The Rutting Room

Preface It is with great regret that I commence this, the final account of my adventures with Aubrey Valentine. Readers who have followed the exploits of Aubrey Valentine from my first published account, The Bleeding Whispers, through to our most recent, Mystery of the Flayed Mirror, will be familiar with Valentine's singular skills in the field of occult investigation. I had hoped that our association would continue well into the future but, sadly, events have overtaken my wishes and it falls to me, as Valentine's chronicler, to bare the bad tidings to his many admirers.

So it is with heavy heart that I have assembled this final tale from the testimony of the Bedlow family, from Valentine's last statement, and from my own eyewitness account of the Monday Street horror. I can only pray that it will stand as a fitting tribute to the unusual life of the finest man I have ever known and one I was proud to call my friend, as well as serve as a warning of noctuous forces from beyond our realm of awareness that seek to lead mankind in directions that direly contrast our more noble aspirations.

However, let me be candid by saying that this account is not for the young, faint of heart, or weak of will. Furthermore, I strongly recommend that you refrain from reading any further, if your delicate sensibilities are easily offended by erotic imagery, for to be faithful to the actual events which transpired, the account which follows resounds with explicit depictions of sexual atrocities of the most bizarre kind imaginable.

Chapter 1

The house on Monday Street was built late in the reign of Queen Victoria. A solid and imposing tower of a home, it looked out across a quiet and tree-lined avenue in the heart if London. Almost as a reflection of the era of its construction, the house, while exhibiting a conservative, classical facade to the outside world, contained within its walls an eccentric profusion of rooms and chambers. Dusty alcoves below stairs gave onto narrow corridors connecting one room with another. There were secret rooms tucked away like forgotten, unopened letters. Faded wallpaper in the basement, the attar of dead flowers, mirrors cataracted with thick dust, wood slat flooring that creaked painfully at the slightest provocation.

The house had passed through several hands before it finally became the property of Dr. Bedlow and his family.

While it would not be entirely true to say that our story began with Mrs. Bedlow and her daughter, it seems appropriate to begin the narrative with their unfortunate discovery of what became intimately known as The Rutting Room.

Mrs. Bedlow had spent the wonderfully sunny afternoon shopping, at the close of which she collected her sixteen-year-old daughter, Imogen, from parochial academy she attended. Imogen's friend, Giselle Barnes, was going to spend the evening with the Bedlows.

The two cute schoolgirls skipped merrily along, their short plaid skirts waving around their legs, and their ponytails dancing in the slight breeze as they hurried along. The girls whispered excitedly to each other as they approached Mrs. Bedlow, giggling about a little game that they were going to play, a secret one that the spirited young Imogen said her father had taught her. Their cheery faces, bright eyes, and perfectly white toothed smiles greeted Mrs. Bedlow as she motioned them into horse drawn carriage.

Upon arriving at the house, the girls hurried up to Imogen's room, while Mrs. Bedlow went directly to the kitchen and dumped the contents of her shopping bags onto the table.

A wedge of sunlight draped itself across the table and floor like a flag, and Mrs. Bedlow paused to observe the dust motes boiling in the gauzy light. There was something unusual about the movement of the particles; they seemed to follow some subtle organizing pattern. Like iron filings on paper, the dust motes arranged themselves into spider-web formations. These then exploded, unable to sustain coherence, and were rearranged into new configurations. She admired the restless choreography for some time before the hypnotic effect faded and it seemed as though her eyes had been deceiving her from the start.

She stocked the fridge and cupboards and prepared a snack for the girls. Carrying a small tray, she began to climb the stairs. Now she could feel a movement, a pulsation in the air. She touched the wall and her fingertips registered a deep, thudding concussion. It seemed as though the pipes beneath the skin of paper and plaster were pound- ing with a slow, metronomic rhythum. She had a brief vision of gas mains, water pipes, and electric cables carrying arterial blood through the substructure of the house. The pulse quickened and Mrs. Bedlow felt her own heartbeat accelerate to match it. Sweat broke out on her forehead and she became acutely aware of a spreading dampness in her crotch, an involuntary, exciting, lubrication. She bit her lip as her nipples grew suddenly hard and erect under her long dress, forcing herself to the top of the stairs, dizzily.

"Imogen," she said, her voice was hoarse and breathless, preorgasmic. She had spoken her daughter's name as though it were the name of a lover. Approaching the door of Imogen's room, she stopped short.

The door handle was swelling and contracting slightly, inflating and deflating like a lung. And the sounds that came from beyond the door had no place in a girl's bedroom.

Slowly Mrs. Bedlow reached out to touch the keyhole. It was wet, leaking a musky sexual-like fluid. She raised her fingers to her lips, and licked them. When she closed her hand around the warm, pulsing door handle it became lewdly tumescent in her grasp. She opened the door.

The whole room inhaled, drawing her into its suffocating heart. The smell of animals in heat. Smell of stained sheets and stale come and heated flesh.

"Look at me, Mummy," said Imogen, giggling.

Imogen was bent over the bed, her short schoolgirl's skirt was hiked up well past her hips, her lacy white panties laying discarded on the floor across the room with her shoes. Her daughter's ass was raised provocatively in the air as only the tips of her toes supported her parted legs. The teenager was wantonly revealing her most intimate areas, offering up the slit of her hairless mound and puckered anus for the most detailed inspection.

Moaning and salivating, Giselle Barnes knelt between her friend's spread legs. Both of the girl's white school blouses were completely unbuttoned, thrown open to display their firm, jutting, stiff nippled breasts. The white laced, fringed socks the girls still wore had been intentionally left on to be sensual contrasts to their girlishly slender thighs and graceful legs.

Most shocking of all - Giselle was busily working a long-nailed finger in and out of Imogen's labial mound as her other hand performed the same carnal act on her own pubescent mons!

As if in unison, both turned to look at Mrs. Bedlow, eyes heated to incandescence.

"Oh, God!" was the best Mrs. Bedlow could manage before the girls descended on her, tearing at her clothes like wild little beasts. Totally unprepared for this, Mrs. Bedlow was dragged to the floor by the laughing girls and stripped naked. The door to the bedroom slammed hard behind her.

Wide-eyed terror gripped Mrs. Bedlow, then, suddenly, her mind was strangely enveloped by a blanket-like web of unrestrained sexual frenzy as the girls commenced doing unspeakable things to themselves and to her own writhing female form.

All too soon, Mrs. Bedlow found herself, unbelievably, joining into the unseamly orgy of feminine flesh. As the three of them struggled on the floor, she heatedly planted her wet vagina against Giselle Barnes's panting mouth as she buried her face in her daughter's already wet crotch. Imogen's braided ponytail swept over her now naked shoulder as she completed the circle by thrusting her own outstretched tongue into the steaming flower of Giselle's pink portal of womanhood.

There was a sustained note of shame in Mrs. Bedlow's voice as she described in lurid details these events to us. That shame, quite clear in her words, was entirely absent in her demeanor. Her long black hair was wildly tossled, she sat in the kitchen, wearing a loose robe that parted at the chest, revealing the pale skin of her large outthrust breasts, the curvaceous sides of her slender torso, her shapely legs, and the freshly shaved mound of her vagina. Her legs widely spread apart, slung over each arm of the chair, and her hands continued to masturbate herself slowly and compulsively as she talked. She periodically paused to wet her fingers in her mouth. She looked up at us, her eyes desperate.

Our genuine attempt to engender Mrs. Bedlow to don her clothing met with wholesale refusal on her part.

"You must help us," she sobbed. "We can't stop it. We can't stop it, and my daughter's still up there." She seemed to loose control again, eyes closing. The rhythm of her hand became more insistent as she drifted into memory. "It was so beautiful," she sighed. "It was like she was trying to get back into my womb, head first..."

Valentine eyed her coldly. Pulling my coat over my lap to hide my growing erection, I wondered if he ever experienced any human emotion now. I could not remember the last time I had seen him smile. He touched his brow with his bandaged left hand, always a sign that he was thinking deeply. The silence was broken by both her ragged breathing, and by the wet, slurping noises her fingers made as they rammed in and out of the pink-lipped gash of her bare vagina.

"Where exactly is your husband now, Mrs. Bedlow?" Valentine asked.

She jerked her head toward the ceiling. "With the girls. With it. He can't control himself. None of us can. The room just wants us to fuck and fuck until we die."

I looked at Valentine as he removed his duffle coat.

"I must examine the room before I make my decision," he said.

"Just a seconnnddd...I'mmm abouuutttt toooo... cummmmmm..." Mrs. Bedlow moaned as an obvious orgasm neared. Her hands worked frantically now. One rubbed her clitorus and fucked her labia obscenely, while her other hand massaged and pulled on her distended nipples. I tried to avert my eyes to help reduce the size of my painful erection, however I found to my utter dismay that I was quite mesmerized by the beautifully erotic display before me.

Mrs. Bedlow's heavy breathing changed into loud moans as her body began to quaking violently. A tremendous scream of release exploded from her lungs as her hips ground and bucked up off the chair to meet the slick fingers of her hand. I sat speechless as Mrs. Bedlow climaxed before us, two almost total strangers!

