‘Oh my God, what was that?’ Lady H_____’s expression was one of absolute bewilderment, stirred up with uncomprehending ecstasy. ‘I’ve never ...’
‘I don’t quite understand the mechanics of it myself,’ Horne said thoughtfully. ‘I like to call it Female Ejaculation, and it isn’t as rare as you might think. Once a girl understands how to control it, she can do it almost at will.’ And, with those words, his prick, too, spurted. But his spray could never compete with Lady H_____’s, barely even making it past his knees. ‘Well, you won that bout,’ he conceded. ‘But the night is still young, and there are many more contests to be held before morning.’ And he surrendered himself, at last, to the total embrace of uncluttered lust, falling to his knees before the still shell-shocked Lady H_____, and lapping the succulent juices that dripped now from her vagina and cascaded over her thighs.
Horne arranged to meet Longfellow at his club in the centre of London; arranged, too, for the two men to be sequestered away in a private room at the back of the establishment. Furnished with its own well-maintained bar, it was a room that Horne himself knew well – no less than Longfellow’s study, he was certain that a careful examination of the furnishings would reveal the tell-tale stains where Horne’s passion, too, had overflowed within these tasteful walls.
Tonight, however, his purpose was strictly business. And a very delicate business at that. Even with a lifetime’s experience in such matters, Horne had no idea how he was going to broach the subject he wished to discuss with a man who, from their brief acquaintance so far, seemed obsessed with the need to deny that he even had relations with his wife, let alone divulge the most intimate details of their love-making.
Nevertheless, if the mystery was to be solved, Horne had to try. Arriving a few minutes before the appointed time, he scattered the imposing mahogany conference table with a handful of newly-purchased booklets, the same tawdry pseudo-scientific pornography that he’d mentioned to Lady H_____ that was sold, wrapped in cheap brown paper and sight unseen, to lonely little onanists in the alleyways of Soho.
Graphically worded and, in as much as pen and ink can fulfil that description, luridly illustrated with expositions on sexuality in all of its glorious combinations, Horne himself had no reason to read such publications – although he had, in fact, written several of them. But he began leafing through one, ready to lay it down as Longfellow walked in, glanced at Horne’s reading matter, and remark in his most outraged tone, ‘I know this room is for private functions, but surely there are some functions that should be kept completely private?’
Longfellow looked at the booklet title. ‘The Lingering Lure of Cunnilingus. Well, at least the owner had good taste.’ He smiled and saw Longfellow, despite himself, relax into the spirit of the pun. Clearly feeling a little more at ease, Longfellow picked up another of the titles that Horne had carefully scattered on the tabletop. ‘A Gentleman’s Guide To The Serviceman’s Entrance. Esoteric, too.’
The ice was broken and, with their brandy glasses seldom far from their lips, and the bottle close-by for regular refills, the two men chatted light-heartedly for close to half an hour, a pair of friends comparing past conquests, bemoaning lost opportunities, relating special pleasures.
It was, Horne mused, going a great deal easier than he had ever expected. A volume on Modern Perversions For The Modern Bon-Vivant permitted them both the opportunity to discuss their most secret pleasures; a tract entitled Silent Observations Of The Ladies Of Lesbos prompted Longfellow to relate an especially ribald anecdote, concerning the only night of his entire life when his ten-inch penis became the object of so much snickering scorn that he wished it would disappear inside him. ‘I thought I could convert the poor, misguided beauty,’ Longfellow sighed. ‘Instead, she almost converted me.’
He reached out for another booklet and, finally, his hand closed around the one that Horne had been waiting for him to locate: Female Ejaculation: Myth or Magic?
‘Magic,’ Longfellow blurted out. ‘Sheer magic. But, if I’d not experienced it with my own senses, I’m sure I’d agree it’s a myth.’
Horne clapped him on the back. ‘My God, man. Do you mean to tell me it’s true? That the fair sex really can ...?’
