It was with some effort that he reminded himself that his visit was not wholly one of pleasure and relaxation; that the outcome of no less than three of the cases he had left behind in London depended, to greater or lesser extent, on a successful conclusion to this visit.
First, there was the former army officer who had buried three wives while stationed in Kashmir, but was now convinced that one of them was still alive today – he had pledged a handsome sum if only Horne could find out which. Second, there was the publisher who was paying Horne handsomely to procure the mythic final chapters of the Kama Sutra, by fair means or foul. And, finally, there was Alexander Goffman, the recent heir to a pottery fortune, who would happily surrender every penny of it if it would guarantee the return of his supposedly purloined penis. Horne was confident that he would triumph in all three investigations. India had many mysteries, but she also had many solutions. It was just a matter of knowing where to look for them; and now to take advantage of every other possibility that might present itself while he searched.
White men were no novelty in India. Even when Horne’s journeys took him deep into the heartland, it was in the footsteps of one army unit or another, while the cities were positively teeming with British accents of one description or another. Nevertheless, Horne could barely leave his lodgings without immediately attracting a coterie of giggling girls, and not even a half of them were the whores who awaited every fresh boatload of wealthy Europeans with open arms and legs.
He chose carefully, and walked now with Padmaja, a woman who had, as it transpired, spent almost as long in England, where her wealthy parents sent her to be educated, as she had in her homeland. Horne met her at the shipping office where she worked, and which he visited every day to pick up any telegraphs and messages that may have arrived. She seemed to take pity on him when a week elapsed without either; and, while Horne regarded that silence as a good thing, he was not about to relinquish the sympathy it elicited. Besides, one of Padmaja’s uncles, a book collector of no mean repute, was among the gentlemen to whom Horne was most anxious to be introduced.
Arm-in-arm, they entered Horne’s rooms and she crossed to the table, where he’d arranged the items he’d picked up in the marketplace earlier. Smilingly, Padmaja picked up one of the oils. ‘Saffron? You may have no friends, but you are a man of taste,’ she teased. Another of the tiny bottles emitted the thick air of lavender, so powerful that Horne could smell it from the other side of the room, where he sat watching her. She tipped the bottle and allowed a couple of drops to fall into her palm; then, slipping a hand between the folds of her sari, massaged them into her stomach.
Horne rose now and walked over to her, slipped the light garment off her shoulders and, with his own hands slick with the oil, commenced rubbing its warmth into her shoulders, back and arms. She turned, and now his hands were at her breasts, her nipples sliding between his slick, gentle fingertips as he traced light circles around the coronas.
He kissed her neck, parting the dense curtain of black hair that cascaded to the small of her back, while his hands slipped to her waist. Padmaja relaxed into his embrace, coiled her own arms back and around him, to hold him closer against her; then, flexing her wrist, she slapped him hard on one buttock. He was still nuzzling her neck; she slapped him again, then twisted around to face him. Her hands dropped to his waistband, unbuttoned his trousers and then knelt to pull them to the ground. The first stirrings of Horne’s erection swung out to greet her, but she ignored it; stood again, then allowed her eyes to roam around the room.
They settled on the chest of drawers. ‘Fetch me the hairbrush,’ she whispered. Horne, stepping out of the trousers that lay crumpled at his feet, obeyed; he handed her the hard wooden brush, then resumed his embrace. Behind his back, he could feel the breeze as Padmaja swung the brush through the air, flexing her wrist muscles, judging its weight. Horne’s hands were on her shoulders once more, smooth and strong, but it was her strength that would be demonstrated tonight.
‘Lie down,’ she commanded.
Horne obeyed, spreading himself face down on the cool silk bedding. Laying the brush beside her for a moment, Padmaja uncorked one of the other bottles and let its contents drip across his back and behind. The conjoined aroma of cloves and oranges filled his nostrils, then he winced as she allowed her fingernails to rake where their tips had merely massaged. Her mouth was at his ear, nibbling the lobe, while her tongue darted in and out. He heard her whisper, ‘Are you ready?’ and he murmured a soft reply.
