At first he thought it was a case of mistaken identity. The items – although they certainly fell within the purview of his researches and work – certainly were not his. For what would he require of four ornately sculptured, beautifully enamelled and possibly ... he reached for his magnifying glass ... in fact, assuredly, exquisitely bejewelled dildos?
Hand-signed ... his heart was beating faster now ... by Michael Perchin, work master for the Imperial Jeweller to the court of Tsar Alexander III, Carl Faberge.
It took a lot to shock Ambrose Horne, but the treasures that glinted in the morning sun as it shone through the window of his office had precisely that effect. Of course he had heard of Faberge; how, for almost a decade now, he had manufactured the most exquisite, and exquisitely valuable, ornamental Easter Eggs for the Royal Family of Russia. Few had been seen outside of Russia itself, however, and fewer still turned up wrapped in newspaper – a cursory glance at the wrapping, a few pages torn from the latest issue of The Strand, informed Horne he would find no clues there – on Belgravia streets. And, Horne was willing to wager, even fewer were cast in such a distinctive, not to mention provocative style. They were dildos, from the Italian diletto, he reminded himself, meaning ‘delight’ – which, in every conceivable way, they surely would prove.
Gripping one by its thick shaft, he explored its manufacture. Traditionally, Faberge eggs were hollow; they could be opened to reveal an internal secret of even greater value and beauty than the egg itself. And so it was with these little charmers – and the surprise?
Although the four looked identical in size, as he grasped them, he realised that there was an imperceptible difference between each, a mere fraction of an inch, as though ... he performed some hasty mental calculations ... as though one was intended to fit inside another, in the manner of the children’s dolls that were all the rage in London toy shops a few years back. And, while the first three were hollow, the fourth and smallest opened up to reveal ... another dildo. Which opened to reveal another. Yes, it was just like those children’s dolls, and soon, Horne’s desk was awash in jewelled penises.
Try as he might, however, Horne could comprehend of any reason why their owner – whether that person came by them honestly or otherwise – should have decided that they belonged to him.
That, however, was a problem for another time – if, indeed, a problem it was. If Horne had learned one truth from all his years as an investigator, it was that no mystery can remain unravelled forever. It might be today, it might be next week, it might even be next century. But, sooner or later, the mystery of the decorated dildos would be solved; and, until it was, what fascinating conversation pieces they would make.
Horne worked through the morning, closing his mind to the myriad questions that demanded answers as he set his thoughts instead to the summation he was composing for Scotland Yard, closing the door once and for all on the years of speculation that had raised a clutch of lurid East End murders, back in 1888. ‘And so ...’ his pen flowed across the page ... ‘it should lie without question in any reasonable reader’s mind that the murderess ...’ A loud, rhythmic pounding at the door broke his concentration; its repetition, without even a pause, confirmed that the caller was in a considerable hurry.
Horne sat back in his chair, his head angled towards the window. Three figures stood at the door; a fourth, he could see, was lurking – that was the only word for the fellow’s demeanour – a few paces further up the street. ‘Policemen,’ Horne breathed. He glanced at the dildos. If that was what they were calling about, then they could ask for them outright. Otherwise ... gently, he scooped them up and placed them out of sight; then, as the hammering continued, he made his way into the entrance-hall and opened the door.
‘Good morning, gentlemen ... and Inspector Toynbee. And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’
Toynbee – one of the few Scotland Yard flatfeet for whom Horne had developed any kind of respect – stepped inside; his associates remained at the door. ‘I’ll be brief, Horne. You will, this morning, have received a most unusual package.’ His eyes met Horne’s for a moment, searching for some sign of acknowledgement; receiving none, he continued on. ‘Its contents are, as you may have deduced, of inordinate value and, correspondingly, immense novelty – although whether or not they make suitable gifts for a certain young lady of aristocratic descent is another matter entirely.’