‘They can and they do,’ Longfellow assured him. ‘And they love every minute of it and so do I.’ Then he launched into a detailed, if blindingly unscientific, accounting of how ‘a lovely of my very close acquaintance’ had not simply mastered the art of ‘the sensual squirt ... that’s how I like to refer to it,’ but had actually perfected it beyond his wildest imaginings. ‘From our bed, I swear, she can hit the wall,’ boasted Longfellow and, at last, Horne could pounce.
‘And from the chaise-longues in your study, she could easily hit the desk. Which, I’m sorry to say, is precisely what she did do, that afternoon when your most precious stamps were destroyed. While you, I’d imagine, were busy elsewhere, with your back, perhaps, to the regions in question, your vandal, in fact, was your own wife’s vagina.’
A look of rigid shock froze Longfellow’s face for a moment, to be succeeded by a momentary flash of anger, before his features finally resolved themselves into a delighted grin and a ribald laugh. ‘That is incredible! Have you ever heard of such a thing? While I was imagining the felon to be the basest object of hatred in the world, it was in fact the heavenly haunt that I love more than life itself.’
His guffaws finally subsided. ‘And now I find that it matters little to me. The insurance people have already paid up ... the threat of losing my account was too great for them to risk. And, to be honest, I was tiring of the collecting pursuit anyway. So what if a few rare stamps are now even rarer than they were. Such scarcity will merely add to the thrill of the hunt for future generations. And I will put away my albums for a few decades more, and return to philately only when I tire of fellatio.’
Horne poured the last of the brandy into Longfellow’s glass, and proposed a final toast. ‘Then may your tweezers and hinges remain idle forever.’
The Strange Case of the Midnight Succubus
Lennox wasn’t certain what woke him, whether it was the cold press of metal against his wrists and ankles, or the icicle click as the locks engaged and he found himself pinioned to the bed frame.
He did not struggle. This had happened too many nights in the past for him to even dream of escape. Rather, he simply closed his eyes and lay back as a soft, moist warmth enveloped his cock, coaxing it to an erection, and then riding it fast and efficiently towards his inevitable orgasm. Only then did he open his eyes to gaze upon the so-beloved face that smiled down at him, and, whispering through exhausted pants, spoke the same words he uttered every time this happened. ‘But you’re dead. Darling, you are dead.’
And then the vision would flicker and fade, and he was left alone in the darkness, to sleep in the knowledge that he would not be disturbed again. Not tonight, anyway.
His thumb and forefinger lightly tweaking the crystal nipple of the breast-shaped paperweight on his desk (a gift from a grateful bishop, following that nasty business at the Rectory), Ambrose Horne gazed directly into the eyes of the man seated opposite him and, for the first time in ten minutes, he spoke.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Lennox, but my answer to you this evening is exactly the same as my answer when you came to see me three days ago. What you need is a Psychic Investigator, or even a priest. I certainly don’t see how I can help you.’
‘You have to help me. I can pay handsomely.’
‘I’m sure you can. But the events you describe, while I acknowledge once again that they constitute an especially perplexing mystery, take place upon a plane that even I have precious little experience of. Neither, so far as I can ascertain, has any crime been committed, and that, my dear sir, is the determining factor. There are enough natural mysteries in this world that a man could spend his life attempting to solve them – and many do. I prefer to devote my time to the unnatural mysteries.’
Lennox rose from his seat, his
eyes flashing angrily. ‘And you do not consider my plight to be unnatural?’
The eminent detective remained unruffled by his visitor’s display of emotion; had, in fact, purposefully invited it. ‘No, I consider it supernatural. And there, I’m afraid, this interview must come to a close.’ Stepping around his desk, the detective shook the still-furious Lennox’s hand, and ushered him to the door. ‘I do hope you find some kind of resolution, I truly do. But I’m afraid that I am not the solution you so desperately seek, and I really must insist that you refrain from calling upon me again.’
