The Erotic Memoirs of Ambrose Horne

by Chrissie Bentley

  THE EROTIC MEMOIRS OF AMBROSE HORNE

  By Chrissie Bentley

  BEING …

  The loin-lunging adventures of Victorian London’s most unconventional detective

  Armed with only his relentless curiosity for the darkest recesses of human sexuality, Ambrose Horne is the enterprising eroticist for whom no puzzle is too perplexing, no secret is too scandalous, and no position is too impolite. Now, gathered together for the first time, The Erotic Adventures Of Ambrose Horne reveals the Carnal Casebook of the Idiosyncratic Inquisitor, the Horny Holmes ... the man who put the Dick into Private Investigator ... the one-and-only Ambrose Horne.

  MOVE OVER SHERLOCK: THERE’S A NEW SLEUTH IN TOWN!

  (The London Gentleman’s News Of The Lewd, January 1897)

  THRILL! as Horne casts a curious eye over

  THE MAGICAL MUSHROOM

  SHIVER!! as Horne uncovers the groin-grinding truth behind

  THE FABERGE PHALLUS

  DROOL UNCONTROLLABLY!!! as he mops up the mess left by

  THE MOUTHFUL OF MYSTERY

  AND MORE

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2010

  ISBN 9781907016943

  Copyright © Chrissie Bentley 2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

  The stories contained within this book are works of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the authors’ imaginations and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Introduction/glossary

  The Strange Case of the Mouthful of Mystery

  The Strange Case of the Poisoned Under-garments

  The Strange Case of the Magical Mushroom

  The Strange Case of the Reluctant Smuggler

  The Strange Case of Her Majesty's Secret Pleasure

  The Strange Case of the Faberge Phallus

  AMBROSE HORNE (1865-1963)

  (Excerpt from The Crime-Fighter’s Who’s Who: 1986 edition)

  British detective and criminologist whose use of explicit sexual situations and solutions aroused considerable controversy in 19th century London. However, the success of his methods can certainly be compared with the more conventional means employed by other amateur detectives of the age, leading to several commissions by the British government, military and, on at least one occasion, the Royal Family. In later years, Horne would detail some 60 of these investigations beneath the umbrella title The Ambrose Horne Mysteries.

  Educated at the public school Charterhouse, an institution that he left under less-than-clear circumstances, Horne then spent five years (1883-1888) in India, both as an officer in the British Army, and a student at several native institutions. It was during this period that his talent as an eroticist first attracted attention, as the author of a number of texts published to accompany the paintings of the Hindu artist Lakshmi Kanpur. India also introduced Horne to the English author Captain Charles Devereaux, author of the erotic classic Venus In India – their friendship would survive until Devereaux’s death in the early 20th century.

  Returning to London in 1888, with his reputation as a private detective already confirmed by his sub-continental escapades, Horne immediately established himself as an extraordinarily prolific journalist and novelist, publishing an average of five book-length erotic tales a year, for the next half-century. He was also the author of a series of anonymous scientific texts, whose own graphic nature saw them widely circulated on the London sexual underground of the day. Exceedingly rare today, their influence on subsequent researchers (qv: Grafenberg, Kinsey et al), can never be discounted.

  In 1892, Horne became patron and head of ‘the Community,’ a socio-sexual utopia in which there were no taboos, no ‘forbidden’ pleasures, no stigma attached to sexuality whatsoever. He remained at the helm of the organisation until his death, safeguarding his founding principles by producing sufficient offspring that the society remains a ‘family business,’ more than four decades after his death.

  Horne’s other great legacy was the launch, in 1933, of the erotic quarterly, The Modern Man’s Literary Journal, published from his offices in Belgravia. It was within those pages that he initiated the publication of the aforementioned memoirs, relying upon the Literary Journal’s subscription-only circulation for license to circumvent the laws surrounding the publication of such explicit material.