The urgent wire that had been delivered to our lodgings a few hours before had pled for us to come quickly to the Bedlow home. I could plainly see from my medical training that Mrs. Bedlow was certainly not exhibiting normal behavior. As she struggled to her feet, I plainly saw the dreadful exertion in her eyes, not the usual postorgasmic bliss.

A vision of both beauty and vice, Mrs. Bedlow was continuously being driven on to seek sexual gratification by any and all means. It was clearly taking a massive effort of her will to restrain the weighty urge to assault us.

"I'm frightened to go near it, but I want to so much," she said. "It was only my poor husband who managed to push me out of the room on that first day. If he hadn't, I'd still be there." Her hands scooped her large breasts out of her robe and held them up to us, her fingers kneeding and bouncing the full orbs around in a lewd attempt at getting us to respond. "I'd still be there."

"Quite," said Valentine curtly.

With a practiced motion of his hand, he motioned me over to the corner of the kitchen to consult with him. "Your appraisal of the situation, Dodson?" he whispered.

"Clearly a case of Clinical Nymphomania coupled with Freudian Supressal Release, my good man," I quietly replied.

"The answer's that easy? Perhaps you have forgotten my old adage of proper investigation, Dodson. The answer to this riddle must take into account all variables, and I dare say your "condition" is most assuredly not the result of completely natural causes. We have much left to rule out before we can properly formulate a testable theory. Upon the firm foundation of logic a sound resolution to the matter can be confidently built. Yet, where logic ends, inspiration begins."

"It was simply my first appraisal of her behaviour," I returned, donning my jacket to better hide my own unruly state of arousal.

"Very well," Valentine loudly entoned, turning at once around to face Mrs. Bedlow's unabashed nakedness. "We will try to help you. If you would be so kind as to show us to this room of yours, we can continue the inquiry."

Mrs. Bedlow simply gave a weak nod, fondling a nipple between finger and thumb as she slowly led the way to the mysterious source of the home's lascivious influence.

Following closely behind her, we climbed the stairs.

"Can you feel it?" Valentine asked alertly.

I nodded. It was impossible to be unaware of the precussive thumping in the stairs below our feet. The room, or whatever it was, had anchored itself deeply into the fabric of the house, extending roots into the infrastructure. Its potent power was unmistakable. The heated pounding of my phallus, despite my best efforts to refrain from thinking of anything other than tea and crumpets, demonstrated the awesome pervasiveness of the aphrodisiac phenomena. I could not even begin to imagine how it must have been like to stay here, night after night, as the Bedlows had done, slowly succumbing to the dreadful sexual hunger. I will never know how Mrs. Bedlow summoned the strength of will to contact Valentine and myself.

Mrs. Bedlow whined and whispered lewd endearments as she led the way up the staircase. She had ludely hiked her robe up past her waist, making the intense cravings of her voluptuous body visibly known. The creamy white cheeks of her ass bounced with each deliberate step, revealing the wetness of her glistening mons. I somehow managed to summon enough willpower to avert my eyes, glancing in Valentine's direction, but his eyes were fixed on some unguessable horizon. I could not help but wonder how the power of The Rutting Room was affecting him.

Since the horrible death of his young wife, Angela, some years ago - as recounted in The Affair of the Highgate Shroud - he had been resolutely celibate. Indeed, almost sexless. Nothing could fill the void Angela's death, at the hands of The Mysteries, had left in his soul. If anyone could tackle the sexually maniacal energies of the monstrously licentious room, it was surely Aubrey Valentine.

"Here," Mrs. Bedlow hoarsly articulated as we reached a door off the home's second story level. She pointed to the shut door and backed away. Bracing her weight against the far wall, she selected a golf ball capped umbrella from a nearby hatstand and slid the ball mounted handgrip slowly into herself. Weeping madly, bending and unbending her legs, she rode the wooden shaft. Her eyes clouded over. She cooed our names, begging us to join her.

"Poor Mrs. Bedlow," I muttered, trying to push away the perverted thoughts that bubbled ceaselessly into my mind.

Valentine ignored her cries and faced the door.

"Are you ready?" he said. I weakly nodded, unsure, yet forced myself to follow his lead as he motioned for me to stand behind him. Just as Mrs. Bedlow had described, the room's door handle throbbed wickedly with unseen energies. Even as Valentine reached out to grip it, the pulsing handle appeared to change into a rounded mammary gland. Without further hesitation, his hand squeezed firmly into the fleshy protuberance, threw open the door, and we confronted the libertine room.

The first thing that assailed my senses was the smell: a vast, heady perfume that reeked of reeling, desperate nights and polluted innocence. It was the odorous bouquet of all unbridled desire. The first olfactory shock was followed by the visual horror. The scene within the room vaguely recalled some images from Bosch.

Giselle Barnes, in the soiled tatters that remained of her school dress, was servicing three naked men. Her hands and mouth worked furiously on a very long, raw looking penis, while she rode against two others; one up her vagina, the other shoved deeply into her rectum.

Imogen Bedlow giggled as she drove a policeman's baton repeatedly into her own bleeding anus, causing her large cone-shaped bosom to jiggle and bounce wildly about.

A red-haired Irish looking woman leaned back against the far wall, busily plunging a rounded hairbrush in and out of the gaping bushy slit between her wide spread legs. With her other hand she held up one of her massive, torpedo-shaped breasts to her drooling mouth, sucking hard on a distended nipple.

Dumbstruck, all I could do was watch the orgiastic debauchery besieging my senses. Soon each of the participants in the mindless array of sensuous exploitation simultaneously achieved a fearful level of orgasmic abandon. Seemingly boundless quantities of hot spurting juices shot through the air and flowed precipitously, before finally ebbing away to mere trickles. However, the collapsing bodies were only allowed to rest momentarily. The players of the whorish troop took up new partners, quickly resumming acts of abject depravity. Men's faces pressed into female pussies. The women, in turn, sucked deeply on the next man's prick, forming a continuous oval of sweating, bucking, grunting flesh.

Valentine gestered to one of the men. "Bedlow?" he asked.

I nodded as the weird erotic pattern once again dissolved in bone-jarring climactic release.

Imogen, on all fours, backed up, impaling herself on the huge, jutting shaft of her father's oozing penis. The eminent Dr. Bedlow gripped the girl by her flank and pulled her roughly back into him. He brutally pounded his enormous shaft into his daughter's juvenile qwim, driving into her as madly as she thrust back at him.

It was beastial!

At one point in the frenzied orgy, Dr. Bedlow managed to turn his head to face us. There were tears in his eyes. "God help me," he cried, but before he could say anymore, the flame-haired woman smothered his face in the cleavage of her prodigous, heaving, saliva and semen coated mammaries.

"It's monstrous!" I finally blurted. Indeed, it was singularly the most monstrous exhibition of unrestrained erotic debauchery that I had ever witnessed. Yet, even as I confessed my disgust vocally, l not deny the dark excitement it made me feel. My penis pulsed with horrible, otherworldly vigor, near ripping through my trousers as the room's power thrummed mightily through me.

The years of medical training I had undergone helped me refocus on clinically surveying the bizarre revelry. It was at that point that I noticed something quite odd about the writhing bodies of the men and women - the private parts of the room's hapless denizens (penises, gonads, vaginas, and mammaries) exhibited abnormalities of size, shape, and degrees of tumulescence!

It was as if a super-normal amount of blood and life forces were somehow being channeled through their sex organs. Finally turning away from the forbidding sight, I beheld Mrs. Bedlow. I now noted similar erotic abnormalitie, much less pronounced in her, yet present nonetheless.

I quickly theorized that proximity to the room, and/or duration inside it, had to be the cause of these freakish distortions of human flesh.

"What ho... Look there!" Valentine shouted, pointing at the upper walls of the obscenely insane room.

The very walls of the room appeared were now shifting through strange geometric patterns! I felt like I was watching a nightmarish four-dimensional origami at work on the architecture of the place. I received the distinctive impression that an intelligence other than man was behind it. Something sinister. I was somehow able to sense that it was trying to get the the patterns on the wallpaper into the correct pattern, like it was working a kind of chinese puzzle to unlock a secret hiding place. The patterns flowed into suggestive shapes. Wet slits gaped opened in the walls, and then were sealed.

It was at that very moment that the door slammed shut in Valentine's face. He silently produced an embroidered handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his damp brow.

Turning around, he calmly asked Mrs. Bedlow, "Who are the others in there?"

Mrs. Bedlow looked up from her wet loins. "Sarah Jane Mcleod, our maid," she said. "Giselle's father, and a constable. They were all trapped there."

Feeling sympathic, I walked over to her, my painfully unruly erection slowing my pace as I attempted to offer her my support. Helping her to her feet, she was suddenly overwhelmed, her remarkable restraint dissolving upon contact with me. Without warning, her hands grabbed the straining shaft of my penis through my trousers, as she begged, "Fuck me! Please... Please... Fuck me!"

Valentine simply gave me a slight nudge of hi elbow and a knowing wink, then rapidly strode down the stairs, leaving me alone with Mrs. Bedlow.

