There were more gasps, of outrage this time, but Horne cleared his throat loudly. ‘I thought that would be your reaction, but I would request of you that this particular aspect of his character remain a sworn secret among the five of us alone, as a personal favour not only to myself, but also to the young man who, albeit inadvertently, brought me the information that led me to my ultimate deduction.’
A red-faced General rose angrily to his feet. ‘Dash it all, Horne, that is against every regulation in the book. The bounder should be flogged.’
‘Yes he should, General Pinkington,’ Horne agreed. ‘And perhaps you would like to do it? I’ve heard that you’re quite famous at a certain local hostelry, for your readiness with the whip. As, indeed, everybody else in this room has a specialty that they hoped, perhaps, only the young kittens at the Cat could meow about?’
Pinkington, if it were possible for a man of such a naturally scarlet countenance, blushed even redder. But his companions, though they glanced sideways at his discomfort, were no less belligerent. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’ challenged one, raising his voice to parade-ground volume.
Horne was no more impressed by his rage than he was by the rows of medals that jingled on the old man’s tunic. ‘No more than you, General Harker, would dare beg to be spread-eagled naked beneath a sheet of glass, while cheaply painted prostitutes defecate onto it. Or you, General Owen, when you ask young ladies to lasso your erect penis with twine, and compete in what I can only describe as a depraved Tug O’War competition.
‘Yes, the prisoner might indulge in practises that society deems abnormal. But I wonder what the London Times might say, were your predilections to be delivered to them? And now, gentlemen, if you would excuse me, I have a long journey ahead of me tomorrow, and a number of goodbyes to say.’ He laid a small booklet on the table. ‘I have prepared a list of my modest expenses. Please add them to my fee, and have the money waiting for me in the morning. And, of course, I am proud to have been of service to my country.’ He bowed sharply and left the still deathly silent room.
In bed that night, as he recounted the conversation to Mary, he had to place one hand over her mouth to silence her otherwise uncontrollable laughter and, even when it had subsided, he felt the need to step carefully with every word he spoke, lest another gale of mirth erupt from the girl. Only as their passions rose did the incredible images of Horne’s story begin to fade from her agile mind, and more physical instincts and urges took over.
But, as Horne rode her doggy-style to a shuddering mutual climax, his third erection of the night sliding gracefully in and out of her so warmly welcoming snatch before he shot his load onto her so shapely buttocks, he couldn’t resist making one final allusion to the revelations he had so indelicately delivered. ‘You know, Mary? Whips, shit and twine don’t interest me at all,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘But if you can get me that hard again, I’ve got some secrets that you can have for free.’
She sank down and held his soft, slick cock to her mouth. ‘I’m not really interested in your secrets, Mr Horne. Your secretions, on the other hand, are far more fascinating. And I have a feeling ...’ as his cock twitched responsively to the touch of her breath, ‘that I’m going to be learning more about them very soon.’
The Strange Case of the Coagulated Conundrum
Sebastian Longfellow – few men have been so accurately named as he – raised himself from between his wife’s luxurious thighs and, in one deft movement, slid his stiff cock between her bountiful breasts. Her hands clasped his as they pushed her tits together so that he might fuck them; then reached around to his buttocks, to push his enormous tool towards her open mouth.
Stella’s jaw strained to accept the throbbing purple head. Not for the first time in their lovemaking, she felt as though tendons would tear before she was able to fully accommodate the object of her desire. But, as her facial muscles relaxed around the hot meat that she so desperately craved, so he felt himself being drawn in, filling her mouth with his brick-hard heat, feeling her sharp teeth grazing his shaft with a myriad delicious sensations.
He would not, could not, seek to enter her wholly. With close to ten thick inches of manhood at his disposal, it would be a skilled fellatrix indeed who could devour him to the root and Stella, though they had been married more than two years, had still to learn that particular secret. But she pleasured him regardless, her twinkling blue eyes gazing lovingly into his as she scanned his face for the first signs of the intense rush of pleasure that warned her to close her lips around the merest tip of his rod, while his thick come slammed against the barrier of her teeth.