She slid one hand beneath him, cradling his testicles in a palm that was still slick with oil. Horne felt a light tingling in his flesh as the liquid soaked in a deep warmth that seemed to radiate through the lower half of his torso. He groaned slightly, and Padmaja offered him a gentle squeeze in reply.
The first blow shocked him more than it stung, at least initially. In his mind, he tried to picture the girl’s face as she smacked him. She was beautiful in that serene, ethereal way that so many Indian girls are, but there was a cruelty in her eyes even when she was at work, and it was that which had prompted Horne to seek her out, before any of the other women who pursued him through the city.
But cruelty was the wrong word. It was a fierce independence that he recognised there, the same qualities, he imagined, that had seen her reach her mid-20s without even the threat of marriage to cloud her proud dignity. She reminded him of a woman he had known a decade before, during his last visit to India. He was barely 18 at the time, she was already into her 30s, unmarried and proud of it.
Her lovers were many, but she took a fancy to Horne, even though she had never so much as smiled at an Englishman before; a fancy that was fanned into the torrid romance which initiated him into such pleasures that, sometimes, he wondered why he had ever returned to England.
She had enjoyed beating him as well.
The smacking continued. Horne knew, from past experience, not to count the blows; to relax, instead, into the pain, as though it were a pleasure of equal intensity. Padmaja understood this, too; that was why her strokes were so regular, and why she accompanied them with soft singing, crooning a melody that was almost nursery-rhyme like in its simplicity, but wholly native as well.
She sang, of course, in Sanskrit, but an archaic form that Horne had read, but never heard verbalised. Her ballad, too, was unfamiliar, although it was clearly ancient, the epic tale of a young maiden, Kamala, who sets out through the jungle to meet her husband-to-be for the first time, a journey of several days and nights.
At every landmark she passed, a different Hindu deity awaited her, each one offering her a greater treasure, in exchange for her maidenhead. Of course she refused each one, and so they threatened to kill her, unless she agreed to satisfy their lust in some other way. Kamala gave her assent, demanding only that her assailant be blindfolded, so that no eyes might ever witness her degradation.
The gods agreed, and so Kamala passed through a series of increasingly intimate challenges, by means of an equal number of ever-more ingenious tricks and deceptions.
Vagh, the tiger god, demanded that she masturbate him to climax. While he waited behind his blindfold, Kamala lashed together a pair of tree limbs, draped the bark in soft, pliable leaves, then set them to flick back and forth across his erect organ, while she made her escape.
Moghra, the crocodile god, insisted she fellate him. Kamala guided his scaly penis into the mouth of a giant flytrap plant, whose jaws pulled and sucked at its swollen mouthful. And Nag, the snake god, wished to lick at her virginity. She left him performing cunnilingus on a sap-soaked slit in a tree trunk.
Finally, however, Kamala was confronted by Ganesha, the elephant god, who offered no reward, and would not take no for an answer, though he knew his great organ would split her in two. But he allowed her a few minutes to herself, so that she might recommend her spirit to the care of the Heavens; minutes during which she procured a massive, thick plant leaf, and spread it just beneath the surface of a nearby swamp. Then
Kamala guided the blindfolded monster towards it, assuring him her maidenhead was just inches away.
Ganesha lunged and trumpeted triumphantly, as what he believed was her hymen first bowed, then split and sundered; then his next thrust sent him tumbling headfirst into the swamp, from whence only the length and strength of his trunk was able to pull him to safety. And, when Kamala finally arrived at her fiancé’s village, it was to discover the entire place in uproar, and each of the gods awaiting her, to announce that the marriage would not be taking place. Her husband-to-be, they said, was a dull man, who would chain her body and stifle her mind. Instead, Kamala was free to wed whomever she liked, and to take all the lovers she cared to.
