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The Erotic Memoirs of Ambrose Horne

By Chrissie Bentley

The Erotic Memoirs of Ambrose Horne
Paperback, 114 pages paperback Online Price:
£5.99
ISBN: 9781909624351
Format: 203mm x 127mm
Imprint: Xcite Books
Published: 6th June 2013

EPUB, 125 pages ebook Online Price:
£1.99
ISBN: 9781907016943
Imprint: Xcite Books
Published: 13th April 2010

Category: Historical
Series: Ambrose Horne

Rating: 0 vote(s).



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 your reading pleasure, The Erotic Memoirs 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. 

‘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 attributes. 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.’

Chrissie Bentley

Deep within America’s mystical Delmarva Peninsula, author and architect Chrissie Bentley collects vintage erotica, believes in ghosts and has a sweet tooth that even her dentist admires. Addicted to writing since she was young, she ran out of time to do everything she wanted so she created a pseudonym to take up the slack. Jenny Swallows blogs furiously, haunts Facebook and composes obscene poetry, leaving Chrissie free to write stories, pay the bills and feed the cats.

Visit jennyswallows.blogspot.com to find out more about her, or just write and ask - she loves getting messages, and adores exchanging memories and anecdotes.

Described as “apocalyptic” by The Paris Review, Chrissie’s novel The Nympho Librarian & Other Stories was a 2012 best-seller on Amazon’s chart of books with the word “librarian” in the title; among over a dozen other novels and collections, her other works include Miss America: A BDSM Vampire Tale; the supernatural erotica of Below Blue London (“Bow Bells with blowjobs” is her succinct summary); and three collections of Ambrose Horne’s Victorian sex-detective stories published by Xcite.

Her latest, a semi-fictional study of the blue movie industry in London in the late 1960s will be published later this year.

Chrissie’s short stories have also appeared in Best Women’s Erotica 2012, the Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica, The Bad Girl’s Sweet Kiss (published by Xcite and co-edited with Miranda Forbes), various editions of Xcite’s Cocktales series and many more.

And when she’s not listening to Garbage, Jem and Broadcast CDs, playing with the cats or torturing her boyfriend (in the nicest possible way), she’ll probably have her nose buried away in Second Life. Where she writes stories, listens to Garbage, Jem and Broadcast, plays with cats... hmmm. I think we're seeing a pattern here.

Find her at:

Her blog: http://constantlychrissie.wordpress.com

Her Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/chrissie.bentley.9?fref=ts

And as her alter-ego on Twitter: @jennyswallows

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