The Erotic Adventures of Ambrose Horne

by Chrissie Bentley

  Horne masked his own natural confidence with a panic of his own. ‘It’s just that ... I just remembered ... shouldn’t we be more careful?’

  The girl laughed. ‘It’s a little late to be concerned about that, don’t you think? The little blighters are probably halfway home already. But don’t worry about it, they’ll never get there.’

  Still playing the part of the naïve novice, Horne retained both his taunting position and his tremulous tone. ‘You have a cure?’

  ‘A cure for pregnancy, a cure for the pox, a cure for all the funny little things that can go wrong. Now stop worrying and give me the rest of that thing.’ Her hips strained up to devour his prick, but Horne rose with her. ‘What sort of cure?’

  ‘What are you, some kind of kinky sawbones? Or ... I know, you’ve knocked up some other lass, and want to get rid of it, haven’t you?’

  Horne did not speak, but his silence rewarded her anyway, as he allowed an inch of his prick to slip inside her hungry cunt. The girl gasped lightly, then laughed. ‘I knew it. Doctor Foster on the high street. He’ll tell her what to do.’

  Horne kissed her, whispered ‘thank you,’ then slid his full length inside her, feeling her entire frame jar with the force of his entry, but managing no more than half a dozen further strokes before his own ejaculation, patiently straining at the gates for so long, finally burst forth, flooding her already over-flowing box. ‘And thank you,’ she purred as he rolled to her side. ‘Whoever she is, that other lass is a very lucky girl.’

  As he marched the brisk mile or so towards Doctor Foster’s offices, Horne could already visualise the sordid back-street premises he would find; could already picture the hard-faced spinster who would be manning the desk, and the degrading filth in which the Doctor ... if he even was a Doctor ... plied his trade.

  Of all the inequities in this so-called enlightened age, Horne raged to himself, the need for men such as this to even exist was a blight upon everything that Victorian Britain called civilized. A woman’s body, he believed, was a chalice to be cherished – not an incubator for the so-called godly to dictate to, or the devilish to damage.

  It was with some astonishment, then, that Horne arrived at the address to find a gold nameplate set upon marble pillars, a luxurious carpet behind a fine oaken door, and a waiting room that could have been transported there from Harley Street.

  Even the staff shattered Horne’s imaginings: a soft-faced blonde in her mid 20s, talking quietly and solicitously to a smiling teenager; a raven-haired Amazon in earnest conversation with an obviously happily married young couple; and a pretty brunette who appeared the moment Horne walked into the room, and ushered him to a plush armchair.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  Horne, his mind instinctively adjusting itself to this unexpected turn of events (the first lesson he’d ever learned in life – never judge anything until you’ve seen it for yourself), waited while she pulled over another chair. ‘I don’t really know if you can. But a friend suggested that maybe Doctor Foster ...’

  ‘The doctor is busy with a patient at the moment,’ the nurse answered softly. ‘But if your friend thinks he can help you, I’m sure he can. There wouldn’t have been much point in ... I’m sorry, is your friend a sir or a madam?’

  ‘A madam,’ replied Horne, wondering if the term had been selected on purpose.

  ‘Well, there wouldn’t have been much point in her recommending the Doctor if he couldn’t help, would there?’

  Horne gave a polite chuckle at such a display of confident salesmanship, then lowered his eyes to stare at his hands, as they nervously wrung one another.

  The nurse, long familiar with the conflicting emotions that beset so many of Doctor Foster’s visitors, patted his hand. ‘These things can be very hard to talk about, I know. But rest assured, what you say to me, and to Doctor Foster, will go no further. Everything is done very discreetly, I promise you. Now, tell me, the matter that you talked to your friend about. Does it concern you alone, or is there perhaps a lady involved as well?’

  Horne nodded. ‘Yes, there is a lady.’

  ‘Anybody else? Anybody else at all?’ The nurse placed her fingers lightly beneath Horne’s chin and raised his head, to look into his eyes.

  ‘No, nobody. Nobody at all.’

  ‘I see. But perhaps you’d like there to be?’