"My good woman, you are married," I said, trying to extract her hands from my throbbing manhood.

"Please! I'm going mad with desire!" she wailed. "Help me! I beg of you. I need you!"

My befuddled mind reeled under the pervasive influence of The Rutting Room. I had sworn an oath to uphold the Hypocratic Oath. She was my patient. It was my duty to help her. I had to, however I was unable to bring myself to render her unconscious. Something inside my mind convinced me to show her the milk of human kindness. All I did was simply pull off my coat, Mrs. Bedlow did the rest.

Her hands unzipped my fly, darted in, and withdrew my hard prick in one fluid motion. Her eyes locked with mine as she pressed back against the wall, looking down as her hands guided my throbbing hard-on between the dripping lips of her hot labia. I was stunned by the sensation as I felt her luxuriant vagina pull my shaft deep into itself. Her hips then began whipping up a wet froth of passion between our thrashing thighs.

I nearly collapsed as Mrs. Bedlow threw her arms up around my neck, mashed her large breasts into my chest, and wrapped her long legs around my waist, skewering herself on my rigid pole. Riding up and down on my cock with feverish intensity, her swollen tits slapped repeatedly against my face. Burying my face in the warm embrace of her enormous cleavage, I let her rut herself into oblivion. My penis trembled, growing even larger as thoughts of the unearthly sights I had witnessed in the next room came flooding back into my mind.

Faster and faster her body strove against mine, lust moving her to the point of a blistering climax. She pistoned her wet pussy on and off my steely erection with ever increasing speed and abandon.

"So close... Yess... YESSS..." she screamed into my ear as a blinding flash of exploding suns suddenly filled her mind. My body shuddered violently as her chaotic release triggered my own. I poured my richness deeply into her for what seemed like hours as her vagina spasmed wildly, both of us splashing our mutual lust into the other. It was as if we were carried up to the lofty cloudtops, then rained heavily back down to earth. I held Mrs. Bedlow tightly to me till we regained our senses and our breaths, then we parted.

"God bless you, kind sir!" she said in honest appreciation.

"Whoever said doctors don't make house calls, dear lady?" I laughed nervously at my attempt at humor in a genuine effort to bring light to the terrible nature of the situation. Hurrying downstairs, Mrs. Bedlow holding my arm for support, I finally found Valentine brousing through the musty library.

"Valentine," I began, "we must get away from this house. It..."

"Please let me finish," he interjected, his magnificant mind whirling with activity. "You have surmised, as have I, that proximity to The Rutting Room results in alterations, both of body and mind."

"My God, Valentine!" I exclaimed. "How do you do it?"

"Merely abstract reasoning, my good fellow," he returned. Putting an old dusty book back in its place, Valentine quickly approached Mrs. Bedlow, who once more had been compelled by the strange room upstairs to engaged in masturbatory gratification. Displaying his incredible expertise in archaic wisdom, his good hand darted out like lightning, his strong fingers precisely hitting the desperate woman's pressure points at the base of her throat. With a slight whimper she collapsed into my arms, much needed unconsciousness overshadowed her.

Finding the coat closet, I buddled Mrs. Bedlow's flagrantly naked body up in a cloak that I found there. Valentine then led the way out the front door to our waiting carriage.

Once back at the spacious flat on Hobbs Lane, the viceral acts of sexual perversion that I had earlier witnessed, as well as my inability to refrain from being enchanted by them forced me to the lavatory to vomit out my disgust. As I next entered the main room, the haunting sounds of Valentine's piccolo pleasantly filled my ears, helping to drive away the memories of decadent cries that had come from the acursed bedroom of Imogen Bedlow. Mrs. Bedlow sat calmly drinking a stout mug of Gevalia Cafe. Sobberly dressed now, she vividly remembered every lurid detail of the preceeding hours, going in and out of shock as she recalled the insatiable nymphomania that had so claimed her body. Quickly administering a medicinal tonic to Mrs. Bedlow, soon the glassy, lust-filled blankness had left her eyes, replaced by the warm glimmer of humanity.

"What are we going to do about my daughter?" she finally said.

"When was your last period?" Valentine asked.

Mrs. Bedlow looked up from her mug of hot coffee, frowning. "Months," she said. "I thought it was another baby."

"I doubt very much that you are pregnant, Mrs. Bedlow," Valentine said. "It is my belief that a power, yet to be identified, emanating from your daughter's room: Firstly, evoked a state of hyper- receptivity in you and the others; Secondly, it then induced the extreme psychosexual manifestations in its unwitting thralls for reasons that I am still attempting to determine."

"However, it appears to be attempting to remake you into an image of itself, a rutting machine. Further, I believe that it is unable to achieve orgastic discharge or replicate itself properly. Coitus for its own sake... Think of a phonograph that plays part of a tune, hits a blockage, and then starts all over again, ad infinitum."

"But..I..." Mrs. Bedlow began. "I orgasmed. Not once, but many, many, many times," she breathlessly interjected, a rosy glow filling her cheeks as she spoke so frankly.

"Yes, that's what still makes you so very human," Valentine said.

She began to sob, and I reached out to take the coffee mug from her numb fingers, then handed her a hankerchief to dry her eyes.

"What is it, Mr. Valentine?" she tearily asked. "What is it?! What is it doing to my daughter?!"

Valentine ignored her impassioned questions, perhaps not daring to tell her the whole truth.

"What do you know of the history of your house, Mrs. Bedlow?"

She dabbed at her teary eyes with the hankerchief. "Not much. Before we moved in it belonged to an elderly woman, Mrs. Monteuil, I think. Her son said something about it having once being his father's private hospital. A clinic or something. That's all I know. If there was something else..."

"Stop!" Valentine abruptly barked, slapping his good hand down on the arm of the chair. His eyes seemed to get a faraway look as he stood an quickly paced back and forth across the time worn persian rug that lay before the hearth. I could see he was onto something.

"Monday Street. Of course! I knew I recognized the name," he said, turning to face me. "There's a book in my large cedarbox in the next room," he said. "'Cults of the Pandemonium.' Would you be so kind and fetch it for me, Dodson?"

With a nod, I made haste into the guest room where I threw open the ancient cedarwood box and rummaged through the debris of dog-eared paperbacks, quickly locating Cults of the Pandemonium. Its luridly colored cover depicted a gorgeous, naked hermaphrodite dancing, while a shadowy figure beat upon a tomtom. I tossed the book to Valentine and he quickly began flipping through its pages.

"I should have known!" he said. His eyes scanned a page. "Erich Horney. My God! Horney was a disciple of Wilhelm Reich. He worked at the Organon Institute in Maine, a branch of the Miskatonic University of Arkham, Massachusetts, in the early 1920's."

We listened intently as Valentine summarized a brief biography of the aptly named Horney. He had adapted many of Wilhelm Reich's sexual theories and taken them in unusual and, some thought, unethical directions.

"His dream was to create something which he called the Horney Chamber," Valentine explained. "This seems to have been a much more extravagant version of Reich's Orgone Accumulator. Basically, it was Horney's intention to create a room that which could harness primal sexual energy, which he believed was the ultimate expression of the fundamental forces of the universe." As he spoke, Valentine paced methodically up and down the length of the wood-paneled study.

"He claimed to have succeeded in building a prototype in 1932, but development was hampered by the fact that the room's mechanisms could only be properly activated by an act of 'indefinitely long' sexual intercourse. Nevertheless, by judiciously employing four prostitutes, Horney claimed that his chamber was able to absorb and redirect sufficient sexual energy to power the flight of a small gargoyle-like homunculus."

"His ultimate ambition was to create a room which could have sex with itself, thus producing an unlimited supply of raw power. A perpetual-motion sex engine."

Valentine dropped the book down on his desk, "Remarkable, quite remarkable!" he said. His face flushed with excitement.

"Horney was certified insane in 1937 and was taken into the private care of a Dr. Monteuil, who owned a small convalescent clinic."

"On Monday Street," I interjected.

"Undoubtably, Dodson," he said.

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed, the reality of it striking home.

"And the room?" Mrs. Bedlow said. "My daughter's room?"

"By deduction," Valentine purposely said, "we can now safely assume that a fully functioning Horney Chamber was indeed built. Perhaps Horney died before he could put the room into operation. In any event, it has waited all these years for a trigger to activate it. Something to turn the starting handle, as it were."

Valentine paused, lifting his bandaged hand to his brow.

"Does your daughter have a boyfriend, Mrs. Bedlow?" he asked.

She wagged her head from side to side. "Her father's been very protective of her."

"Your husband Mrs. Bedlow, how affectionate has he been to you?" Valentine asked pointedly.

"He has been somewhat distant from me this past year. He sleeps in a seperate bedroom at night." she said.

"Let me be frank. Just how 'protective' of your daughter has he been?" he asked.

"Valentine!" I spoke up, attempting to protect what little honor the brave woman still possessed.

"I do not ask this out of purient interests, but I must know," he pointed added.

"What are you suggesting? She's only a teen. Her father just spends time with her. He told me he had been helping judge her cheerleader routines. Other than that, he simply talked her threw the nightmares she was experiencing. He tried calming her down...at night..." she trailed off. Her eyes went wide, the horrifying implications of what may have triggered the room into full operation becoming apparent.