  However, the spring 1941 appearance of The Case of the Congealed Conundrum saw a private prosecution brought under the Obscene Publications Act. Controversially, the case was thrown out of court, largely (it was alleged) because of Horne’s still-powerful connections to the upper echelons of law and society. Full details were then secured under the Official Secrets Act, presumably to prevent attempts to cite the case as precedent in future prosecutions.

  In 1955, aged 90, Horne passed the day-to-day running of The Modern Man’s Literary Journal to Martin Fletcher, an ex-army author whom he had been nurturing since 1946; Fletcher’s own autobiographical account of his introduction to Horne, A Man Of Letters, was then selected as the opening tale in the first volume of Horne’s collected memoirs, in 1957. (Subsequent volumes appeared in 1962 – The Casebook of Ambrose Horne; and, posthumously through the auspices of ‘the Community,’ in 1965 (A Study in Scarlet Women).

  Horne remained intimately involved with the publication, both intellectually and physically; indeed, a revealing interview by the American journalist Caroline Collins, published in the Journal in late 1963, was illustrated with explicit photographs of Horne’s seduction of his interrogator. Collins subsequently gave birth to Horne’s 17th, and final child; she also worked as the Journal’s office manager during the final months of Horne’s life, and co-edited (with Fletcher) the third volume of Horne’s collected memoirs (1965).

  Born one week before the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln, Horne died from mundanely natural causes in November 1963, one week after the murder of President Kennedy. Although it was a synchronicity that he would certainly have appreciated, his own final words were reported to be, ‘I don’t have a problem with old age. Unless, of course, it slows her down.’

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  Although the majority of Ambrose Horne’s memoirs date from the period 1888-1913, it was 1933 before he began preparing them for publication, at which time he made a number of amendments to the texts, most notably in the use of sexual terminology.

  This remained an on-going project, with the form of the stories featured in the 1957 ‘Collected Edition’ generally regarded as definitive. Nevertheless, Horne allowed a number of now-archaic terms and expressions to remain in the text; though they may prove unfamiliar to the modern reader, these words have been retained in this edition. A brief glossary follows this note.

  The precise chronology of the Memoirs is uncertain. It is presumed that those tales included in this first volume are among the earliest. However, scholars have dated several subsequently published stories to an earlier period in Horne’s life, including a number that clearly pertain to his years in India, while certain incidents and characters featuring in these stories were certainly borrowed from later events.

  In Horne’s defence, however, it must be remembered that, at no point did he intend his Memoirs to stand as a definitive autobiography; they were, first and foremost, ‘an entertainment, a diversion and, perhaps, an antidote to the drug-addled blatherings of that other fellow’ – a caustic refer
ence to Horne’s early contemporary (and occasional rival) Sherlock Holmes. For this reason, no attempt has been made here to identify those names and places that Horne chose to disguise with an initial and a blank line (his long-time paramour Lady H_____, for example), even in those instances where subsequent research and writings have rendered such devices irrelevant.

  Finally, a word about Ambrose Horne’s sexual prowess. It has been written that Holmes had his Watson; Horne had a hard-on. This is true. However, his apparently licentious lifestyle was rarely indulged for the sake of carnality alone. Even in the throes of passion, we must remember that Horne was ‘working.’ In his private life, Horne was a remarkably faithful man, whose true loves can be counted on the fingers of one hand; and who could, in turn, count on Horne never to betray their affections. For Horne, therefore, sex was no less a tool than Miss Marple’s sagacity, Adam Dalglish’s intellect, or Sherlock Holmes’ magnifying glass. And, although his methods might often be regarded as unconventional, his success rate was second-to-none.