  Horne clutched her hand, and his words poured out in a torrent; how he and Madeleine had married eight years before, how they had spent those eight years fruitlessly attempting to start a family, how they were now at their wits’ end.

  ‘Have you thought of adoption?’

  ‘Of course we have. But Madeleine ... my wife ... she wants to experience the baby growing inside her. She wants to give birth to our child, not take delivery of some poor discarded mite from God knows where.’

  ‘I understand. Now, Doctor Foster is engaged for the next two hours. But if you’d like to return around noon, he will see you before lunch. Is that convenient?’

  Horne stood. ‘That’s wonderful,’ he gushed. ‘Thank you.’ He backed out, smiling widely, then retraced his footsteps onto the high street. Two hours. Well, he’d start with some breakfast and a walk around the shops ... And, if he ran out of windows to gaze into, he could always count ginger-haired children. He’d seen two already this morning.

  Anxious to appear over-anxious, he was back at Foster’s office by 11.30 a.m., content to take a seat, stare at the clock and fidget convincingly until the Doctor became available, and he was finally ushered in to the surgery, where Foster – younger than Horne had expected, with the distinguished streak of grey in his hair in desperate need of a touch-up – sat behind an imposing desk. The walls of the surgery were decorated with a variety of impressive looking certificates and diplomas, and Horne gazed at them with exactly the expression of wonder that they were intended to induce.

  ‘Mr ... ah, Mr Boland. Nurse Buckley tells me we may be able to help you in a certain area where your wife and yourself have so far proved unsuccessful?’

  Horne remained standing. ‘We are childless, and we are miserable.’

  Foster nodded. ‘Now, I have a few questions. First, have either your wife or yourself had a child in the past ... before you met, I mean?’

  Horne pushed a cloud of indignation across his face. ‘I should say not, sir. We were both virgins when we married and have never known another.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Foster smiled. ‘I intended no offence, Mr Boland. But sometimes, if one or other would-be parent has had a child in the past, then we know that any ‘problem’ does not lie with them.’

  This time, Horne feigned anger. ‘I resent, sir, that you should suggest ...’

  Foster cut him off hastily. ‘I am not suggesting anything, Mr Boland. But let us be frank. Conceiving a child is the simplest thing in the world. In fact, it is the only thing in the world that is simple. Which, according to the latest medical advances, would suggest that, if a couple is unable to conceive, there must be a problem. Either that or it is God’s will, but if you believed that to be the case, you would not now be seeking my assistance.’

  Horne nodded and Foster, believing him chastened, continued. ‘Unfortunately, there is as yet no proven medical method of determining which, if either, of you is afflicted with the ‘problem’. Perhaps it is you, perhaps it is your lady wife. Our method, therefore, is not failsafe. If it is your wife who is unable to conceive, we can do nothing. But if it is you ...’

  Horne thought of objecting again, but chose not to. ‘We will try anything,’ he said, and then lowered his voice. ‘But no other man must touch her.’

  Now it was Foster’s turn to feign anger – and he did it very convincingly, Horne noted. ‘Another man? What kind of establishment, sir, do you think we maintain here? A common knocking shop? A barnyard, where sex is the province of wildly copulating animals? No, sir, and if that suspicion even lingers in your mind, I must ask you to take your leave immediately.’

&nb
sp; Horne apologised, and Foster calmed himself. ‘We employ only the latest scientific methods, only the most up-to-date procedures, and everything is done with the minimum of contact between our staff ... all of whom, you may have noted, are of the female sex ... and the patient. I assure you, Mr Boland, that your wife’s modesty and dignity will be protected at all times. And, if our procedures go according to plan, in just nine months, you will be the proud parents of a handsome child whom you can call your own with every confidence.

  ‘However, there is one eventuality of which I must warn you. Although we will do our best to ensure that any progeny that you might call your own will resemble you in at least some respects, the ultimate appearance of your child is unfortunately beyond our powers ... as it is, indeed, beyond any parent’s. Is that acceptable to you?’

  ‘We don’t care what it looks like,’ Horne assured him. ‘Just so long as it is ours.’

