The Caskian Scandal
The sisters Geggelkek are half-goblin, half-human, and totally horny. Behind the respectable facade of their stately home in the midst of the Yorkshire moors, they will go to any lengths to find hot young studs to satisfy their green-blooded lust, even if they have to build the men from scratch or teleport themselves to the ends of the earth to seek them out. This is a shocking and lurid tale of sex, perversion and blasphemy, told by a man driven to the brink of madness by his secret knowledge. If you dare read more, you'll find "The Caskian Scandal" to be steam-goth fiction at its finest.
Mister Caspinger was lying on a table, stark naked—well, almost stark naked. He had his socks and slippers on, but that was it. And the table on which he lay was a very strange one, consisting of ten hinged panels of reddish gold metal, with telescoping tubes forming a railing around the sides, and four thicker tubes for legs. Attached to the railing were multi-hinged arms with pivoting ball joints at either end, and mounted at the front of each arm was a metal housing shaped like a nymph’s head with an open mouth containing a pink tongue made from some pliant material similar to sponge rubber.
As a small motor beneath the table purred and the gears whirred, the heads roamed over Mister Caspinger’s body, licking his skin, inducing an endless stream of giggles. But they were mirthless giggles tinged with terror, because there was one more arm, at the far end of the table, and attached to it was the head of a demon, and protruding from the gaping mouth was no soft tongue, but a spinning drill bit. And the arm was slowly unfolding, extending itself, bringing the demon ever closer to Mister Caspinger’s crotch.
Understandably, the old man did not wish to remain on the table, but metal bands bound his limbs, digging into his flesh as he twisted and squirmed and arched his back in a desperate bid for freedom. His exertions were duly registered by a disk, about the size of a half-crown, which was taped to his chest, with a thin, coiled black wire in the middle of it, leading to a small box on the side of the table. The sound of the old man’s heartbeat issued from a speaker atop the box, and the mechanical heads all moved in sync with the beat—including the demon head, which inched nearer to its prey with every thump.
You might expect such a bizarre scene to play out within the confines of a damp-walled dungeon in the bowels of some castle, or a detainment camp ringed by barbed wire and guard towers. But this lurid scene took place within the attic of Caskian Manor in the heart of the respectable Yorkshire countryside, and it was the first thing Elexabith, Jemafer and Chack saw as they came tumbling through the jigsaw window.
For a few seconds they just sat there on the floor, gaping at the table, which glistened in the swirling blue-and-white light pouring from the window. Then Elexabith snapped out of it, saying, “What the hell is that?”
“It’s a table,” Mister Caspinger rasped. “What the hell does it look like?”
Elexabith and her two companions got to their feet and warily approached the contraption.
“How did it get here?” Jemafer said.
“What difference does it make?” the old man snarled. “It’s going to kill me in about five minutes, by my calculations, if someone doesn’t do something quick!”
Chack came closer. “Maybe I can help.”
For a split second Mister Caspinger didn’t understand the stranger’s words, until the sisters’ lingomnia kicked in. Then he nodded and said, “I’d be most appreciative, young man. Are you Thatchan Tane?”
“Who?” Chack said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Elexabith said. “I’m forgetting my manners. Mister Caspinger, this is Chack Wegg. He’s not from Sylvarnia, he’s from Grimehouse, which is . . . somewhere else. Chack, this is Mister Caspinger. He lives with us here at Caskian Manor in Yorkshire, which isn’t anywhere near Sylvarnia either.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Chack said.
“Likewise,” Mister Caspinger said. “But could we please dispense with any further formalities until you’ve shut off this damn gizmo?”
“Gladly, sir,” Chack said. “Where’s the power switch?”
“Damned if I know.”
As Chack began walking around the table, hunched over, his eyes seeking the switch, the old man turned back to the sisters and muttered, “Why is he wearing a toy elephant on his head?”
“Long story,” Jemafer said.
Chack straightened up. “Well at first glance I can’t see any mechanism for disrupting this machine’s activities, so perhaps I should focus on freeing you from the restraints.”
“Please do,” Mister Caspinger said.
Chack reached into his bag and removed a tool that resembled a tuning fork/mini-eggbeater. He touched the fork part to one of the wrist restraints and said, “Five, one and two, clasp undo.”
“Extraordinary,” he muttered. “A tang-less magneto-clasp with no visible release mechanism.”