  A BRIEF GLOSSARY

  Acorn – glans (Eng, 18th century)

  Balanus – glans (Eng, 19th century)

  Baubles – testicles (Eng, late 18th century)

  Bun, Bunny – vagina (Eng, 19th century – forerunner of ‘pussy’)

  Crisis – orgasm (Eng, 19th century)

  Dong – penis (Eng. Late 19th century)

  Gamahuche­ – fellatio (French, 19th century)

  Godemiche – dildo (French, 19th century)

  Lingam – penis (Hindu)

  Little death – orgasm (Eng, 19th century)

  Merkin – vagina (Eng, 17th century)

  Muff – vagina (Eng, 18th century)

  Pintle – penis (Eng, 16th century)

  Tribadism, tribade – lesbianism, lesbian (Eng, 19th century)

  Wifthing – fucking (Old Eng)

  Yoni – vagina (Hindu)

  The Strange Case of the Mouthful of Mystery

  ‘I want to ... but I’m afraid I won’t like it.’ Becky giggled nervously, her eyes fixed to the bulbous purple tip of the penis that stood to expectant attention, just inches away from her face.

  ‘If you don’t like it, then you can stop.’ His head and shoulders propped against the luxurious down pillows, Ambrose Horne gazed affectionately at the girl who knelt alongside him. ‘But I swear, there’s nothing at all to be scared of.’

  He leaned forward and kissed her on the top of her head. ‘You’ve never done this before?’

  ‘Never ... I’ve often thought about it, but I’ve never had the courage.’ Her voice trailed off. ‘But you’ve been so kind and gentle ...’ Her voice cried out for encouragement, and Horne was happy to offer it to her. ‘If you want to stop, you can stop.’

  His voice was soft and reassuring. ‘Just hold me like you are.’ His cock twitched appreciatively in her warm grip. ‘Now, moisten your lips; work up some saliva and just drip a little ...’ He watched as she followed his directions, and a warm glob of spit fell onto his prick, mixing with the trace of pre-come that was already leaking from the tip. ‘Now, let your lips slip ...’ He inhaled sharply as her mouth enfolded the very end of his manhood, and then inched gently down to envelope the glans. Her teeth scraped slightly against the dancing nerve-ends, and he emitted a groan of sheer pleasure.

  Releasing her prize, Becky gasped. ‘Oh I never dreamed ...’ Her tongue slashed across him. ‘You taste ... heavenly.’ Her head dipped down; relaxing back, Horne felt her bite down and suck, tentatively at first but then more firmly, rhythmically. Her body shifted and, reaching out one arm, he grasped one perfectly formed breast, lightly squeezing the firm orb in time to her own motions.

  Even as he felt himself drifting towards ecstasy, however, a knot of doubt squirmed in the back of his mind. If it wasn’t Becky, and he already knew that it wasn’t Betty, Clara or Rose ... then who in tarnation was it? He hated to do this, but ... placing his hand firmly under the girl’s taut chin, he raised her head. ‘No more, please.’ He spoke as gently as he could, but her eyes still registered surprise. ‘What did I do?’

  ‘Nothing ... you were spectacular.’ And she was. But he had other things on his mind now.

  ‘I wanted to taste you ...’ Her voice overflowed with disappointment. ‘I wanted you to flood my mouth like you flooded me ... down there.’ Her eyes dipped towards the quim that Horne had pounded so gloriously half an hour earlier, and whose lips still glistened with their conjoined ejaculate.

  ‘And I will,’ Horne reassured her. ‘But one pleasure at a time.’ He smiled. ‘Now I want you to go to sleep and dream about everything you want to do to me. Imagine how it will feel, how it will taste. And, when I see you tomorrow, I want you to tell me every single detail.’

  Her eyes flashed mischievously. ‘And then I will act them all out for you.’ Dressing quickly, she kissed him, first on the face and then again on the shaft of his cock. ‘Until tomorrow,’ she whispered, leaving Horne to wonder just whom she was addressing; him, or his hardness.

  Becky left the room and Horne masturbated himself quickly to a surging climax, then crossed the room to the open antique bureau. He had been in this establishment for a week now, and was no wiser than the day he arrived, hotfoot from London at the behest of a man who called himself, simply, the Prince. It was only upon arrival that Horne discovered he really was in the presence of royalty – 50 years before, a violent revolution shook the tiny eastern European nation of L----- out of obscurity and onto the front pages of the newspapers. Days later, with the rebels in full control, the country again faded into insignificance, but its rulers’ travails were only beginning, as they journeyed across an uncaring continent, en route for the one country where they knew an obscurely tangled family tree ensured they would be granted refuge.