  ‘And it will be. One more thing. We cannot simply make an appointment for a procedure such as this. The nature of our work is both delicate and dependent upon a number of other factors. My advice is that, for the next three nights, you and your wife sleep as late as you can into the daylight hours, and remain awake as late as you can at night. Ensure your wife has an overnight bag packed at all times, and be ready to leave your home at a moment’s notice. When we are ready, a cab will be dispatched to your address, to convey you directly to this office. Do you understand?’

  Horne nodded. ‘Yes, I think I understand everything.’

  As he walked to keep his appointment with Inspector Grant, however, he had to admit that there were still one or two issues that he did not understand; or, at least, had not quite solved to his own satisfaction. That resolution, however, surely was not far away – no more than three days, in fact. Now all he had to do was convince Grant to carry out his part in this bizarre masquerade.

  In fact, Grant needed no convincing whatsoever. ‘I spoke with my superiors this morning. I confess that I am still unhappy about the part I have to play in this adventure, but I have been instructed to follow your instructions to the letter, with just one proviso. The consequences of both my actions and yours must see the law both upheld and enforced.’

  ‘In other words,’ Horne murmured. ‘You require an arrest. Don’t worry, Inspector, you will have one. And a jolly nasty one as well, if I am not mistaken. Now, when will you be picking up Lennox? I need him out of his rooms by 10 p.m.’

  ’10 p.m. it will be, then,’ Grant replied. ‘And he will be held here for up to three days. But not a moment longer.’

  ‘Indeed not,’ Horne agreed. ‘Indeed not.’

  Even with his senses acutely aware of every sound, his mind alert to every inch of the room, Horne was caught absolutely unawares by the hands that suddenly snapped around his arms and legs, dragged each to one corner of the bed and, in a single deft movement, cuffed them to the frame; was shocked, too, by the heavy weight that first engulfed and then ... there was no other word for it ... began inflating his penis with the sensation of heavy wetness.

  Had there been anybody in bed beside him, he would have sworn he was receiving the most expert fellatio, that a pair of voluptuous lips were pressed to his stomach and scrotum, to enclose every inch of him in a warm mouth, feeling him harden against hungry tongue and gums. The sensation was unbelievable, tight contractions that ran the length of his lingam, palpating the flesh, enjoying the throbbing of his ever-firming flesh.

  But there was nobody there; no telltale shifting of weight on the mattress, no bulge beneath the bedclothes beyond the tent pole of his own swelling manhood. Tentatively he tugged at the chains binding his arms. They were secure. His feet, too, were immovable.

  He held his breath; not a sound disturbed the nocturnal silence. But a flicker of light on the blankets caught his eye and he watched, fascinated, as it expanded and raised itself upwards, until it floated some three feet over the bed, hung there for a moment and then, as he stared, unfolded itself to reveal a face.

  Horne’s mind flashed to the photographs that stood on the mantelpiece in Lennox’s front room. The woman in each of them, a cheerfully plump young woman, her dark hair cascading around her head ... Lennox’s wife, 27 years old when she died of consumption ... it was her face that hung before him, and her body, silkily diaphanous, flickeringly translucent, that snaked indistinctly down to enfold his hips in an unearthly light.

  Through the flickering form, he could readily make out the foot of the bed, the door on the far wall, his robe hanging limply from the hook. But he could also feel the weight of the spectre heavy on his groin and holding his prick – he could still see his prick – upright. He could feel the gyrations of its hips, drawing his hardness inside, slipping languorously up and down his hard shaft. And he could feel the hard ceramic disc that he had held all night in the palm of one hand, and the thin rubber-coated wires that connected it to the newly installed electric light on the wall above the bed.

  Steeling his mind to the ecstatic sensations that burned inside his groin, Horne pressed the disc, flooding the room with the brilliant glow of Mr Edison’s so-timely invention, and watching as the spirit of Mrs Lennox simply vanished, vanquished by a light far brighter than the tiny blue lamp of the Magic Lantern Picture Show projector that lay on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  There was a sudden pounding on the stair. As the light went on, so the four policemen stationed outside the house burst in, two promptly busying themselves with the women they discovered in the living room, the Amazon and the blonde that Horne instantly recognised from Foster’s office; one producing the skeleton key that unlocked the detective’s shackles, and one simply staring dumbfounded at the complex array of machinery and test-tubes that, somehow, had been assembled beneath Lennox’s bed, and whose soft rubber hose was still working its mechanical magic on Horne’s prick.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned. It’s a fucking machine.’