His mind lost in the beauty and intricacy of the poem, Horne’s body, too, had floated away from the rhythmic whacks that still fell on his buttocks, the pain merging into the cadences of Padmaja’s sweet voice. It returned only as she finally ceased her singing, and bent, instead, to apply fresh oil to the scarlet flesh, one whose contact only increased the sting, before its balming properties began to soak in and replaced raw fire with the feel of warm fur.
He flipped over, wincing a little as his weight pressed down on his soreness, but took the girl in his arms regardless, conscious now of the massive erection that he pressed into her belly. Her own hand had never left his balls, had caressed and squeezed them the entire poem long and, as the feeling returned to his bruised behind, so the longing to possess her grew stronger in his loins.
Padmaja read his mind, and gently shook her head. Instead, she pulled her body up his, so that her moistness lay heavy on his stomach, and her breasts hung bewitchingly over his face.
He kissed around them, tasting her sweat through the lavender perfume, teasing as his tongue flickered so close to her nipples that she could feel his breath, but not so close that he touched them. Her eyes closed and Horne rose and rolled her over, pinning her arms to the bed with his hands, while his kisses slipped down her torso to her midriff, then he traced his tongue even further, until he could feel the curls of her pubic hair on his forehead, and his nostrils twitched to the scent of her arousal.
He glanced up at her. Her eyes remained closed and her mouth was slightly open, her lips moist. He moved up and kissed her hard, his tongue parting her lips. One hand caressed her shoulder – with the other, he rubbed his glans, feeling the moisture that had long ago started gathering there. Smearing his forefinger and thumb, he broke the kiss and placed them beneath her nose, so that she might breathe in his essence.
Padmaja opened her eyes and watched as he removed his hand, placed the fingers in his mouth and gently sucked. Then it returned to his swollen acorn once more, but this time, once he’d finished his caresses, she reached out to pull his hand to her own mouth. He permitted her that pleasure, but only for a brief, tantalizing moment. Then he moved away, back to layer his soft kisses over her stomach.
He brushed the fringe of her pubic hairs, allowed his mouth to linger there, enjoying the sensation of the tight, coarse curls. He ran a fingertip across her labia lips, barely touching, but aware that she was now so aroused that the lightest pressure was igniting every nerve-end. Her body tensed as he neared her clitoris – in his mind’s eye, Horne could see it standing erect, begging him to stroke it, rub it, suck on it.
Instead, he nuzzled one thigh, then took her hand and gently kissed each fingertip, enclosing them, one by one, in his mouth, and sucking firmly but gently. First one hand, then the other. Padmaja’s hand was on his shaft now, gently pumping him. It was slick with moisture; crouching over her face, he lowered himself towards her mouth. As her head moved forward to accept it, however, he moved back, just swiping the very tip against her lips.
Now it was his turn to command. ‘Not yet,’ he whispered. ‘Just watch.’ He jerked himself slowly, pulling the foreskin back as far as he could and again, placed the swollen crest against her lips. Her tongue flicked out to meet it; her mouth opened wide to take it. For a moment, her lips closed silkily over the glans, but Horne moved away again, straightened up and reached behind him to touch her sex, tracing one finger up and down the slit, pushing in slightly to feel her sucking him in. Her breath was coming in short gasps, her hands were running down his body, grasping his cock, pulling hard. He knew he wouldn't be able to hold on much longer.
He froze and whispered hoarsely. ‘Where do you want it?’
‘Wherever you want.’ Padmaja’s voice, too, was low, strangely husky.
‘No, where do you want it? Tell me.’
Her eyes gave away her indecision. Her entire body was aching for him. He rubbed himself against her mouth, saw the thin streams of pre-come clinging to her lips, and her tongue chase his cock as it slipped across her chin.
‘Right where you are. Now.’ Her hands were on her breasts, drawing them up to envelop his shaft, massaging him between those warm, fleshy orbs. Then, as he came, she angled him upwards, so his cream fountained across her breasts, pooled in her cleavage and clung to her nipples, as her own body suddenly tightened and tensed. Then she shuddered, and let out a cry of absolute ecstasy.
They collapsed into one another’s arms, and slept.
