Millicent shook her head and tossed the item back onto the bed. ‘Of course it’s an American creation,’ she laughed. ‘Everything is, these days. But I tell you this, my dear Ambrose. You will never catch me wearing ...’ she glanced at the letter that lay on Horne’s desk, ‘Marie Tucek’s Patented Breast Supporter, and I doubt whether any other respectable woman would, either.’
Horne shrugged. Sometimes it was easier simply to concede a point, than to argue with a woman, once her mind was made up. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said – although he was convinced, and time would prove, that she was wrong. Even as he sat admiring Millicent’s own breasts, exalting in their freedom from her corset, Horne knew of three haberdashers in London’s fashion district who were busily recreating Ms Tucek’s remarkable design, and racing against one another to be first to perfect it. Besides, he was also sufficiently versed in the mechanics of mankind to know that where sexuality led, technology would inevitably follow. And, despite Millicent’s mirth, there was unquestionably something very sexy ... or, at least, the promise of something very sexy ... about the Breast Supporter. Not so many hooks and eyelets, for a start!
He leaned forward and kissed each nipple in turn; then, as her giggle became a gasp, he drew one into his mouth and sucked, not only drawing the sweet brown nut into his mouth, but also the soft pale flesh that surrounded it. Millicent’s hand closed around the back of his head, holding him in place; he suckled for a moment longer, then pulled away and affixed his lips to her other bosom, glorying in both the taste of her breast, and in the knowledge that his sucking was jangling that mysterious highway that links the nipples to the clitoris. How miraculous, he mused, are the connections made by the human body.
He sensed, more than felt, Millicent’s legs opening. Shifting his weight a little, he began to kiss and nuzzle down her abdomen, instinctively registering her rising excitement as his mouth so slowly edged towards her moist treasures. He was in no hurry to sate her growing anticipation, however. He knew, had learned long ago, that to move too swiftly in that direction was to risk destroying all that the rest of the evening’s play had established – whereas, to draw it out, to linger over the most insignificant detail of her body, and to behave as though it, and nothing else, was the centre of his libidinous universe ... that was the way to shatter any last, cunnilingering inhibitions; that was the way to transform the shyest maiden into a hungry lover.
Millicent was neither inhibited nor shy. But she, too, loved the delectable torture of the slow tease, hitching her hips to attract his attention, squirming impatiently as his tongue twisted everywhere but the place she most yearned it to flicker. And he knew that, soon – very soon – she would be unable to take any more. Raising her hips as her hands clasped his scalp, she would push Horne’s head between her legs, guide his mouth to her labia lips, and then fall back onto the bed with a protracted sigh of pleasure, as he licked and sucked her towards a magnificent climax. He knew it, and he awaited that moment with an exquisite impatience of his own.
Tonight, however, she halted him before he had even reached the triangle of wiry hairs that concealed her wet slit. ‘Ambrose; may I ask ... would you do something for me?’
He looked up. ‘My darling, I will do anything you desire.’
‘I wish ... I would like so very much for you to make love to me first, ride me hard and fast and then, when you have reached your own peak, return to your current position, and help me attain mine.’
Horne smiled. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’ Raising himself, he mounted her swiftly, slipping his hard penis deep inside her and, reacting to her wildly bucking hips, allowed himself to fuck her without any regard for finesse or stamina; rode her, indeed, as though she were there for his pleasure alone; climaxed within mere minutes of entry, then slid back down her body, to part at last the lips that were already fringed with the first drippings of his orgasm. He began, slowly, to lick.
He could taste her pleasure; the heightened sensitivity that she already felt, coupled with the physical thrill of being permitted to live out one of her own private fantasies. But he also knew that his own pleasure would be short-lived, that Millicent’s climax had been building since the first brush of his mouth against her flesh.
He was correct. Horne’s tongue had scarcely begun to caress her clitoris than her body was tensing, her breath expelled in sharp, hard cries, before a monstrous tremble shook her entire frame, and the woman flung her head and shoulders forward, her hands pressed his head into her loins, and she shrieked her relief, a wail of unrestrained pleasure that ceased only when she took his face between her hands, and hungrily (but so deliberately!) licked away the traces of white that Horne knew streaked his chin and cheeks.