  ‘A fucking Fucking Machine,’ Horne corrected him with the pun. ‘And a devilishly clever one at that. I can barely wait to examine it.’

  ‘And I can barely wait for an explanation.’ A familiar voice made Horne look around, to see Lennox, Grant and another man standing in the doorway. Grant looked sheepish. ‘I’m sorry, Horne, I tried to prevent them. But nobody told me Lennox’s lawyer was also the town mayor. I couldn’t stop them ...’

  The lawyer looked triumphant, Lennox still indignant. ‘What is going on here? Who are these people, what is all this equipment?’

  ‘That,’ Horne gestured at the still whirring machine, ‘is your Succubus. And they ...’ he indicated the women ... ‘are the maids who visited your bedroom for so many nights, to milk you of your sperm, so that their employer, Dr Foster, might implant it in the wombs of rich, childless women, and – for a considerable sum of money – present them the patter of tiny feet that their own husbands had proven sadly incapable of providing by more natural means. Tiny ginger-haired, nostril-flared, sunken chin and birthmarked feet.’

  He bent to inspect the machine. ‘As I thought. Simple, but very effective. You see this tube. Affixed to the male member, it replicates the movements of a copulating female, via vibrations and an alternating suck-and-blow mechanism. Sensors within the tube itself then detect the presence of moisture ... the male ejaculatory fluid, of course ... and switch to suction alone, drawing the sperm through the tube and into this sterile test-tube.

  ‘It is then a matter, simply, of returning the machine to the laboratory, implanting its fresh contents into the vagina of a waiting woman, then waiting to see which of the many courses available to her that Mother Nature chooses to take. And, judging from the number of children toddling around town, I would imagine she takes the desired one as often as not.’

  Inspector Grant gasped. ‘How fiendish. But Horne, dear fellow, how did you ever suspect such a wicked scheme?’

  Horne looked towards Lennox. ‘I took the liberty, while Mr Lennox was elsewhere, of thoroughly examining his room
s, paying special attention to his bedclothes. If his story was true, I knew I would find evidence of his discharged semen on the sheets and blankets – for if, as he believed, his visitor was truly the earthbound spirit of his late wife, of course his ejaculation would pass straight through her. But there was none, which caused me to ask myself, where had it gone? And, more to the point, who would want to take it away?

  ‘Then I thought of all the children in this town who so obviously bear Mr Lennox’s most distinctive physical traits, and the answer, although I believed research into what we might call Artificial Insemination still to be in its infancy, was obvious. From there, I needed only discover the names of any Doctors who might specialise in the field of human reproduction, for which information I must thank you, Inspector Grant ... or, at least, a young lady at the establishment to which you directed me last night. And my interview with Doctor Foster filled in the rest of the puzzle.’

  Horne turned to face Lennox. ‘I must apologise for any inconvenience you may have been put through this night, and for my apparent rudeness when you came to visit me yesterday evening. But I needed you to go about your daily routine with as little disruption as possible, and the only way to achieve that was to ensure you believed I was as uninterested in your case as everybody else you approached. And to demonstrate my goodwill, if Inspector Grant is amenable, I will waive my customary fee, and take this marvellous machine in its stead.

  ‘After all,’ he said to Grant, ‘I think a visit to Foster’s offices will provide you with all the evidence you need to prosecute this motley crew of villains to the full extent of the law. Whereas this machine is destined for pride of place in the little museum of keepsakes that I have gathered over the course of my career.’

  ‘A museum of your work?’ Grant laughed incredulously. ‘That must be a sight to behold.’

  Horne laughed with him. ‘I’d imagine it is, although I must confess that the idea was not altogether my own. You see, on a visit to Scotland Yard many years ago, I had the honour of being escorted around their own collection of criminal artefacts, the rooms that the popular press call the Black Museum.