” And his lips settled onto hers in a tender kiss that broke quickly. He nodded to the driver and with a whinny and a jerk, the carriage wheels moved toward Jefferson Street.

***

Holy crap! Holy crap! Oh good God, holy crap! No other words would form inside her head as the carriage traveled past other carriages and the energetic bustle of the streets she’d never envisioned. Children laughing and playing. Women in voluminous skirts and wide straw hats, carrying pretty parasols against the blazing sun and baskets of flowers or produce or brown paper wrapped parcels. Well dressed men congregated on corners, sucked on thick cigars and nodded respectfully to her as she rode past them.

Holy crap! Holy crap! Oh good God, holy crap! When the driver hustled the beasts to carry her across the park, her heart was completely crazed, her curiosity out of control and she bounced around in her seat, swinging her head back and forth to take in everything she could see. She had to be hallucinating, having some kind of drug induced dream, although she’d never known the Club to use drugs to assist with the fantasies. But dream or not, good God it was amazing! It was … almost exactly as she imagined it must have been in the early 1900’s. Almost.

Of course there were things different. Things she hadn’t ever really thought about. Like how the smell of sweating, defecating horses could take the romance out of such a charming spectacle. How the pinch and rub of tight whalebone could distract one’s attention, or how very … very … slow everything moved.

What might have taken her ten minutes, even through downtown traffic, to get from the Northside (which was then called Allegheny City), cross one river and into Pittsburgh … then over another river and to the Southside took a hot, uncomfortable but remarkably enlightening hour!

Already in the young new century, the growing steel industry had begun to bloom billows of ugly dark smoke and drizzle gritty dust over everything. Crossing the Smithfield Street Bridge, Carrie looked up at Mount Washington and spied the magnificent Victorian mansion that will eventually be mutilated, modernized and turned into expensive apartments where Dave would live. It was bright in the glint of sunshine, bold and strong and proud above the sooty low cloud.

As the carriage turned into the P&LE RR Station, she gasped amazement. Less than twenty four hours ago she had met friends there for dinner, the beautiful train station revived and housing the Grand Concourse Restaurant and the fun Gandy Dancer Bar and Grill. All gone now, nothing but travelers and excitement, heat and anticipation. Her belongings handled, Carrie (now to be known as the Widow Hopkins) sat on a wrought iron bench and awaited the train. She had never imagined that the Pittsburgh and Lake Erie station had seen so much activity. She nervously examined her ticket.

She would change trains once and was expected to arrive at the Farmington station by six that evening. Butterflies tickled inside of her. Damn, she thought. I hope I don’t fall asleep. I would hate to wake in the future; back to my boring life before this dream has had a chance to show me everything I want to see!

The seats in the club car were small but comfortable. People were politely respectful to her widow black attire and she was blissfully left alone, sipping aromatic tea and watching a green, fairly untouched Pennsylvania countryside slide past the window. Several years ago she and Dave had taken a quick daytrip to the Farmington area, visited the historical forts, toured Frank Lloyd Wright’s famous house built for the Kauffman’s, Falling Water (which isn’t even there yet, she thought giddily) and took a long look over the rise to view the city of Uniontown. She was anxious to see how it all looked now.

“Miss Alicia?” a male voice, soft, secretive, heavy with curiosity wisped warm breath across her ear. She steadied, slowly turned a stern glare his way.

“Pardon?”

“Alicia?” The young man had an expression of delight and confusion. His voice was but a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

“Pardon?” she gasped with indignity. “Please leave this seat, sir. I am the Widow Hopkins and I do not know you.”

He blinked, his strange grin dropped and his brow curled. “Please forgive me, ma’am. I meant no disrespect.” He quickly left her and she held her breath, her back stiff and shoulders square. She carefully ignored the man now sitting across the club car and stealing covert glances her way.

Morgan Bower lit a cigarette and sighed, letting smoke drift from his lips as he wondered. He could have sworn that woman was Alicia, but obviously he was mistaken. It wasn’t remotely possible that a woman belonging to the Magnolia’s membership could be found anywhere outside the walls of that place. Besides, the woman he knew as Alicia was never so bold or aggressive. She was as docile and subservient as a lamb; as beautiful as the widow across the car with her alabaster complexion, shining auburn hair and striking blue eyes.