  They had remained in England ever since. The old King and Queen even died there, and now only the Prince remained, a statuesque man on the cusp of 60, for whom the pain of lifelong exile was eased by just one thing – the harem of willing young women that surrounded him at all times of the day and night.

  ‘To you,’ the Prince told Horne when they first met, ‘my life must seem idyllic, an endless fantasy of limitless sex and carnality. I am certain, there is not a man in either this kingdom or my own, who would not swap places with me in a heartbeat.’

  Horne nodded. It was true, the Prince apparently had everything any man could desire – a beautiful home, a sizeable fortune (of course his parents had escaped with all of their jewellery) and, to judge by the casual near-nakedness of every woman in the house, hot pussy at his beck and call, 24 hours a day.

  Horne had heard rumours about this astonishing lifestyle for as long as he could remember – how the Prince was the only man who had ever crossed the house’s threshold, how the local villagers viewed it as a privilege not only to send their daughters to live with him, but also to raise his many illegitimate children as their own. The only problem Horne could imagine was that of ensuring that the various limbs of his complicated family tree never became entangled. But, when he raised it, the Prince just laughed. ‘The priest sees to that. Meticulous record keeper. Don’t know where I’d be without him.’

  ‘In bed with your own grand-daughter,’ Horne suggested light-heartedly, but no sooner had he spoken than he regretted it, as the Prince’s countenance turned to thunder. ‘Quips such as that would see you hanged in my country,’ the old man whispered. ‘I have my appetites, that is true. How can I deny that, living as I do? But I also have my morality, and any man who questions that, questions his own right to continue living.’

  It was time to change the subject. Opening his valise, Horne produced the letter he had received from the Prince. Why, he asked, had he been summonsed?

  The Prince took a pinch of snuff. ‘I know your reputation as a man of ‘unusual’ powers of detection. I also know your reputation as a man of discretion. Before I go any further, let me tell you that I will be calling upon both of those admirable at
tributes. If you succeed in your quest, I will reward you handsomely ... above and beyond your customary fees, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ smiled Horne.

  ‘But if you fail; if a word of your quest should escape your lips to any living soul ... by gad, I will hunt you to the ends of the earth and I will have your guts for garters. But come, let us not speak of failure. For what I ask of you might well be the easiest task you have ever been set, and what a foolish old man I will look, if that should be the case.’

  And so he explained. He lived, as he said, a life of sexual luxury. Women adored him; from his earliest teens, soon after his family arrived in England, he had proven irresistible to the girls who dwelled around the nearby village. His parents indulged his magnetism; allowed the girls the run of the estate, so that the young Prince might sew his wild oats as often as he fancied. And, if any girl wanted to stay, she was welcome to. By the time the Prince was 30, and had the entire house to himself, there were no less than 17 women living there. Now, there was almost double that.

  ‘Most men, if they put their minds to it, could tell you how many nights of their lives they have spent having sex,’ the Prince continued. ‘Or at least, estimate the number to within a few dozen. I, on the other hand, could tell you, to the exact figure, how many nights I haven’t. Lately, however, my nights have taken a very alarming turn ...’

  A little under a year ago, the Price awoke at his usual time, to detect a most unusual taste in his mouth; unusual in that, although he knew exactly what it was, he could not, for the life of him, imagine how it arrived there. ‘It was the taste of a man, of an erect penis. And there, on the pillowcase beside my head, a pool of dried sperm.

  ‘I assumed it was mine; I had the bedding laundered and thought no more of it. I had, I must admit, enjoyed a wild night, and could not possibly remember every position in which my partner and I indulged ourselves. But a week ... maybe ten days ... later, I awoke again with that taste on my tongue and the pool, this time, in my hair.’