"It can't be. It's just not possible!" she said, beginning sob uncontrollably again. Feeling moved, I pulled out a clean hanky and went to hand it to her. Grabbing my arm, she cried long and hard into my shoulder.

"There we have it," Valentine said gravely. "Nocturnal 'talks' and teenage yearnings - our trigger!"

"But what can we do?" Mrs. Bedlow finally implored. "How can we stop it?"

Valentine sat down facing her and took her hands. He fixed her eyes with his own.

"I haven't told you everything, Mrs. Bedlow," he said.

I felt a tremor trip down my spine. The sky outside our study seemed to darken. Shadows coiled in the haunted corners of the dimly lit room.

"There are certain powers and dominions in our universe," Valentine said. "I can only say that they come from outside, and they are inimical to humanity. Vast, dark, powerful, and timeless. They wait at the threshold to reclaim the world that once was theirs. Sometimes we catch glimpses of their manifestations in this plane of existence. They travel in many shapes, all hideous. They come howling and clawing through our blackest dreams, feeding on our fears and doubts.

"They are known by many names: The Old Ones, Cthulhu, Yog-Sothoth, Haster, The Mysteries, and many others; Lurkers in the earth or beyond the barriers of time, space and dimension. I have dedicated my life to fighting them. They destroyed the only woman I have ever loved, and now they are attempting to take possession of the Horney Chamber. They will try to use its energies to create a portal, a doorway through which they can crossover and enter our world en masse."

"But my daughter..." Mrs. Bedlow began. Valentine silenced her with a gesture.

"Your daughter, your husband, and the others are nothing more than raw meat to The Mysteries," he said. "They are using their coital energies in order to bring the room up to full potential. When they have exhausted all the possible combinations of the human frame, The Mysteries will push them beyond the limits of the flesh. They will become expressions of raw, unfathomable desire, without stable form."

The hair on the nape of my neck bristled as I became cognizant of what we were up against.

Mrs. Bedlow began sobbed uncontrollably.

"What are we going to do?" she somehow managed to choke out.

Valentine stood up.

"Your going to stay here, well away from the house," he said. Then, looking at me he said, "We are going to take the fight to The Mysteries."

I think I will always remember Valentine the way he was at that moment. It is the picture of him that I will carry with me to the grave: Valentine, framed by the window, cast like a statue in shadow and light. His hawklike, scarred face, his leonine hair, his angular shoulders bent with a burden of melancholy. This memory remains clear, like a daguerreotype of a long-lost perfect day. And, in my mind, he will never fade or grow old.

"The play is cast," Valentine dramatically entoned as he picked up his bag and donned his hat, heading for the door.

Chapter 2

From accounts gathered later, under the looming entanglements of Scotland Yard, Valentine's disquieting conjectures were born out. Whereas the ardorous compulsions of the weird room in the Bedlow's home took their toll on all those who came under it spell, as Valentine so indubitably surmised, what led to the heinous events that transpired in The Rutting Room, and triggered its activation, were the sardonic actions of Dr. Bedlow.

The doctor had watched the Imogen and Giselle growing up over the years. Even though he had been raised to be a sophisticated gentleman, his wandering eye had taken note when the girls had first begun to flower into young ladies. He later deduced that the fits of giggling that sometimes afflicted the girls were the results of their having provoked arousal in others, yet instead of discouraging this behaviour, he deploringly gave himself over to encouraging it in them.

Imogen and Giselle Barnes shaired many things in common. To be sure, they were both very pretty, nay, downright stunning for their age. Giselle was a lithe, starry-eyed, perky little blonde, who wore her hair in adorable pigtails. Whereas, Imogen, was a sleek, long-limbed, sultry-eyed, raven-haired vision of teenage beauty.

The simple fondness the two girls shaired, namely the use of their innocent looking smiles and adolescent sensuality to get others to do things for them, is not wholly without significance to the tragic events that transpired. They had talked about it many times before and agreed that it gave them the biggest thrill when they knew someone was getting excited by watching them dance and play. Both still young, their innocent playfulness was unfortunately taken to be an almost adult love of flirting, especially by the likes of Dr. Bedlow and Giselle's father.

So on a crisp autumn day, only a few days weeks before Mrs. Bedlow called upon the services of Valentine and myself, the girls were feeling quite giddy and decided to play a little game with Imogen's father. They had noticed the funny way he looked at them at times, and had even seen a mysterious bulge growing in his trousers. They had always been told that "Curiousity killed the cat," but they also knew that cat's had 9 lives.

Upon arriving home from school with her friend that afternoon, Imogen invited her father up to her room to judge the routines they were practicing for cheerleading tryouts. Dr. Bedlow had readily agreed, like a fish taking the shiny little bait offered to it, hoping to get a peek or two at the lithe bodies of the cute teenage girls.

Following them up to Imogen's bedroom, the girls proceeded to wiggle and cavort around as Imogen's father stared at the pretty girls in their school uniforms. They noticed the same queer look on his face as he continued watching them, how he was mostly looking at Imogen as she practiced a few of the cheerleading routines with Giselle. He was focusing on how well her white panties were defined beneath her pleated skirt, how the little round cheeks of her fanny were perfectly molded by the stretchy lace material.

Dr. Bedlow's heart sinfully raced as he lusted to see more of them. They looked so sexy as they slithered about the room. Soon his prick had grown so much so that it was obvious in his trousers. However, his given his erudite manner, he made a pretense for his condition by attempting to rest the blame for his arousal on the girls themselves.

"Imogen!!! Stop this very moment, will you? I am dreadfully sorry, but I simply can not have a daughter of mine seen acting so... adult in public."

Imogen stopped dead in her tracks. A pouting lipped look of disappointment coming over her face.

"But Pappa! People can't see anything! I'm completely covered."

"Yes, you are completely covered, however the way you move, spin, and bend around like cats reveals your undergarments immodestly! "

Imogen and Giselle giggled when he said that, noticing the large lump in his trousers even as he protested. Then, they both started meowing and slinking around, pretending to be a couple of stray alley cats like they had been accused of being. Giselle purred as she rubbed up against Dr. Bedlow, her pigtail accidentally brushing up against the bulge in his trousers. Imogen leapt onto her bed and started crawling around on the mattress, showing off her panty clad fanny, knowing that the little cleft at the fork of her legs was clearly defined in her tight, white panties.

Dr. Bedlow weakly tried pushing Giselle away as she slithered around him, but the feeling of Giselle's soft body against him was a forbidden pleasure that he knew he could not refuse. His rock hard member started leaking juices and a growing spot appeared on his trousers. There was no way he could hide it, and since he refused to leave, under the room's evocation, the girls increasingly could not help wondering what caused it.

Giselle kept purring as she slank around him on all fours, rubbing her face, shoulders and arse up against him. Mesmerized by the sensuous touch of her body as she rubbed against him, all the while watching his daughter as she slank cat-like around on the bed, he was began to embrace the impossible thoughts of pedophilia.

Imogen rolled over on her back, and slid her hands seductively up over the starched white blouse that hid her breasts. She then moved them down along the contours of her sides to her waist, and even down beneath her plaid skirt to trace the moist folds in their midst, smiling as she beheld the nearly painful expression on her father's face.

Dr. Bedlow knew rightly that he had to stop this madness, but his own aberrant lust for the teenage girls made him stand fast. Giselle let her own wayward curiousity finally get the best of her. Moving her hands slowly up the inseam of his trousers, and began lightly teasing the straining mystery that bulged so. Just as he had wickedly had longed for, the unhindered girl found the buttons of his fly and began working them open, one by one.

Dr. Bedlow shut his eyes, trembling with indecent pleasure as he felt the girl's warm hand tentatively reached into the shadows of his crotch and touch his flagrant erection. He sighed, nodding for her to continue as her fingers wrapped around the throbbing breadth of his rigid manhood and pulled it out into the light.

Puffed up with arrogant pride, Dr. Bedlow's penis towered up out of his open trousers, glistening with the slick juices of his shameful desire. Caught up in the spell of the room, Giselle and Imogen unchastely cooed as at last they discovered what it was that had been mysteriously hiding behind the bulging trousers. Under Dr. Bedlow's instruction, Giselle ran the pigtails of her luscious blonde hair back and forth over the bulging veined length of his throbbing cock. He then debased himself and the girls even further by convincing Giselle to kiss its hoary crown.

As soon as Dr. Bedlow felt Giselle press her powty lips to his swollen cockhead, he knew he was beyond all hope of redemption. Yet, he unconscionably swayed himself into believing that every act of indecency, every untoward liberty he planned to take with the girls, was justified, since his wife had grown cold to sex over the years of their marriage. It had been many months since a woman had even touched him there, so even though Giselle and his daughter were just young teenagers, he found he could not resist the temptation to help himself to their charms.

Giselle lavished the wickedly oozing shaft of flesh with warm kisses. Then, per Dr. Bedlow's urging, she took it into her mouth, the sweet pink lips of her mouth wedged rudely aside as the thick jutting shaft entered. It took her a little practice to do what she was told, but soon she swallowed his fat pole down her little throat like an ice pop. Back and forth she worked her lips over his shaft, and under his stern tuttalage, swirled her tongue around the bloated head, then back to lightly tounging its angry length.