It was only as the door closed behind the wretched Lennox that Horne allowed the features of his face to relax from the sternly apologetic expression into which he had set them half an hour earlier, and smiled to himself. Although Lennox did not realise it – which meant, in turn, that not one of Lennox’s friends or acquaintances would discover it – Ambrose Horne not only believed himself to be precisely the answer to Lennox’s plight, he felt he was the only solution. And, again unbeknownst to his hapless supplicant, he had already started applying that solution to the problem.
On the face of it, Horne mused as he doodled at his desk ... the armies of crudely sketched penises, breasts and buttocks with which his mind always relaxed itself ... Lennox’s dilemma was little more than a psychic riddle. At least three nights a week, every week for the past three years, Lennox found himself helplessly spread-eagled on his back while his wife, his long dead wife, solemnly mounted the cock she had manipulated to the point of fiercest arousal, and then ruthlessly fucked him to a shattering climax.
That part of Lennox’s story, Horne understood; and that part, as he told the man, did indeed require the attentions of either a priest or a Psychic Investigator. In his, Horne’s, own reckoning, the ancient legends of the male and female demons that sought out carnal relations with helpless mortals invariably disguised yearnings within the mortals’ own subconscious, that they would not, or could not, enact in the course of a normal relationship.
Indeed, although such hauntings were somewhat rarer than a certain strain of popular gentlemen’s magazine might have one believe ... in their pages, after all, the world of Victorian Britain appeared to be teeming with such occurrences ... Horne himself knew of three recent cases where either an Incubus (the male demon) or a Succubus (the female), had proven so troublesome that only Exorcism had driven it away. But he was also aware of a dozen more where the tormented victim had cured himself (in these instances, it was always a ‘him’) with a vigorous bout of bedtime masturbation.
There was more, however, to Lennox’s tale than simply the disturbing manifestation of a deep-seated frustration, or even the recounting of a lurid fantasy. For, while his nights were haunted by the wife he would never hold again, his days were equally disturbed by the children she would never conceive.
And that was where Horne found himself becoming interested, as Lennox relayed first the surprise, then the shock, and now the all-consuming horror of walking through his hometown of R______, and meeting child after child, babies and toddlers that could have been his own.
The same shock of ginger hair, the same distinctively flared nostrils, the same half-collapsed chin, the same egg-timer birthmark. ‘I’ll admit it myself, Mr Horne,’ Lennox sighed on their first meeting. ‘I’m not one of Mother Nature’s most picturesque oil paintings. But I am certainly one of her most distinctive. And every one of those children, a dozen at least, could pass for my younger self in a heartbeat.’ Horne was hooked there and then.
The following day, Horne took the railway to the bewildered Lennox’s town, to ascertain the extent of the phenomenon for himself. He was staggered by what he discovered. He had imagined spending the day walking from baby carriage to baby carriage, surreptitiously peeping in to examine the countenance of its squawking occupant (babies always squawked when they saw Ambrose Horne, one riddle that he’d long given up attempting to solve). Instead, the first child he saw as he left the station was exactly as Lennox had described. And the second, and the fifth. He counted one pair of twins, two strapping walkers, and even a couple of girls. Horne had planned on remaining in the town all day. Instead, he found himself journeying home after just a couple of hours, his mind aflame with the baffling mystery of it all.
Two days after that journey, his thoughts continued to churn as he worried at the riddle. Even his doodles were growing smaller, as they always did when he was perplexed, and the irritating reminder provided by Lennox’s unexpected visit had reduced them even further, until even a gnat would be embarrassed by the minuscule pricks that his pen was distractedly sketching. There was only one thing for it. He would return to R______ tonight. Reaching for the travelling bag that he always kept by his side, Horne stepped out onto the gas-lit streets of Belgravia, and hailed a hansom cab.