Longfellow, too, watched her intently, conscious from the expression in her eyes that, while she sucked, she also fingered herself, gently at first, but with increasingly urgency as the throbbing of his shaft communicated itself to her nerve-ends, and filled her sex with its own exquisite juices. And, when he finally climaxed, so would she, her body writhing beneath him as her other hand slipped off his cock, to let his semen jet where it would. It was a moment that neither of them had ever experienced with any other lover, a communion of come that left both sated and exhausted, collapsing tenderly into one another’s arms to whisper the sweet, sweat-soaked nothings of two devoted lovers.
What a contrast that portrait painted to the furious gentleman who now paced around Ambrose Horne’s office, impatiently mumbling while his insurance agent, a tiny weasel of a clerk named Simpkins, conferred with the Great Detective by the dying light of a winter afternoon. ‘It is not a detective we require,’ Longfellow snapped for the third time since the interview began. ‘It is a policeman, a court room and a hanging judge. What will the detective detect beyond wanton vandalism? And we already know that has taken place. It is the vandal himself to whom we should be attending, so that we might string him up from the highest gallows in the land.’
‘So you have said,’ Horne spoke up wearily. ‘But you have brought us no evidence that this vandal actually exists ... nor, from the evidence before me, that any act of vandalism has even taken place. We must weigh up all the facts before we rush to any form of judgement.’
Longfellow wheeled angrily across the room, placing his face just inches from Horne’s. ‘No evidence?’ He jabbed at the insurance report that lay on Horne’s desk. ‘Some of the most valuable postage stamps in the world have been destroyed. The 5c rose of Vancouver Island. The 2c black and rose of British Guiana. A pair of Trinidad’s legendary Lady McLeod imperforates….
‘You, sir,’ he jabbed a finger at the wretched Simpkins. ‘You asked me what is stamp collecting, beyond the accumulation of so many sticky labels from around the world. And you, Mr Horne, seemed more interested in pedantically declaiming the erroneous Greek derivation of the word ‘Philately,’ than acknowledging the seriousness of the crime. But, when the Fellows of the Royal Society hear of this, and some jolly powerful fellows they are, it will not be your scorn upon which you choke, but the very foundations of all that you deem of value in this world.’
‘And what do you consider the value of the damaged items?’ Horne asked – then blanched as his visitor spoke a number in the thousands of pounds. ‘Furthermore, I can provide both written and verbal testimony to that fact. But I see I am wasting my time here. Simpkins? Convey to your masters that I revoke all my insurance policies with their company forthwith. And Horne? I will convey your regard to Mr Sherlock Holmes. I am certain he will take this matter somewhat more seriously than you.’
Horne bowed politely. ‘You must do as you see fit, as I am sure Mr Holmes will. Certainly details of your loss and, indeed, of any similarly valued items that have not been lost, will make a tasty filling for his assistant’s next essay in the popular press, and I am sure you will meet many new acquisitive enthusiasts as a result. I wish you luck. And, should you then require a less voluble detective to assist you in any matters that might ensue from those meetings, I will be as willing to help you on that occasion as I am on this.’
At the
thought of the publicity that was, indeed, the inevitable consequence of any dealings with the ubiquitous Holmes and his loquacious biographer, Longfellow paused at the door. ‘I thought you dismissed my complaint?’
‘No. I dismissed your contention that the term ‘Philately’ means what you claim it does – a love, ‘philos’, for a pre-paid item, ‘telos’, when in fact the correct construction of those words would be ‘atelophily’. I do not dismiss the seriousness of your loss; nor, without having seen the items in question, or the room in which they are kept, do I dismiss the possibility that some form of malice has been perpetrated upon your collection. However, if you believe Mr Holmes offers you the best hope of bringing the felon to book, then my duty is to defer to your own convictions.’
Longfellow shook his head. ‘My carriage is outside, Mr Horne. Perhaps you would care to make your inspection this very day?’