Horne was surprised. Like many women, Millicent had never shown any inclination to taste, or even curiously sample, his come. Now, however, she devoured it, her tongue probing deep inside his mouth, coiling around his tongue, greedily absorbing every last flavour it could find in there.
The next time they met, Horne resolved, he would ask her to return the favour, to accept him into her mouth following his orgasm, to suck him as he softened, and acquaint herself even further with the exquisite taste of their conjoined nectar. For now, however – the chiming of the clock on the mantelpiece alerted Horne to the lateness of the hour. He had an appointment to attend, in less than 40 minutes, at a popular club in central London. And, from what he had gleaned already about the nature of the meet, he was convinced that it would posit a mystery as delightful as any to which he might introduce sweet Millicent.
The No-Nose Club was one of London’s most exclusive establishments, a watering hole for authoritarian and aesthete alike. It was also sufficiently discreet that any manner of business might be conducted there, by any manner of person – and not only those for whom it was originally named when it was founded a century earlier, for sufferers of sundry venereal diseases.
All were now welcome within those palatial halls, and first-time visitors were often surprised by the famous faces they recognised there – a Prince here, a Baron there ... and, Horne smiled as he entered the billiard room, one of the highest ranking police officers in the land.
Inspector Toynbee rose as Horne entered, laying to one side the novel he had been reading. It was, Horne noted, one of those tawdry novels that purport to document the true erotic adventures of a maid-servant, but which are far more likely to be the fervent imaginings of a professional ‘hack’ – in fact, Horne knew precisely the provenance of The Mistress Below The Stairs, for he had penned it himself, a few years before, for a publisher of the vilest repute, but the deepest pockets.
‘Dashed good read, this,’ Toynbee greeted him. ‘Chap comes home, discovers his wife trussed up like a Christmas bird, being flogged by the scullery maid. I just wish I could complete more than a chapter or two at a time.’
‘Powerful imagery, eh?’ asked Horne.
‘No, too many darned interruptions. This case, Horne, this case. Every time I turn around, there’s another twist, another turn, another labyrinthine ...’ Horne cut him off. The Inspector had few faults, but excessive verbosity was certainly paramount among them.
‘Perhaps you could tell me what’s going on, and maybe I can ease some of the angles,’ Horne suggested. ‘In my own experience, even the most convoluted mystery can eventually be straightened out, if only one knows where to begin.’
‘So you say,’ the Inspector sighed. ‘But this one, I fear, will baffle the sharpest mind.’ And, with that, he outlined the source of his distress. ‘Murder most foul,’ he whispered melodramatically. ‘But a murder that has no victim and no suspect. In other words, it is as if the murder itself never took place.’
‘Then why do you believe it has?’ Horne asked.
‘Because of this,’ the Inspector responded. He reached into his breast pocket and produced a series of photographs, each one depicting, with remarkable clarity, a roll of fabric as it was bathed, with evident caution a
nd concern, within a variety of clearly noxious substances, and then, in the final picture, delivered to a large room in which an army of downtrodden-looking women were seated at sewing machines, labouring for the few pennies a day that their miserable job afforded them.
‘They were posted from a box in King’s Cross last Saturday. Addressed to me, personally. But our best men have examined these photographs, and believe they have isolated the pictured poisons – for poisons they most certainly are.’ Toynbee consulted a slip of paper and recited the names of, indeed, half a dozen extraordinarily toxic brews. ‘But that is all we know, beyond the terrifying fact that, somewhere in London ... or elsewhere, for that matter ... there exists a quantity of clothing that possesses the power to kill anybody who comes into contact with it.’
‘Have you been able to identify the photographer?’ Horne asked.
‘We have investigated every professional photographer, every known amateur and every recorded owner of the necessary equipment we can trace. But we have come up empty-handed at every turn.’