Imogen laying on her back, her fingers rubbing the moist folds through her white panties, began verbally urging them on as well.

"Look at me, Pappa! I am almost grown up! Do I look cute? Is prancing around in my little schoolgirl outfit too much for you? I just love how my panties hug...every...inch of me! See? See how pretty my legs and fanny are? And my little tummy...so flat. My titties are getting big too! Mmmmmmm... It feels so divine when I rub myself here between my legs, like you told me to!!!"

As Dr. Bedlow watched Imogen diddling herself through her wet panties he was even more emboldened by her still teasingly covered body. The rational part of his brain was swept aside by his less than fatherly passion as he watched her. At the same time he felt Giselle's budding breasts through her top, absent mindedly tweaking her nipples until they were hard points. The taboo eroticism of the revelry quickly churned up a fire in his belly that was close to boiling over.

His knees almost buckled, his penis swelled even larger as he drank in the heady sight of his little Imogen rubbing her clitoral nub vigorously through her panties. Then with a gutteral cry, his overly stimulated penis gave a fierce lurch, exploding dramatically into Giselle's warm suckling mouth, again and again and again.

Hot semen streamed into the surprised teenager's mouth. Her lips and tongue became even more slippery as the swollen head disgourged the creamy white contents of his shuddering testes. A huge spurt then another surged into Giselle throat before she was able to pull away.

"UHHHHH!" Dr. Bedlow groaned as waves of pleasure washed from his orgasming penis.

"Oh! Dr. Bedlow! Your thing is spitting! Getting me all wet! Oh my! Look at all the white stuff shooting all over my school dress! Does it feel good to shoot it in my mouth and all over me?" Giselle taunted as she watched his seed spit unrestrained onto her.

"Oh my, Pappa! Mmmmmm...Ohhhhhh!" Imogen purred as her hand suceeded in bringing her young body to a shuddering release.

Dr. Bedlow staggered, weak in the knees, suddenly feeling even more drained than before, but managed to swear the girls to a secret pact, with promises of manyfold pleasures and wonderous treasures so great that their every appetite would be filled.

While cleansing off the aftermath of the debaucherous oral servitude which he had convinced Giselle to perform on him, he noticed a trace of pink lipstick streaked across the crown of his member. Many a month had past since he had received such tender attention, and certainly never from those so young and sweet.

Yet even so, tears of agony ran from his eyes as the true realization of what he had done later flooded into him. Close to suicide, as he had reached to retrieve his pistol from his bureau drawer to end his retched life, he had the strongest feeling that another presence was trying to insinuate itself into his mind. Collapsing onto his bed he fell fast asleep, not to awaken until late the next morn.

In Dr. Bedlow's defense, he has sworn that up to this point he was completely culpable of the preceeding acts of pedophilia. However, from that point forward he swore he could not control his own actions. He has testified that, "Something extraordinary seized me. I swear that I would have done no more harm. I would have ended my life rather than do so. Neverthless, I was compelled to commit acts, both gross and unthinkable."

Late in the fog shrouded afternoon of the following day, Imogen had returned home from school. She was dressed in one of her shorter pleated catholic-school skirts with a clingy white top, a picture of sweet innocence. Dr. Bedlow, or what had become of him, ventured some light conversation with her.

"How was school today, Imogen?" he asked, trying to sound normal, but knowing that he was no longer quite himself. She could tell, for though she looked the same, she was no longer the same naive little schoolgirl that she was the day before.

"Much better than yesterday...Pappa," she whispered breathlessly into his ear. "I must practice some new cheerleading routines in a bit... Giselle will pop over after dinner, too. Would you care to judge my new moves?"

He could not find words to say. His mind was awhirl with wants and desires that were too freakishly sexual to utter. On one hand he sincerely hoped that his actions on the previous day had not besmirched her to ruin, but on the the other, his loins ached to see her, to feel her, and press into her nakedness like a beast.

Mrs. Bedlow, much too busy with her daily activities, took no notice of what was happening right under her own roof. The only things she felt even slightly out of the ordinary in the days prior to the room's complete take over were: her husband's increased interest in making their daughter happy, and the frequency and vividness of the erotic dreams that plagued her sleep.

Imogen had developed an almost unnatural ability to manipulate her father. "Pappa" when she wanted something, which now occured more often than not. Her sweet, innocent looks had driven him crazy for months, but as the room continued to draw its power from the hapless souls in the house, it reached a fever pitch.

As Dr. Bedlow awaited Mrs. Bedlow's and their maid's preparation of their evening repast, Imogen came into the living room and took a seat directly across from her father. Dr. Bedlow, glancing up at her, quickly noticed that his daughter sat with her knees together and her feet apart. When no one except him was looking, she spread her thighs, apparently without thinking.

Still somewhat in control of herself, Imogen then drew close to her father, affectionately sitting on his knee as they talked about her declining grades at school. As they continued to discuss the problem, she slithered further onto his lap, curling up with her fanny pressing softly against his groin. She was quickly rewarded by feeling his penis growing large underneath her. She had done this before, but never a word was said about it openly.

It had been perfectly acceptable when she was younger, but the fact that she was becoming increasingly precocious about sexual matters made him extremely uneasy. In all fairness, Dr. Bedlow was beside himself, resisting as best he could the compounding urge to give in to oppressive sensuality that seemed to fill all his waking thoughts and dreams.

The doctor knew that Imogen and Giselle were behaving in ways that were totally inappropriate for teenagers of their day and age, but as soon as they began their tease shows, all thoughts of putting an end to it, and Giselle's obedient oral ministrations, fled from him like water down a sewer pipe.

After dinner Mrs. Bedlow retired for the evening, complaining of a sick headache, taking a sleeping powder that her husband prepared for her. It was then that through Imogen, The Rutting Room, made it fateful move.

Under the pretense of improving her studies, Imogen was prompted into convincing her father to show her some books in their private library. The idea of taking on a mental challange, however small, sparked renewed hope in Dr. Bedlow that it might help clear his mind. So, passing through its thick wooden doors, Dr. Bedlow entered the dimly lit library.

Practically on his heels, Imogen silently closed the doors as she followed him into the room, a room that just so happened to be directly below Imogen's bedroom!

An invisible vortex of psycho-sexual energy whirled down into the open channel it found in the body of the teenage girl. Imogen, now an instrument of a will other than her own, practically threw her startled father down into a tall stuffed leather chair. Dr. Bedlow felt himself sinking down and pressed back into its padded cushions.

Imogen smiled sweatly as she sat down across his left knee, wriggling her buns till they pressed into his lap. He was acutely aware of how warm her little crotch was as it bore softly down on his groin. Dr. Bedlow coughed as he looked nervously down at his pretty daughter's legs. The short plaid skirt seemed to barely covering her.

As she sat there, talking to him about how naughty she had been, she began an almost imperceptible rocking movement on his lap that quickly made him aroused. The touch of Imogen's warm, lovely arse rocking so slowly on his lap made the blood vessels in his prick swell with suprising vigor.

"Imogen," he whispered, "Your mother upstairs..."

"Shhhhh..." she whispered soothingly back. "I just want to be near you, Pappa."

Despite his reservations, his errant prick nudged up against her moving buttocks. The soft carresses made it quickly grow into a long, fat erection that pressed back at her, getting harder by each passing second. Imogen only sighed, drapped her arms around her father's neck, snuggling even closer to him. He was finding it impossible to cope with. He thought again about the incidents in Imogen's bedroom and his arousal redoubled.

Under the manipulations of the bedroom, Imogen's cultured inhibitions were completely subjugated, replaced by the most overtly promiscuous feelings that it could evoke in her. Thus extorted by a force she could neither see nor evade, she excitedly spun, straddled her father's lap, and faced him.

Leaning back on his knees, like a puppet on a string, she unbuttoned the starched white top she wore. Dr. Bedlow sucked in his breath as Imogen pulled open her shirt to reveal her youthful, bra clad breasts. His member throbbed in time with his heartbeat as she then unfastened the front clasp of the white bra that cupped the pert curves of her round little breasts. Dr. Bedlow gasped as her teenage titties jiggled as they bounded free of their restraint.

His already aroused state quadrupled as he gaped at her bare breasts, thrusting outward from her slender frame. The incestual lust coursing through him like a flame was fanned into a roaring fire as he watched her pink nipples pop erectly to attention in the wafting air. But, what Imogen did next sent her father right over the edge.

Running the tip of her tongue over her lips, she gathered up the hem of her skirt, and lifted it in a sudden move, a move that entirely exposed her naked pinkness of her qwim to his hungry eyes.

Secretly having removed her panties earlier, she giggled as her father's eyes grew wide as he beheld her shaved pussy, clearly visible to him for the first time. Rotating her hips in circles on his trouser trapped member, her juices glistened, becoming intimately apparent on the soft protruding lips of her hairless mons.