Back at his rooms in Belgravia that evening, Horne had arrived at just one conclusion. Damage, whether deliberate or otherwise, had certainly been perpetrated on Longfellow’s collection of postage stamps; damage of such magnitude that, true to the outraged enthusiast’s word, several almost priceless postage stamps had been irreparably destroyed, gummed to the surface of his mahogany desk with a liquid substance that dried as hard as nails, and remained impermeable not only to the gentle soaking that might ordinarily have rescued the stamps, but to any more vigorous attempts at cleaning.
Yet it was no liquid that Horne had ever encountered within the arsenal of either a housekeeper or, come to that, a vandal. Like varnish, it congealed hard and glossy. But, unlike varnish, it was neither manufactured nor in any other way man-made. Nature, not science, created this ichorous adhesive, but how did it flow from its indigenous haunt, to the pages of Longfellow’s stamp collection?
The room itself offered few clues. Though the desk was placed within the range of a window, the harsh winter ensured that the aperture itself was tightly bolted from the inside. Horne had accepted Longfellow’s assurances that no drinks, not even a glass of water, were permitted within the confines of that room; that the housekeeper entered only when he himself was in attendance; and that the only person who ever saw him at work with his collection was Stella, his wife – who, Horne saw in a moment, was as distraught over this affair as he was.
‘When did you last see the stamps as they ought to be?’ Horne asked.
‘Yesterday morning. I was inspecting a recent purchase through my glass when I was called away from my desk for a short while. When I returned, I discovered this.’
‘And you were alone in the room?’
‘My wife entered, tarried a while, and then we left together. I locked the door behind me, and unlocked it again when I returned.’
‘But the collection was open and unattended during your absence?’
‘It was.’
Horne surveyed the room. Aside from the desk and three matching chairs, the only other furniture was a small chaises-longues, its foot some three feet from the desk itself, and the locked bookshelf within which Longfellow stored his neatly-albumed collection and attendant accoutrements – the pricelists of Mr Scott and Mr Gibbons, neatly bound volumes of sundry scholarly publications, a magnifying glass that would be the envy of the Baker Street blabbermouth himself.
The detective sat on the chaises-longues and idly traced his finger over an irregular stain in the fabric. ‘I was curious. If no liquids are allowed in this room, what caused this?’
Longfellow glanced down. ‘I do not think that is any business but my wife’s and mine. But I can assure you that it has nothing to do with the matter for which you have been employed.’
Horne shrugged. ‘I’m sure you’re correct.’
Seated now at his own desk, that stain continued to haunt Horne’s thoughts. Not by its provenance – he readily recognised the residue of a recent male ejaculation, even before he asked Longfellow for an explanation. The man’s obfuscating reply simply confirmed Horne’s suspicions, as did several similar stains he noticed, on the padded backrest of the couch, and inching impressively up the wall against which it lay.
But Horne could discount the possibility that, in the throes of a wild orgasm, Longfellow’s own seed had somehow contrived to reach the desk’s precious cargo. Not only was he clearly facing away from the desk, but the damaging fluid was too evenly spread, too transparent and, unless the man had the ejaculatory capacity of a horse, too great to have been caused by any random spattering.
He looked down at the pad of paper upon which his subconscious mind accompanied his musings with graphic doodles – spurting phalluses, fleshy mammaries, tight buttocks. In high spirits, his quill sketched such anatomy with loving detail. At times of stress, however, they withered like a scrotum in the Arctic sea, and Horne knew from the diminishing proportions on the page that he would achieve nothing if he remained seated any longer. A notion was forming in his mind, but that was all it could do for now. Plus ... he glanced at the clock on the mantel ... he had an appointment this evening that he did not intend to miss.
Lady H_____ was what one might call a family friend, although Horne (whose parents had known her parents) preferred to regard her as a fellow pioneer in the often unconventional science of Erotic Deduction. Of the many women in Horne’s social circle, both married and single, he had also learned to regard Lady H_____ as ‘a good sport’, the kind of girl who would try anything once, then try it again, just to make sure her initial impressions were correct. Certainly Horne had learned much from her, just as she had from him. All he had to do was ask the correct question, and a veritable fountain of feminine sexuality lay, literally, at his fingertips.