Other tests ... every test ... had been applied to the photographs, the envelope, the handwriting, the postage stamp. Nothing. Now, fearful that there was no manner in which they could avert the intended crime, the police had turned their attention to ensuring that they were notified when it occurred, with a request that every suspicious death, anywhere in the country, be reported directly to Scotland Yard.
‘And then,’ Toynbee sighed resignedly, ‘we discovered that the combination of chemicals and potions is such that the death itself will not even appear suspicious. Rather, the mixture simply leeches into the flesh over the course of an hour or two, does its mischief, and then dissipates into the blood. One moment, a person will be breathing, the next they will not, and an autopsy will reveal nothing more remarkable than heart failure. Even blood samples will carry no evidence of the poison. But a poison it is, and a dashed fiendish one at that.’
Horne sat silently for a moment, his eyes following the curves of the busty silhouette decorating the jacket of the Inspector’s now forgotten book. ‘So, it will be a foundation garment of some description,’ he mused. ‘One that is in constant contact with the flesh.’
‘That was our scientists’ deduction as well,’ the Inspector replied. ‘The material is of a type favoured for that manner of clothing. But, short of issuing a Royal edict prohibiting all wearing of underwear, I do not see how such a deduction will assist us.’
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ Horne laughed. ‘But that, of course, is why you engaged my services ... at least, I assume that they have been engaged?’
The Inspector nodded. ‘The usual rate, the usual terms and, of course, the usual bonuses.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘But I wish you luck. Solve this case, and you will have earned every penny.’ Horne smiled. He enjoyed a good pun almost as much as he enjoyed good sex, and Female Detective Penelope Cruikshank – Penny to her friends – gave him ample opportunity to indulge both pleasures.
Penny had been briefed and, in the terminology of a later age, Horne was now thoroughly enjoying being debriefed, as the girl turned her delightful attentions to the last shred of clothing that remained on his body ... delightful because, in all his years of sexual experience, Horne had never met another woman who could completely remove a gentleman’s clothing using nothing more than her teeth.
He wondered how she had discovered and refined such a talent, but he did so only in moments of idle curiosity. As with so many other magical moments, it does not matter the circumstances under which a lover learned her most delightful tricks; only that she is willing to demonstrate them.
She had drawn his shorts over his feet; now she was commencing her slow, languorous journey back up his body, kissing and nibbling her way up his calves, around his knee, across his thighs towards his groin. He felt her tongue flick against his balls, shifting them with its weight, balancing and then raising them so that her mouth might continue its explorations, flicking at his so-sensitive anus, building his excitement until he begged her – she was never satisfied until she heard him beg – to allow him his final release.
No less than his slow tease of Millicent, it had become an unspoken competition between them, the amount of time that could elapse between Penny commencing her gentle torture, and Horne being unable to take any more – tussles of an hour or more were now commonplace between them.
For now, however, Horne was content to simply lay back, his eyes closed, a faint smile playing on his lips, as the girl’s mouth and tongue skated around his body. If one only possesses the willpower, the ability to ‘switch off’ the pure sexuality of the moment and deliver oneself instead into the actual sensations, there is no greater form of relaxation than this. It was a technique he had learned in the east, of course, and one that he had frequently contemplated publicising further. But few men (or women, for that matter) appeared able, or willing, to simply lie still and enjoy it; their minds were forever wandering to thoughts of reciprocation, or constant demands for greater stimulation.
Horne was one of those few who could, and that is the state into which he chose to sink, oblivious to everything beyond the pure sensations that flickered through his body, while his mind floated free of all worldly concerns, cleansing itself through absolute pleasure.
As if aware of his mindset, Penny concentrated her own energies upon furthering his mood. Even when, her neck and tongue finally tiring, she took his erect penis in her hand, she did so with a gentle stealth that was massage as much as masturbation. And, when her wrist tired, and she transferred him back to her mouth, her sucking, too, was so slow and rhythmic that an orgasm that might have erupted in moments was instead little more than a warming pressure in Horne’s loins.