Now Horne did respond. The Lady Magdalena deB_____, daughter of one of the less obscure noblemen that peopled the society pages, had turned 18 this past October, and the entire country was aflame with curiosity over whom she should marry. Every ruling family in Europe had advanced any number of suitable suitors, but rumour had circulated for weeks that one was pressing his case with especial vigour and, though it could scarcely be spoken aloud, overwhelming ardour. A few pieces of the jigsaw fell into place. ‘And you want me to judge whether the gifts are what they appear to be?’
‘No, Horne. They are what they are. The gentleman in question let that be known in the most unequivocal terms. No, the question before us is – to put it as delicately as I might; are their dimensions accurate?’
Horne looked at him. ‘Perhaps we should drop the delicacy for a moment, Inspector, and place your request in plain English. You are asking me to procure the most intimate measurements of a European nobleman, so that we might discern whether his admittedly unconventional gift is being offered as a token of his love, or an accurate rendering of it. Correct?’
Toynbee nodded. ‘At our request, the suitor himself arranged for their delivery to you this morning.’
‘So he does not object to being inspected in this way?’ Horne could not mask the surprise he felt.
‘He does not object to his gift being inspected. Apparently ...’ the Inspector lowered his voice conspiratorially ... ‘a lot of these foreign johnnies go in for this sort of thing. Ask them what size wedding dowry they intend bringing to the match, and they immediately think you’re discussing ...’
‘Penis size,’ Horne completed the embarrassed man’s sentence. ‘So the gentleman in question believes I am an expert in ...’
‘Penis size.’ This time, it was the Inspector who added the missing words, although the tone of his voice suggested he would rather have bitten broken glass. ‘And you are to pronounce upon whether or not his dowry is large enough to satisfy his intended.’ Toynbee paused, painfully conscious of the double meaning in his words. Unfortunately, we only have his word for it that this is an accurate representation of the member in question.’
Horne smiled. ‘Let us suppose for a moment that it is. Am I to believe that a blue-blooded English aristocrat would be betrothed to a man, on no greater basis than the measurements of his manhood?’
Toynbee looked away. ‘It is not for us to speculate why such matches are made. Suffice to say, as my superiors told me when I was assigned to this mission, all eventualities must be taken into consideration. All of them.’ He left, and Horne returned to his office, to look, again, at the dildos, to marvel at the expertise of the sculpting, the smoothness of the finish ... and contemplate the final, tiniest, of the collection, a member so minute that he could only hope for the Prince’s sake that it was no more true-to-life than the largest was likely to be.
He wished, however, that he had removed each piece according to some form of logic; an hour later, as another brisk rap on the door drew him away from his endeavours, he was still attempting to return each one to its rightful place in the nest – a very different nest, he reminded himself, to that which awaited him on the other side of the door.
Catherine was one of several young ladies whom Horne, via his membership of some of the most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in London, was instructing in the various aspects of the art of love – preparing them, as it were, for their futures as wives of sundry diplomats and politicians, but without breaking the seal of fidelity that was their betrothed’s alone to puncture.
It was a precarious undertaking, of cours
e. Horne did not advertise his services in this respect, and few of the titled men and respected businessmen who prevailed upon his expertise were even aware that he offered them. Rather, each of Horne’s clients – fathers, for the most part, but the occasional fiancé or husband as well – believed that his arrangement with Horne was an exclusive one, a private affair between two gentlemen.
Not one could have guessed that, at the height of the marrying season (for, in high society, there is a season for everything), Horne was educating as many as nine girls a week, first introducing, and then instructing them in every sexual act he knew ... from A (‘for Analingus, of course,’ as he told one prospective client) to Z (‘whatever that might be,’ he added to himself).
At this time of year, on the other hand, business was as slow as it got, but Horne was not disturbed. Rather, it just allowed him more time with the clients he did have, and he readily admitted to a certain delight at the thought of this afternoon’s pupil.