Bedlow's eyes darted to and fro, greedily drinking up the bare flesh of his daughter, the room prodding the unthinkable into both of their minds. Soon the fact that it was his own flesh and blood made no difference. Bare flesh was now before him, so sensuously revealed that the last shred of his reserve failed him utterly. Her creamy white skin and its satin smoothness begged for his caress.

Feeling, as well as seeing, the pronounced tent in her father's pants, Imogen painstakingly unbuttoned the fly of his trousers, one button at a time. Dr. Bedlow's hands darted forward, grabbing and squeezed her perfect little mammaries. Her soft hand delicately stole into the opening of his fly, and took hold of the swollen flesh that was trapped there. Giving it a gentle squeeze that made him groan, without anymore hesitation Imogen tugged it out into the open.

She relished the way her Pappa's eyes were rivoted to her, how his hands probbed evey inch of her growing titties, but was now even more impressed as his tumulscent cock pulsed in her small hands at her slightest movement. Reluctantly letting go of it, she slowly pivoted around so she faced away from him, smiling over the curve of her shoulder as she bent way over at the waist, hiked up her shirt, and backed up toward his granite hard muscle that jutted ominously out at her.

"Imogen's been a very naughty girl," she breathed, "Pappa."

With that said she slapped her naked ass with a hard whack of her hand, the sharp blow leaving the distinct red and white outline of her palm, maring the the smoothly unblemished skin of her bottom.

"Imogen is going to be even naughtier," she purred, "Pappa."

She then spat on her hand and rubbed it into the crack of her tight teenage arse. Pinching a finely shaped ass cheek aside with one hand, she reached between her legs with her other and grasped her father's stabbing upward rod, and began rubbing its leaking head all around her tiny puckered anus. Shaking her hips, she slowly tried to wriggle herself back onto the terrible length.

"It is so wicked, but the idea keeps haunting me," Imogen said as the swollen head of his prick strove to batter past the tightness of her sphincter muscles. "I feel I must have it," she panted.

Stiffling a scream, Imogen shook her head wildly causing her ponytail to dance about her shoulders as the indomitably hard crown of her father's prick inched itself past the clenched entry of her virginal rectum.

"Bloody...hell...Imogennn...Ohhhhh!" Dr. Bedlow groaned as his nyphomaniacal little girl wriggled her ass inch by inch down onto the straining shaft of his erection.

It was much too tight a fit. Trying to force something so large into something so small obscenely crushed and covered his cock with light brown flecks of feces, but sunken to the depths of depravity he now found himself in, it was of no concern. His thoughts shifted from the incredible feel and sight of the girl that forced herself down onto his aching prick, to the torment that filled his mind, rebuking him for sodomizing his own child, then to prayers that this would go on... forever!

"Uhhh... So big!" she cried. "Oh, Pappa! It feels like it's splittting me in two!"

"Just relax," he gasped. "Relax and enjoy the ride."

Dr. Bedlow felt the sphincters clutching his pole stretch as he fed another couple of inches into the hot depths of her bowels. Imogen then began rocking forward until his cock was about to fall out, then rocked backward again, taking another inch up her rear.

He wanted her to take all of him, teaching her a lesson about the consequences of teasing, to boot! So, grasping her by the swells of her hips, he thrust the last couple of inches as far up into her belly as he could.

"Oh God!" she screamed out in agonized pleasure, "It hurts, but I love it so much! Ram it home, Pappa! Mmmmm... Uhh...Ohh...Uhhh..."

They began moving in earnest, like a well oiled machine, one part old the other new. Thrust and counter-thrust. The tempo increasing to a white hot level of intensity.

On the precipice of light and darkness, Dr. Bedlow bellowed as his pounding member shuddered violently inside Imogen's posterior. The ache in his loins broke free like a dynamited dam. His penis orgasmed so powerfully in her clenched tight anal passage that his hips bucked up off the seat of the chair, ramming his length as deep as he could as it gushed out his seed like never before.

On the other end of the stick as it were, Imogen's own body trembled as she felt the brutal pillar of flesh slam into her a final time, spraying her insides with its hot spunk. The quivering rapture of her body became a chaotic quake of delight as her own energies peaked and exploded from wildly thrashing form.

"OHHHH! AHHHHHHHHH!! OHHHHHHHH!!!" she cried, tears forming veritable rivers that ran down her cheeks.

Dr. Bedlow's mind was suddenly spinning like a kaleidoscope. Then it seemed to shatter, like a stained glass window dropped from a great height. He never felt more drained in his life, but then a strange euphoria unlike anything he had ever known seemed to whirl down his spent prick, filling him completely, pressing him on.

"I can't wait any longer," Imogen panted as she ground to a halt. "I have a gift for you, Pappa. I feel as if I must give you my dearest possession of all - my virginity!"

His mind reeled as the most debased words to ever come out of his daughter's mouth echoed in his bedazzled brain. As she leapt off of the preturnatural stiffness of his erect cock, threw open the doors, and ran for the stairs, the pounding in his penis grew terrible. He felt compelled to run after her, not noticing the maid watching as he bounded up the stairs after Imogen, his incestually erect cock obscenely leading the way.

Dr. Bedlow lay on his back, his hard, manly body a strange contrast to the frilly sheets and decor of his daughter's bedroom. The air of the room had an urgent erotic aura to it which insinuated itself into his mind, pushing aside all thoughs save those of heated fornication. He stared in amazed disbelief right up at Imogen's spread wide labia, visually appreciating the view as she spread her incestual "present" directly over his painful erect cock.

Her own mind a tempest of conflicting emotions, she gave in to the incessant thrum of the room's desires. The swollen, oozing penis seemed frighteningly gigantic in her tiny fist, but she lowered herself down to it, nonetheless. Wiping the big drooling head up and down her own moist slit, the cock wetly shined with the unholy mixture of their juices. Lowering herself a little more, she let the lips of her labia slowly part around the head of the penis, wiggled it around in the entrance of her tight, virginal vagina.

"I was saving my virginity for marriage," she tearily said. "But I must do it now! Are you ready for me, Pappa?!"

"Yesssss", he hissed with the painful pressure of his semen filled insides.

It was as if the darkest, most wickedly erotic fantasies of their hearts were forced to the surface. They were driven over the edge into a hopelessly lust filled delirium. Balanced only by her legs, Imogen gently lowered her pussy onto his rampantly aroused rod, letting gravity force herself down onto the bloated pillar of flesh and blood. Like a virgin maiden, sacrificed to a god of fertility in the dim mists of prehistoric past, she felt it press against the tender resistance of her virginity.

Holding her breath as she concentrated, she finally relaxed the muscles around the head of his prick, and gritting her teeth, she pushed down harder, the added force making the big dick spear just a tiny bit deeper into her. Then, with a blur of movement that only an exceptionally limber girl could do, her legs darted out from under her and she was cruely impaled on her father's throbbing muscle.

Despite her gritted teeth, Imogen screamed as she felt the wicked shaft of his penis rip through her thin hymen and plow all the way up to her cervix!

The room was far from soundproofed, so her terrible wail, coupled with Dr. Bedlow's loud roar of animal lust resounded down the hallway. Imogen's eyes rolled back in her head as she thrashed, speared to the core by the jutting prick. Bedlow reeled with the most intense sensations he had ever felt in his life, the soft flesh of his darling daughter's deepest insides wrapped completely around his prick.

The terrific pain of so sudden and complete a violation changed to whimpered cries as the room twisted the girl's disassociated mind into believing that it felt good. They were soon followed by groans of ecstacy that escaping from her lips as the 9 inch cock skewered her teen pussy like a shishkabob. Her own weight had driven it into her, and she blinked through tear flowing eyes as she felt the tightness of her cannal clutching the huge, hard monster that was so far up inside her. Her teenaged mons clasped and squeezed the stiff shaft like a glove that was three sizes too small.

Leaving it buried all the way inside her for what seemed like hours, she eventually got use to the size. Pulling her ankles up to either side of her head as her father's strong hands, as if knowing her desire, held her in place and started to slowly raise and lower her on and off his straining, purple veined prick.

He relished the vision and sensations as he fucked Imogen's little body on and off of his brutish organ. She was so cute, so wet, so tight, so hot! Highly charged erotic energies bristled in the room till he could think of nothing, save the slapping of their seathing flesh. She gasped in shock as he pushed her all the way off, then slammed her back down, a steady motion beginning.

In the haze of their of incestual rutting, they failed to see the alarmed house maid push open the door, gasping in wide-eyed horror as she witness the impossible perversion that was going on. The really bizarre thing about it all was that when they finally saw her standing across the room, even though they felt guilty at being found out, another more dominating power pushed aside their concerns. All that mattered was the rut.

With each downward thrust, the upper surface of his massive organ rubbed against the young girl's distended little clit, and with each withdrawal the delicate inner lips of her vulva clung wetly to its surface so that they extended beyond the plump outer lips.

By altering the angle of her upward and downwardly plunging vagina, she was able to increase the friction between his shaft and her now-exposed tiny bundle of nerves, and he could tell from the change in her breathing that this extra stimulation was raising her to new heights of pleasure. Each slow, deliberate thrust onto his long prick brought a low moan from Imogen's throat.