* * *
‘Is Ambrose Horne a sex maniac?’ Lady H_____ threw her head back and laughed, for the first time since that awkward interview with the unfortunate Mr Goffman. She was seated in the same room, but her company now was somewhat more convivial – her dear friend Bessie, who visibly flinched from the gale of hilarity that her question had provoked.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then,’ Bessie smiled.
‘My dear, Ambrose is a sex maniac in the same way that Mr Harry Allen is a football maniac.’ Lady H______ wiped tears from her eyes. ‘He is simply one of those rare men whose luck in life allows them to combine their hobby with their livelihood’ – Harold ‘Harry’ Allen had just scored the winning goal in the football Cup Final, an accomplishment that rendered him at least as immortal in that world, as Horne was in his.
Bessie shuddered. ‘And you do not object to sharing him with ... with all those other women?’
‘Not at all,’ Lady H_____ replied, ‘anymore than Mrs Allen, should there be such a lady, objects to sharing her husband with his team-mates and their supporters. Besides, I can hardly demand fidelity in my situation, can I?’ For almost two decades, since she turned 18, Lady H_____ had been wed to the man who gave her the aristocratic title that she wore so well. But, though they had long ago transformed a marriage of convenience (he was old, her family were ambitious) to their own advantage, sexually and socially, neither would even dream of divorce. He lived his life, most recently in Ireland where he was Lord of half a county; she lived hers, here in Kensington.
Bessie shook her head. ‘I suppose not. But what bad luck, all the same, falling for a man who himself falls for every pretty lady he espies.’
‘Yes, almost as terrible as falling for one who feels the same way about men,’ Lady H_____ snapped, a trifle more waspishly than she had intended; but really, Bessie had asked for it. Her own first husband, a foppish young thing with a name to match (who on earth would name their son Marmaduke?) had abandoned her after mere weeks of marriage, to travel to Europe with an old ‘schoolfriend’. The two men were last seen, by a reliable witness, holding hands in one of those Parisian nightclubs that catered for such tastes.
Bessie brushed away the slight. ‘Thank goodness he did. Otherwise, I’d not have met Randolph – or, maybe I would have, but I doubt I’d enjoy the same luxuries as you, with an absentee husband and a discreet, loyal household.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Lady H_____ chuckled. ‘Sometimes, I think the only reason my staff stay with me for so long is because they’re afraid they’ll miss something if they leave. And because they regard me as some kind of good luck charm in the matter of their own relationships. You would not believe what Polly asked me a few days ago. Especially because, at her age, one would have thought she’d have worked it out by now. She can’t
be more than a few years younger than you or I.’
‘I certainly won’t believe it if you don’t tell me,’ Bessie smiled. ‘Come on, spit it out.’
‘Exactly!’ Lady H_____ whooped once more with laughter. ‘“Please ma’am”’ – she dropped into an intonation-perfect impression of the chambermaid’s country accent. ‘“What’s more lady-like, to spit or to swallow?”’
Bessie looked at her uncomprehendingly; it was some seconds before realisation dawned across her face, a flush that was part-embarrassment, part-shock and, although she would never have admitted as much, part-curiosity. Instead, she raised her teacup to her mouth and took a long draught.
Lady H_____ watched her, enjoying the woman’s discomfort. ‘I told her it depended upon the circumstances. And upon the man, although I’m assuming she was referring to her husband. When one has a married couple living under one’s roof, the last thing one needs is discord and distrust between them.’
Bessie had, at last, composed herself sufficiently to speak. ‘And then?’
‘I told her, if she’d never tried it before – or even if she had and didn’t like it, but wanted to give her lover a very special treat, her best approach would be surprise. She should not say anything beforehand, she should not make it into a grand production, either for him or for herself. Simply go to him in the night, when the lights are out and the room is dark. She should enjoy him in her customary manner, but after he climaxes, give him one lingering, loving suck, and catch the final few drops of his juices on her tongue. Then she should move up and kiss him with all the passion she can muster, so that he might taste as much of them as she has.
The Erotic Return of Ambrose Horne Page 2