Catherine was a big girl, even according to the fashionable dictates of the day, blessed with a plumpness that elevated her breasts and buttocks to heights of voluptuousness that could make a Reuben’s cherub blush. Unkindly, her father once described her, in Horne’s hearing, as his ‘little hippopotamus,’ and did not even blink when one of his drinking companions shot back ‘not so little, though’. But she was a pretty ... no, a beautiful ... girl, and so keen to learn all that he would teach her, that Horne genuinely considered her one of his favourite pupils ever.
Now she sat curiously eyeing the glittering array that stood proud on Horne’s bureau, with just a shadow of concern dancing around her mouth. ‘I was under the impression that we would be completing my understanding of cunnilingus this afternoon,’ she said slowly.
Horne nodded. ‘And so we are. Those little beauties belong to another matter I am working on, and have no bearing on your education today. Unless, that is, you would like to move on?’
Catherine glanced at her workbook, licked her lips, then leaned forward, looking Horne full in the face. ‘Mmmm, no. There remain a few things ... responses, mostly, but also some of the motions ... that I’m still a little uncertain about.’
He smiled. How strange it was that almost every student he’d ever tutored seemed to get stuck at precisely this same point in her studies, even those – like Catherine – who had raced through every other lesson with undisguised glee.
A more naïve man, of course, might have wondered what it was about this particular lesson that caused so much apparent uncertainty. But Horne was not that man. He knew the intensity of the course that he taught; he understood the often-overwhelming welter of information – emotional and physical – that his charges were expected to absorb into minds that might never have contemplated such intimacy before they were introduced to him. Now, for the first time in the entire curriculum, they were being introduced to a pleasure that required nothing more than the ability to relax, lie back and enjoy themselves. Who could blame them for wanting to prolong the pleasure – especially when they knew that the next class was mastophallation, which could often prove among the most strenuous of them all.
Horne waited while Catherine – naked, now – arranged herself on the couch that stretched alongside his desk, one leg trailing on the floor, the other raised across the heavily upholstered back. He knelt before her. ‘The important thing to remember’ ... he kissed her bountiful stomach ... ‘is that ...’ another kiss, lower now, while one hand stroked her inner thigh, basking in the heat that radiated from her crotch ... ‘most men don’t have a clue what they’re doing down here.’
Catherine giggled nervously, and Horne continued. ‘They think they do and, every so often, one might figure it out for himself. For the most part, however, they’re like little puppy dogs, incredibly eager to please, but all the enthusiasm in the world cannot make up for a little expertise. It’s your job to make sure they gain that expertise.’
Parting her lips, he licked the full length of her vagina with a broad sweep of his tongue. Catherine tensed slightly, and gasped, but Horne knew it was as much the unexpectedness of the action that induced her reaction, as any pleasure she may have gained from it.
He shifted his attention to her labia lips, the tip of his tongue tracing them before gently sucking them into his mouth. Now her light moans were genuine, and he halted his motions. ‘Something else you need to bear in mind. Although your clitoris is the most sensitive area, and you naturally want him to concentrate the majority of his attentions in that general vicinity, the fact is, he probably won’t. I know of men who have spent their lives indulging in orolabial stimulation, without once encountering the little man in a boat. So, you need to make sure that he does.’
Catherine drew back sharply, primly. ‘Oh, I could not. It wouldn’t be proper, even with my husband.’
‘You do not use words, you barely even use movement. You guide him with the sound of your breathing, with the slightest buck of your hips, with the gentlest of gasps and groans – all of which, you will find, will come as naturally as breathing when the time is right. They will increase as he draws closer, they will decrease should he miss the mark, and they will guide him to exactly the right spot, and precisely the correct motions. Now, I want you to close your eyes, and concentrate all of your senses on that one tiny rosebud.’
He waited while her body relaxed; then, further moistening her vulva with a little spit, he slid his tongue between the folds of her labia and licked gently, teasing her perineum before lapping at her vaginal opening, allowing his tongue to dawdle slowly, but firmly everywhere but in the one magical spot that he knew was now craving his touch.