Ah Alicia. The favorite of every member. Morgan, being low on the membership totem pole never really got the best of her, though. Sometimes, in fact, he got none of her as often old man Gallows would abruptly put a stop to activities before his starving hands could get a good grip, much less his cock could find entry. The old bugger was strange that way about Alicia. But he had no issues with letting the members do as they pleased until it came to the exciting climax of sweet Alicia’s startling orgasms. And startling, they were.

Morgan grinned and dragged again on the cigarette, nodding to the servant who freshened his whiskey. Alicia of the Magnolia Men’s Club was one of those rare women who knew the power of her deep rooted sexuality. Often discussions would ensue in the parlor over fine brandy and the aromatic cloud of cigar smoke as to whether she was pretending such climax or truly reaching the pinnacle of sexual satisfaction at their hands. Many tricks and original manipulations were devised to determine this orgasmic ability to be fact or fiction; but as a physician, Morgan clearly understood that a woman could as easily and effectively find powerful sexual satisfaction as any man. In this good new century still tainted by that stuffy hag, Queen Victoria, there were so few women willing to display such abilities … in the marriage bed or even in the whore’s bed. Pity that.

No, that strong and empowered woman was not the Alicia he knew, though strikingly similar in every physical attribute. His Miss Alicia was back in Allegheny City, well under the thumb of the Matron Falingham and most likely wondering about her future, now with old man Gallows dead and buried. Pity about the old fart, but someone had to put the man down like a badly broken horse. His strange ideas and intentions did, after all, threaten the very existence of the Magnolia Men’s Club … the members would have none of that stupidity.

Morgan was secretly proud of his hand in the deed. His easy access to the right kind of poisons to bring about quick and sure, albeit rather painful death had brought his standing much higher in the Club. The next time he traveled to Pittsburgh and saw the sweet Miss Alicia, he’d have little trouble taking all he wanted from that flower.

He stole one more look across the club car. But then again … widows have their appetites too … and Morgan found himself wondering if the dearly departed Mr. Hopkins had taught his pretty wife the carnal things of life between fine sheets. He wondered how long the man had been dead and how soon the Widow Hopkins would shed that dreadful black. He also wondered where she was traveling. If she too was going to New York and which fine families of his acquaintance there could make a formal introduction for him.

Great disappointment welled in his chest when she stood and left the train. It certainly would not do for him to inquire where the Widow Hopkins was going … but something inside of Morgan Bower told him that one day he would again cross paths with the lovely woman … hopefully once her acceptable mourning period had passed and he could make his chivalrous and ardent approach.

***

Less than two hours after boarding the train, the Widow Hopkins walked a massive, beautiful station in a city he didn’t know. It was a lot like changing planes in Dallas/Fort Worth or at LAX … except that there were no monitors at every turn, no shuttles or moving walkways … and no rush. Crowds moved at a leisurely pace and she flowed with them.

She had not permitted herself to be too shaken by the man on the train. Determined to maintain the haughty arrogance of a wealthy widow, she refused the assistance of a porter and carried her heavy carpet bag as she walked. The station wasn’t big on signs and she suddenly became concerned she’d miss her connecting train. She walked up to a window and stood, awaiting a respectful response from the young man behind the silly bars. He looked like a spider monkey in a cage, small and overly thin, his nervous movements wiry and his fingers longer than normal. His dark sparrow eyes shot up to her once, twice then finally a third time and the Widow Hopkins smiled sweetly.

“Young man, I do understand that you are preoccupied at the moment, but I wonder if you would take a moment to direct me.”

He gave a dramatic harrumph then slid aside his stack of paperwork, eyed her with a nasty glare and Carrie almost burst out with laughter. He was no different than any other obnoxious, self-important clerk she’d ever met in her own century. He waited and she composed herself.

“I am looking for the train to Uniontown.”

His eyes dropped to his original task and again his fingers flipped through a stack of papers. “Platform six, just as it always has been,” he huffed.

Oh, this was too much fun. She could have simply thanked him and left for the platform, the door to which was not more than ten feet away. But instead, she stifled her grin. “And, if I may inquire …” his beady eyes rifled again to her face and she smiled sweetly. “What time is the train expected?” She even added a few flirtatious flutters of her lashes.