He found Lady H_____ in especially playful mood this evening. Her husband, an elderly, blustering fool to whom she had been pledged the moment she turned 18, had been called to Ireland to supervise some diplomatic crisis or other, and would be gone for the remainder of the week. She, on the other hand, had recently taken delivery of an entire new set of furniture for her boudoir, and was anxious to christen it before it started creaking.
‘Horne by name, horned by nature,’ she giggled as she held his penis between her open palms and, having moistened the glans with her tongue, blew warmly onto its tip. ‘And what would pleasure my unicorn tonight?’
Horne smiled affectionately at her use of the pet name she initially uttered in shock, on the first occasion they made love. Parting her hands, he gently guided his penis towards her mouth, and slid its velvet head across her lips. Then he snatched it away before her tongue could commence its tender massage. ‘A shooting match, I believe,’ he replied. ‘Self relief at 30 paces. Or 30 inches, anyway.’
‘That far away? Oh darling, I thought you were here to see me!’
‘I am. Think of this as training for the main event.’ He gripped his cock and began gently rubbing it, enjoying the roughness of his own hand on the sensitive shaft. Obediently, but still questioningly, Lady H_____ allowed her own hand to slip onto her pussy, the tips of her fingers disappearing inside its already moistening folds before tracing the line of her lips towards her clitoris.
Horne watched her for a moment, his own movements quickening in tandem with hers. Then he spoke the words that would, many years later, return to taunt him through the writings of the young German gynaecologist who attended Lady H_____ when her husband was posted to that land.
‘Delightful though I know that feels, and exquisite though it is for me to watch, I was wondering whether you would mind seeking out a second spot within your mysteries, one whose physical attributes might not be so pronounced, but whose sensitivity is even more powerful than your clitoris?’
Lady H_____ looked at him curiously. ‘There is no such place.’
‘I assure you that there is. And once you locate it, I dare say no man’s touch will ever thrill you as much as your own.’
He watched while her fingers inched around, tensing, testing, teasing her own flesh until suddenly, she gave a sharp gasp. ‘Oh my
God. What is it?’
‘I do not believe it has any name as yet; nor has it been accurately described in any medical or biological text that I have ever read. Perhaps it is mentioned in one or two of those odd little publications that you can find in the less savoury bookshops around the city. But no serious study has ever been published.’ He paused, thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps, when I have more time on my hands in later life, I will be the man to do so, and all humankind will applaud me for it. I can think of few greater tributes, after all, than to have an erogenous zone named after one’s self.’
Lady H_____ laughed aloud and grabbed for his cock. ‘I told you, my unicorn, I think they’ve already done that’ and, in those same later years, as the expression ‘horny’ slipped into the vocabulary of intimacy, Horne took some pride in knowing that he had contributed to its widespread usage. But it would be Lady H_____’s future gynaecologist, Ernst Grafenberg, who was honoured with the naming (or, at least, the monogramming) of the spot that Horne described, and whose fervent manipulation he was now supervising. And Horne would never forgive him for his presumption.
Horne bade Lady H_____ lay flat on her back, with her knees pulled back. ‘Now, hold your right hand out in front of you, palm up, with your middle and ring fingers together. Curl them toward you, as if you’re motioning for someone to come over, then perform that motion in quick bursts, almost like flicking. That’s what you’ll be doing inside yourself.’
Lady H_____ followed his instructions and her sudden intake of breath told Horne she was doing precisely what he asked. ‘You’ll get the rhythm once you start. Just keep making that flicking motion, along with a slight in and out, right over the spot. And don’t stop, even if it starts feeling a little peculiar ... almost as though you’re going to pass water, but not quite.’
Horne watched as Lady H_____ tried to focus her eyes on him, but knew that she was losing herself to the sensuous sweeps of her fingers; knew, too, that although he was dutifully beating his own meat, his own ardour would not be fully aroused until ... suddenly, Lady H_____ gasped aloud, almost screaming with passion as her entire body shook and, before Horne’s approving eyes, a jet of clear liquid fountained from her sopping vagina and arced over the end of the bed to splash down ... he calculated the distance in a flash ... a full 18 inches, maybe two feet away, where it spread darkly across the carpet.
The Erotic Adventures of Ambrose Horne Page 3