He felt Catherine wriggle a little, hitching herself ever-so-slightly down on the couch, at the same time holding her breath as though fearful of moving any more than was necessary. Clutching her buttocks, Horne drilled his tongue into her, then sucked a mass of flesh deep into his mouth. Catherine froze for a moment, but relaxed as he reduced the pressure of his suction; he repeated the movement and again received that answering echo in her response, as her hand curled down to the nape of his neck. She was a faster learner than he thought.
He allowed his own neck muscles to relax, to see what she might do; thrilled as she gave another almost imperceptible hitch and, as his flicking tongue brushed her clitoris, she emitted a long groan.
Opening one eye, Horne contemplated the row of dildos that stood lined up on his desk. Catherine was holding his head in position; beneath his face, her so-gentle undulations were flawlessly following the darting of his tongue, while her breathing grew faster, louder ... disengaging the arm he had wrapped around her thigh, he reached out and grasped one of the smaller, more slender, of the glinting tools. He had not intended introducing Catherine to the art of the godemiche, that beautiful French word that says so much more than its rude translation of ‘artificial penis’ (but which exquisitely recaptures its Latin root, ‘please me’) for several lessons more, but his curriculum was never less than flexible.
He tucked the dildo into his own armpit, so that his body heat might warm it; then positioned its very tip at the entrance to Catherine’s vagina. She squirmed slightly, aware of its presence, hungry for its entrance, but Horne knew that was inadvisable. Catherine was delivered to him virgo intactus, and should be returned as such – his job, his reputation and, of course, his remuneration – all depended upon that. His intention, instead, was simply to lubricate the shaft and, having done so, he allowed it to slide down, to rest among the bundle of nerve endings that gathered at the girl’s anus. Again, the lessons were moving faster than he had intended, but the sheer abandon of her movements, the gasps and cries that now accompanied every twist of his tongue, informed him that that was no longer an issue.
He pushed; it was a tight fit, but Catherine’s yelp contained more excitement than pain, a keening ‘oh’ that gave way, within moments, to a second cry that faded, this time, into a muffled purr. Raising his eyes, Horne saw that she, too, had es
pied the dildos; had selected one of her own, and was now fellating it furiously, grasping it tightly with one hand while the other ... Horne saw it, but he did not believe it.
True, Catherine had never displayed any false modesty when it came to her lessons; true, too, she had thrown herself into most classes with a passion and enthusiasm that thrilled Horne to the core. But still he was astonished by the sight of her deliberately reaching for one of the largest of the dildos; drawing its thick tip around her nipples and down her abdomen; and then slipping it beneath Horne’s chin and deep inside her own pussy.
She held it there for a moment; he could feel the flexing of her arm as she drove it in and out of herself. Then her fingers wrapped around Horne’s own wrist, pulled his hand away from the rod that now plugged her anus, and placed it over that which impaled her vagina.
A shadow crossed Horne’s mind ... there goes her virginity; only to be chased away by another – assuming it was even there to begin with. Something told him, suddenly, that Catherine had long since dispensed of her hymen, and whether it was by accident (it frequently occurred while horseback riding) or design, she was not simply ripe for the fucking, she was demanding it. Mimicking her own deep thrusts, those that were now plunging the third dildo in and out of her straining mouth, Horne began working the thick, hard pole, even as his mouth and tongue continued their ecstatic spirals around the girl’s clitoris.
Her movements were faster now, her cries, though stifled by the phallus upon which she so hungrily sucked, were sharp and insistent. Suddenly, her thighs wrapped themselves tightly around Horne’s neck, first holding, then constricting, then crushing him as her hips rode his face, and her entire body, it seemed, rose up to devour him.
He could not breathe; at first, he simply clung on, convinced that the moment would pass. But it didn’t; rather, the pressure grew stronger, her bucking grew wilder; she was paused on the brink of the greatest orgasm of her life, driving her body towards the incredible release that was building in every atom of her soul, and Horne was nothing to her now, but the object that would deliver her to that shattering climax.
The Erotic Memoirs of Ambrose Horne Page 10