He glanced at his watch, his expression slowly softened and his narrow, sunken chest actually seemed to inflate. A smile crawled across his gaunt face and he audibly sighed like a puppy dog. “Ten minutes … ma’am … would you,” he swallowed hard, “would you … would you like me to escort you, ma’am?”

“Why of course not! Young man, how blatantly inappropriate!” and she turned away, leaving the kid blinking in despair and confusion. Carrie was having fun, but she mentally reprimanded the Widow Hopkins to start playing her part a little more diligently. After all, there could be a man like that one on the train who might recognize her there. The last thing she wanted was to call attention to herself, to be discovered, sent back to the Club and forced to live out her life behind those walls. There was an entire world to explore, a world steeped in an era she loved so much. A normal world without the slavery she’d face inside the Club. She had to be more careful.

The travel was comfortable and silent, her clear separation from the other travelers easy to maintain as long as she held her curiosity at bay. No one approached her and she was careful not to make eye contact. She displayed a blank, empty expression. That wasn’t so hard as she had already washed her mind clear, refusing to let the smallest fear grip her over being spotted earlier. Too dangerous, way too dangerous. She sipped strong coffee for hours and remained apart until finally the Uniontown station was called.

Stiffness plagued her and there were aches she knew had nothing to do with sitting for so long. It wasn’t until she left the train and stood on the station’s wooden platform among her trunks and carpetbag that she began to wonder about her physical body.

Memory played with duality, mixing her mind like a margarita in a blender. What she recalled from her last night at the Club that ugly winter a hundred years in the future, and the miseries of her body that day at the station did not jibe.

Her last night at the Magnolia Men’s Club was that of bondage and an extreme oral nature. Only two times had a cock pushed roughly inside of her below her mouth, and she clearly remembered forcing herself to throw up several times when she dressed to leave in an attempt to purge the semen of several members from her stomach. They’d pulled hard on her hair and her wrists were rubbed raw from the tight ropes. Carrie, standing alone on the platform, slowly pulled the black lace cuff of her sleeve to examine her wrist; nothing but the ugly little ‘infinity’ brand, the scar a little red and irritated from the rough fabric. No other marks, no chafing. No bruising.

No, the discomfort her body was experiencing that early evening as the soft sun dipped toward the hilly horizon was different … but not unfamiliar. It seemed many men had used her before the Matron had sent her away. Her vagina throbbed with stretching mellow misery as did her irritated rectum. Oh hell yeah, they’d been rough, her aches testified to that. But it wasn’t anything new to Carrie … the beauty of it was that it was over. She let herself face the fact that she may wake up in the morning in her other world and time … but it was over. She’d never again go to the Club. Never.

The Widow Hopkins sighed and waved a handkerchief at her heated, flushed face. Even moving toward evening, the air was hot, unmoving. The overabundance of dark, heat-holding clothing added to it all. The pins in her nipple and the lip of her sex were only in the front of her mind because the heat and movement of walking and carrying the bag had drawn the coiling chain connecting them taut beneath her boned corset. Every deep breath, every slight movement pulled erotically at both rings. She was too tired and too frustrated with the tight clothing and pinching shoes to enjoy such stimulation. She looked around and groaned quietly, considered moving to sit on a bench.

“Widow Hopkins! Mrs. Hopkins!”

She turned to see a sharply dressed yet fairly disheveled young man trotting toward her. His face too was red and sweating, his hair was a thick, wavy shock of bright yellow and his eyes glowed a pale blue. His smile was brilliant and she found herself unintentionally returning it.

“Mrs. Hopkins, I presume?” He grunted, gasped several breaths and grinned wider when she nodded. “I am Mr. Fulton Meyers … your lawyer … remember?”

She again nodded. It wasn’t the lawyer she’d forgotten about; it was the amazing impact of interaction with someone of the time. He was appropriate, he was sweet and young and blushing … and he was breathing. Alive. Why was this the first time she realized that she was actually there? Actually living her dream? She cleared her throat.

“Forgive me, Mr. Meyers … it has been a difficult …”