"Mmmmm... I feel as if you're shoving it up my throat!" Imogen gasped, looking deep into her pappa's eyes. "I know this is wrong, but it feels so good when it slides in and out of me like this."

Her feet now flexing on the sheet on either side of his hips, she raised and lowered herself, transmitting a delightful milking motion to Dr. Bedlow's aching organ.

"Oh Yes! Oh...Uhh!" she cried as another thought flash into her. "Suck my breasts, Pappa!"

Bedlow obediently raised his head and began sucking one of her nipples, drawing it deep into his mouth and massaging it with his tongue and lips. This, Imogen found intensely pleasurable and she began to build to a huge climax.

Forcing her pubic mound tightly down against the base of his organ that was so deeply thrusting within her, she rapidly approached the ecstasy of climax.

"Uhhhmmmm...so close!" she whimpered.

Imogen had been screwing him for a good ten minutes when her body shuddered, and her vagina tightened even more around his cock. Her beautiful blue eyes grew wide in surprise and and then rolled up under their lids as spasm after spasm of pleasure surged through her genitals. Her clitoris pushed itself even more boldly from its protective sheath as she ground it into his groin. Her senses shot off into the starry-eyed oblivion of orgasm, the likes of which she'd never imagined before... the room seeking more and more...

She cried out continually, "OHHHHHH!!!! OHHHHHHH!!!...SOOOOO... GOOOOD! SOOOOO...GOOOOD!" Tremendous feelings shaking her body like an earthquake, making her scream and writhe.

His hands kneaded her gravity defying tits, still unable to believe how firm they were, rolling her hard nipples between his fingers and thumbs as she came, her sweet juices flooding his now violently upward stabbing cock. He had given up trying to hold back any longer, he had to shoot his sperm!

Imogen slammed up and down harder and harder, working to get him to shoot off, her tight inner muscles milking his throbbing organ. She finally heard a loud grunt peel out from his parted lips, signaling that a terrific orgasm had seized him.

"I'M...GOINNNGGG...TOOO...CUMMMMM..." he yelled.

Just as Dr. Bedlow approached the very pinnacle of full blown, gut-wrenching, cum-blasting orgasm, Imogen pushed herself off his jerking shaft, sat back on his legs, and began yanking his shuddering penis with both of her little hands.

"SHOOT, PAPPA! SHOOT FOR ME!!!" she cried, the fingers of one hand clenching down like a vice as she ferociously pumped his prick, while the fingers of her other hand frantically diddled her clitorus.

Dr. Bedlow gushed like a geyser, the fluids from his cock rushing out of him with the force of an avalanche coming down a mountain! His first volley of semen nearly hit the ceiling as his back arched and he screamed in climax.

"MYYYY...GOD! UHHHHH...UHHHHH...OHHHHHHHHH!!!" he cried at the top of his lungs.

Imogen was so excited that orgasm after orgasm began surging through her like she was being dashed between the rocks and the crashing waves of a convulsing sea. She thrash about in abandon as her father's huge penis, like a beserk firehose, spewed out his hot manly seed, which came down on their heaving, sweating flesh like obscene rain.

Chapter 3

The light inside the Bedlow house had taken on a curious red cast. The air seethed in a bloody miasma that caught in the back of the throat and reeked of sweat and sex.

"Will we be strong enough to fight it?" I asked. Already my penis was pounding at the buttoned door of my trousers, stiffening frightfully into a massive club. My mind was flashing though every erotic sight and sound that I had ever experienced, seen or heard, both glorious and loathsome.

"This is only a perimeter effect," he said. "The real power is in the room itself. It's anchored itself to the house in order to function more effeciently as a gateway for The Mysteries. And that we must prevent at all costs from happening."

As we were ready to enter the open door, another carriage came quickly trudging up the deserted cobblestone street. The door swung open and Mrs. Bedlow stepped out. A wary look of determination covered her beautiful face.

"But you were supposed to..." I began.

"I'm an adult woman, sir. We all know that quite intimately!" she interjected. "And I'm not about to let you two tackle that bloody room alone. I want my daughter back!"

Valentine paused, looking Mrs. Bedlow over, perhaps a little bit longer than he normally would have, as if he were sizing her up. He then turned on his heels and stoically climbed the stairs.

As we climbed the stairs, the sound of the room became louder. It was moaning. A deep bass tone vibrated through the walls and floor then up into me, causing my penis to twitched almost uncontrollably. Mrs. Bedlow leaned against me as we advanced, seeking some support herself for what it was doing to her.

"I'm afraid, Valentine," I admitted. "I can feel itself insinuating its way into me. What if I can't control myself?"

"Then try to enjoy it," he grimly said.

Finally we stood outside the door to The Rutting Room. More aptly put, we ached outside the door. Valentine brandished his bag and reached inside, transferring a number of items to his pockets. He selected a brace of Band-Aids from a silver-plated tin.

"I'll be looking beyond the veil," he said. "You must be my eyes if I need a description of the events on this plane." Thus saying, he fixed the strips of sticking plaster over his eyelids.

I wiped my brow and reached out to pick up Valentine's bag, fighting the insistant urge to instead grab Mrs. Bedlow, throw her to the ground and mount her. As I painfully bent over, I felt a feather light touch on the rear of my trousers.

Behind me, Mrs. Bedlow was fighting hard to resist the temptation of the flesh. Yet, her nipples and clitorus were throbbing madly, feeling to her as if they were growing like the nose of a fictional lying wooden puppet.

"Ready?" he said, as I exchanged a glance with Mrs. Bedlow. She ran her hands over her swelling chest, the buttons of her top neared the bursting point, her tits straining to pop free. I was suffering from an acute case of priapism, my own erection seemed to have magnified to truly prodigious proportions, literally trying to tear its way through my buttoned pants.

Before I could choke out a reply, the door was open and we were swept into the Bacchanalian orgy of the damned.

The first thing I saw was the young constable. His body was no longer his own and had become a mere engine of focused lust. The Mysteries had worked their enchantments upon his flesh and transformed it to suit their own ghastly purpose. His body seethed, like a bag of skin filled with serpents. His nose had turned into a small stiff penis with staring eyes on either side. His eyebrows had grown together into a thick pubic mass at the crown of this rudimentary prick. His tongue had lengthened considerably, thrashing from his transformed face, flicking thick saliva onto the bodies of his fellow revelers.

Heavy extrusions surged out of the constable's torso, searching for receptive orifices before subsiding back into his rippling musculature. His penis was a nightmarish vision to behold. It had grown into a huge, slick shining, one-eyed whale of a prick, that dripped and oozed, splattering everything around it with its sticky fluids. Radiating out from around the base of this leviathan dick were branching cat-o'-nine tail cock-like tentacles that flailed about, penetrating feminine mouths, pussies, rectums, and the very walls of the room with indiscriminate passion. His balls looked like victims of extreme elephantiasis; they had swollen so large that they dragged the floor like cannonballs as he moved.

Giselle was pounding her fist repeatedly into the gaping, slavering cunt hole that the housemaid, Sarah Jane, had become. When I caught a closer glimpse of the girl's hand, I realized that it too had suffered a monsterous change, becoming a blunt, oozing phallus. Giselle's tits had also grown incredibly large since I last was able to appreciate them; they were now the size of a watermellons, lewdly bouncing and mashing into her lovers. Her erect nipples stood out like small penises, milky fluid dribbling from them.

The maid had been transformed into an enormous, cock hungry, glistening maw of a cunt. Her pussy had expanded so much that it now enveloped her thighs and torso up to her pulsing tits. Her huge tits had changed into a strangely mixed-up combination of mammary glands and clitoral tissue, double clitoruses topping the sides of her wet, beconing slit. At the center of her transformed tit-clits small vaginas had formed where her nipples had been, Giselle's nipple penises fucked in and out of them, creamy liquid flowing from their bizarre mating dance. Out of Sarah's mouth a very long, wet tongue flicked about, teasing her double clits. Her altered tongue switched to repeatedly stab into her own wet gash and then into Giselle's flesh pot.

Imogen, and the other men thankfully were not so radically altered, but I could not help but be aware of the way in which their skin seemed to slide and flow. Imogene's lips were stretched widely open, sucking strongly on her father's two goliathan cocks. Dr. Bedlow floundered beneath his daughter's bucking body, his anguished face buried in her hot dripping snatch. One of the constable's tentacle cocks wormed between them, tit fucking her heaving, basketball-sized breasts. Giselle's father held her ass cheeks wedged widely apart and rode his own barber pole sized shaft up her rectum like a runaway trolly.

This then was the grotesque scene that greeted me when I entered the room. I will not lie; I wanted to retch from witnessing the vilest scenes of depravity and degradation I have ever known, but at the same time I was fascinated by the bizarre strangeness. I must admit that the ten-fold increase in my arousal pushed me to the threshold of my self-control. Here was pure flesh, pure desire, set free of all restraint and civility, given uninhibited expression. Here all the erotic impulses that drive the human animal were here distilled and unleashed.