Finally, however, Penny’s patience was exhausted, not to mention her hands and jaw. The one-hour threshold had long since passed; now they were bearing down upon two. Still holding his cock upright in one hand, she crouched and gently lowered her pussy onto him, rippling her innermost muscles as she did so, and slowly picking up speed.
Horne’s eyes opened. ‘Yes,’ he breathed as Penny reached behind herself and placed a fingertip at the still spittle-slicked entrance to his ass, then increased her motions as she lunged. The force of his climax, she told him afterwards, came close to knocking her teeth out – from within.
Horne lay close to nirvana (‘near-vana,’ he sometimes joked), but, even with his mind so freshly laundered, was he any closer to a solution to the mystery of the fouled fabric? Their exertions at an end, he drew Penny to his chest and, slowly, they began piecing together all that had so far been deduced ... all, on this occasion, being so little that one compounded verb encapsulated it all. ‘Under-garments,’ Penny sniggered. ‘Murder by under-garment. I do so look forward to hearing that charge read out before the hanging judge.’
‘If it comes to that,’ Horne replied. ‘My hope, however, is that we might still unravel this mystery before any soul whatsoever is drawn to within the grasp of the grave. But where to start our search?’
‘The major manufacturers of all such items have been investigated thoroughly,’ Penny continued. ‘But that still leaves every back street sweatshop in the country, and it could take months to visit every one of them.’
Horne raised an eyebrow. ‘Those people, however, are only one part of the puzzle. It is true, we must find the material without delay. But, more importantly, we must also find the character who treated it in the first place. For we know of only the one roll of cloth. Who knows how many others he may have prepared, and how many more he may plan to distribute? And, for the sake of my own curiosity, if nothing else, why he should do so in the first place?’
He reached for his notepad. ‘Let us, for the sake of thoroughness, inventory all the garments that might ... assuming we are even on the correct path ... pass themselves off as undergarments. We will begin with our own clothing. And, to sharpen our minds even further, let us do so in strict alphabetical order.’
Bloomers, bustiers ... cami-knickers, corsets ... long-johns, pantaloons ... The list grew into the night. But all the time, as their minds stretched towards the lesser-known crevices of the most outrageously attired harlot’s wardrobe, Horne’s mind struggled to seek the one item they had omitted, the one that some inner instinct whispered to him might hold the clue for which he searched. It was only as their interest in the task began to wane, and a warming weight in Horne’s lap started nudging impatiently at Penny’s thigh, that his brain itself commenced to nudge towards the answer he sought.
She was sliding her own torso down his body, her nipples trailing ticklish down his abdomen, her ample cleavage preparing to envelop his waiting shaft.
‘Breast supporters,’ he whispered.
‘I’ll use my hands, thank you very much,’ Penny smiled, as she started to slowly massage his manhood between her firmly-formed mammaries.
‘No. We forgot Breast Supporters. I can’t imagine how I could be so stupid. I only took delivery of a pair this morning.’ Slipping out from beneath her, mindful of the puzzled expression that was now welded to Penny’s face, Horne crossed the room to where he had placed the package earlier in the day.
‘An American acquaintance procured it for me. Knowing my interest in the esotericisms of sexuality.’ He produced the curious object, and smiled as Penny guffawed loudly at the sight. No less than Millicent, she had never before seen, nor even imagined, so uncomely an item of intimate apparel; nor could she appreciate Horne’s own admiration for the outlandish design. ‘Typical man,’ she sniffed. ‘Not a thought for comfort, only for access. And you believe these will one day replace the corset?’
For the second time that day, Horne found himself proselytizing on the behalf of the Breast Supporter. ‘I am convinced of it,’ Horne assured her. And, leafing through the photographs that Toynbee had entrusted to him, pausing to pass his magnifying glass over one or other of them, standing up to consult one of the leather-bound books that were arrayed on a nearby shelf, he continued, ‘no less than I am now convinced that the solution to our present difficulty does not lie among some shadowy band of assassins and poisoners. Rather, we should seek it among those business interests for whom the demise of your beloved corset would prove a life, and certainly career-altering event.’
The Erotic Memoirs of Ambrose Horne Page 3