He arrived at Victoria Station just as the train was steaming up to pull away, raced through the ticket barrier and, as he found his way breathlessly to a seat, realised that it was luck, rather than the calm judgement that normally guided his actions, that placed him just eight rows of seats behind Lennox – close enough to observe the man, but far enough behind that he need not fear detection. Arriving in R______, however, Horne was careful to disassociate himself from his quarry altogether, waiting in the ticket office while Lennox strode away in one direction, and then taking another direction entirely. By the time Lennox arrived at the comfortable, if unremarkable, rooms he rented on the ground floor of a neat house on a quiet, tree-lined avenue, Horne had already conducted his own survey of the building, both inside and out. And, although he found nothing whatsoever in the way of evidence, he knew that sometimes, it’s what one doesn’t find that makes all the difference.
His next destination was the local police station. Close to a decade before, Horne had undertaken certain delicate investigations for a rising young officer who, professing his undying thanks, had insisted that if there ever came a time when he could return the favour ... At the time, and for so many years after, the pledge had remained unfulfilled. But Horne had watched the officer’s rise up the ranks of the Constabulary; had sent a congratulatory telegram as every successive promotion was recorded in the Police Gazette; and another when the man was granted his first Inspectorate, here in R______.
Inspector Grant was just preparing to go home for the night when Horne appeared at the station, but gladly removed his coat and sat down at the detective’s bidding. His personal acquaintance with Horne notwithstanding, Grant was well aware of Horne’s renown in the corridors of British Law; knew as well as any man in the force that, when Horne requested the police’s attention, it would serve them well to listen.
But what Horne asked him to do that evening left Grant wondering if the world-famous sleuth had lost his mind. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Horne, but there is no way that I can arrest an innocent man, and hold him without charge until you tell me otherwise.’
‘Why-ever not?’ Horne resisted the temptation to add the rejoinder that initially sprang to his lips, ‘The police do it all the time ...’ This was not the time to agitate the man. ‘I do not think of it as an arrest, so much as taking him into protective custody. And I think you will find that Lennox himself will agree wholeheartedly with my methods, once this is all over.’
‘Once what is all over?’ Grant asked suspiciously, but Horne merely tapped his nose with his forefinger. ‘All in the fullness of time. Now, I will return tomorrow for your considered response and, in the meantime, I must ask whether there might happen to be any ... shall we say convivial ... hostelries in the neighbourhood where a weary traveller might rest for the night?’
‘Hostelries, there are many. Truly convivial, on the other hand ... there is but one.’ Grant scribbled the address on one of his own visiting cards, and handed it to Horne. ‘Present this at the desk and tell them I sent you. If I recall your pleasures as well as I think I do, you should find everything there to your liking.’
Horne took his leave, made his way to the addres
s on the card and, having negotiated a very fair price with the jovial concierge, he had to admit that Grant’s recommendation had not let him down. Neither did the girl between whose silken thighs he now crouched, his tongue tracing ever-more teasing circles around her engorged clitoris, while her soft moans sounded symphonies in his ears.
She tasted heavenly to him; they had fucked twice already, but the moment he felt the first tingle of their conjoined juices on his lips, savoured their bittersweet musk on his gums, and drew their thick stickiness into his throat, he knew that they would be doing it again, very soon.
Her hands, lightly fingering his hair, suddenly tensed and he felt her push his face deeper into her spread vagina. Deep within her, he felt her muscles commence a slow grind, willing herself to come as his tongue left her clit and hunted instead for that tiny patch of tissue on the wall of her vagina that he knew would afford her even greater pleasure. He found it and she found nirvana, rising out of her seat to climax with an intensity she had never experienced before, and crying out as her legs literally buckled beneath her, and Horne found himself supporting her entire weight on his shoulders.
The girl was still recovering from her ecstatic convulsion as Horne pushed her onto her back and entered her, his prick filling her and pounding her to climax after climax. His own orgasm, however, would have to wait, as he slid his cock back to the very lips of her love-hole, and held it there.
‘What’s wrong?’ There was a sudden panic in her voice. ‘Don’t stop!’
The Erotic Adventures of Ambrose Horne Page 4