The room itself was no less active than its occupants. Every object strained at the limits of its construction. Chairs, tables, candles, toys, furnishings: All these things ached with a newly revealed eroticism, each attempting to form of its substance some representation of a vagina, a breast, or a cock. The walls, floor, and ceiling were alive. They were suffused with a rosy glow, they extended stalagmite dildoes upon which the room's female occupants pleasured themselves. Vibrating gashes blinked open in the walls, dripping with cunt juice, exhorting the eager men and women to fill them.

Forcing my eyes closed, my mind and body shuddered. I could not tell if I was in Heaven or Hell. My cock pulsed horribly and just as I felt it would surely rip through the front of my trousers, there was a quick movement behind and around me. Mrs. Bedlow lost control; In outrageous lust she had fiercely yanked my trousers and boxers down to my ankles. Wrapping both of her hands around my hugely outstretched member, she began to pump it.

Everything was fine. The soft motion of her hands on my swollen organ felt so right, so good. No, beyond good.

Glancing at Valentine, blindly surveying the room, I fought to think, tried to describe what I was seeing. I knew that he saw something quite different. His "sealed vision" permitted him to penetrate to the hidden nature of things. He saw the naked room.

"My God!" I heard him say. "The taint runs deep..."

He raised his bandaged hand toward the tall, narrow windows on the far side of the room. The windows themselves had become wide open slits, beautiful vaginas who's large labia were fashioned from the very fabric of the lacy curtains that had hung in a girl's bedroom.

I forced myself to look beyond the carnal chaos of those vibrating windows, as fliting, urgent hands wrapped tighter around the breadth of my pounding penis, pulling and stroking in sympathetic beat to that of the room. Instead of chimneys and treetop and clouds, I found an obsidian sky, filled with strange liquid stars. Silhouetted against these dream constellations, I discerned vast structures. The windows of these threatening buildings were lit with a wholly different spectrum of unearthly colors. The buildings spat vast streamers of aurorae into the sky, and I heard strange sounds, like liver slapping against unhewn stone, which fill me with dread to this day.

For just a moment, it seemed, I was granted a vision of a world beyond all known philosophies. A world where amniotic seas raged through living cities. Where vast things lurched and slithered.

"What is that place?" I croaked. "What are those buildings?"

"They're not just buildings," Valentine said, as he began to unwrap the stained bandages that covered his left hand.

It pains me to confess that, at that moment, I lost all control.

Mrs. Bedlow pulled me back and I fell. The room roared and fluxed around me, and I raised my head to see Mrs. Bedlow had been joined by her daughter. Four wet hands enshrouded the frightfully large visage of my cock had become, pumping fanatically up and down like they might have been trying to churn milk into butter. Mrs. Bedlow held my fleshy pillar in her hands as Imogen's slippery lips fastened around the angrily swollen knob of my huge erection.

I bucked my hips up to slide in and out of her warm mouth, feeling strange open spaces at the back of her throat. As her tongue swabbed the peach-sized head of my cock, two more tongues slid out of the holes in the back of her throat, bathing and wrapping themselves around my bloated length. As she she gorged herself on me, I found my fingers were buried deeply in her mother's vagina. Fringing her off, I could feel the muscles of her pussy tense and suck at my hand.

Mrs. Bedlow leaned over into me, her magnificant tits had swelled so much that they had torn completely free of her binding blouse. She rubbed and smooshed their heavenly softness against my chest as I helped her divest me of my remaining clothing. Her tongue dove into my mouth, seeking mine as Imogen forced her head down onto my now goliath priapian cock like a sword swallower at the circus, as if she had been doing it for years.

Dr. Bedlow was a wreak of his former self. His own penis had grown very long and thick, but the travesty that racked his flesh the most was the second prick that now jutted out below the upper. His hands each encircled one of his dicks, beating his drooling members to a purple color, as he stared transfixed at Imogen. Imogen's arse was raised high in the air as she swallowed every last inch of me. Like a ripe fruit that begged to be plucked, Dr. Bedlow suddenly launched himself at her. Her own father's dreadfully large, raw looking cocks took her from behind, impaling both her tight anus and the dripping slit of her pussy. Wicked grins of pleasure crossed both of their faces as he tore into her with a titan's zeal.

Mrs. Bedlow's excited, lactating nipples writhed upon my chest and loins as I saw Giselle and her father joining our orgy. As my fist continued pounding in and out of Mrs. Bedlow, Giselle Barnes approached her from the rear. Prying apart her ass cheeks, Giselle forced her oozing cock-fist into Mrs. Bedlow's arse. Meanwhile, Mr. Barnes took up a position behind Giselle and shoved one of his own bifurcating penises up his little girl's anus, horribly stretching wide her sphincter muscles, while he simultaneously rammed his other cock deep into her hot, fluid dripping vagina.

Abandoning myself to the delirious, tidal flow of the bewitching room, I felt like my penis was hard enough to turn to steel in the reddish electromagnetic field of lust that pulsated through our bodies.

The gigantic spasming cunt that Sarah Jane had become, and the tentacle-ringed, whale cocked monstrosity that had once been a constable, thrashed violently together. His oozing cock tentacles whipped wildly around, then coiled around her huge, double clit-tits. Pulling her huge slavering cunt towards his behemoth drooling prick, pure masculinity and pure femininity met and locked in a bizarre primeval embrace of sexual copulation.

The two sexual forms embraced in a riot of motion, pounding into each other with tremendous force and energy. The deafening sound of wet flesh slapping against wet flesh became horrifically loud as the huge penis and the grasping maw of a vagina slammed over and over into each other. They seemed to be searching out the depths of one another, probing, wriggling, bending, clutching and stretching in unbelievably obscene ways, a hideous expression of pure erotic sensuality.

Watching the spectacle closer, the altered forms of the maid and the constable seemed to be fusing together somewhere in the center of the room, creating a new and fabulous organism. I saw the shrieking, deformed thing rearing up towards the ceiling and collapsing like a wave. It was beautiful and glorious, a living Henry Moore sculpture carved from oozing, thrusting flesh. It strained for heights of gratification I could scarcely imagine, and I watched it pass into the palpitating substance of the room itself. Then I collapsed, hovering on the bring of orgasm for what seemed like endless hours.

Suddenly Imogen was torn away from me. I looked up through the red fog to see Valentine breaking up the mass orgy. He then pushed Giselle back against a wall. She tounged the air, pleading with him to abuse her. Calmly, Valentine removed a key from his pocket and placed it in the girl's mouth. Her eyes closed in bliss and she began to suck on the rusty key. Valentine ignored the hands that scrabbled at the belt of his trousers and turned the key in Giselle's mouth. I swear that I heard the clanking sound of an ancient lock. Giselle's eyes snapped open, like switchblades, and she began to scream.

For a moment the spell was broken. Mrs. Bedlow grabbed Imogen's arm and made for the door.

"Get them out of here!" Valentine shouted. I reached for my clothes to try and restore some dignity to my appearance, but found only shreaded remnants.

"Forget your clothes!" he cried. "Just get them out!"

Ignoring my nakedness, I managed to push the others out of the room and onto the landing.

I paused at the threshold and turned. Valentine lifted his uncovered hand. It was withered terribly, like the hand of some mummified king. This, I knew, was another legacy of his most dreadful confrontation with The Mysteries. Angela had died and Valentine had lost the use of his hand. It had, however, become for him a potent object of power. He placed birthday-cake candles on the tips of each finger and lit them. Then he lifted his Hand of Glory in preparation for the final battle.

"Valentine, for God's sake!" I whispered. "You can't fight them alone."

"I'm not alone," he said. "Get out now, while you still can. The only way to stop them from coming through is to use the room's own power against them. It'll destroy you if you stay."

The air was filling with viscous streamers. Pearly-white, like semen floating free of gravity, this substance filled the air around us. Thin tendrils glistened and sang.

"They're coming!" he said.

"I can't leave you to fight them alone..." I tried to say again.

"Out!" he yelled, and the door blew shut in my face.

"May God help you, Valentine," I whispered.

There was a moment of calm in which I heard Imogen Bedlow weeping softly, and then a surge of power shook the walls and I was thrown down the stairs.

Recovering my senses, I saw that Imogen and Mr. Barnes were sprawled out on the landing in a yin yang position, their faces buried between each others wet thighs. Imogen's three tongues wrestled around his freakish siamese cock.

Mrs. Bedlow was slamming herself up and down on her husbands freakish double cocks crying loudly, "Oh...you...bloody...oh... incestual...uhh...bastard! Oh...we...uhh...know...uhh...what...you... ahhhh...did...with...umm...poor...uhh...Imogen...yessss...before... ohhhh..." She spat and slapped at him even as she impaled herself repeated on his dual prongs, tears flowing like rivers. Her vicious slaps left red welted handprints on his face and chest as he gripped her hips and forcefully ground his long cocks up into both her vagina and rectum. A fearful grin crossed his face as she yelled and beat him.

Giselle lay on her back in a depraved example of contortion; Her legs were bent far back, ankles crossed behind her neck. She was pounding the daylights out of herself with her grossly dripping cock-fist. Clutching a huge breast with her other hand, she milking it till creamy fluid shot out from her baby penis-sized nipples.

Imogen backed up, dragging Mr. Barnes with her by his cocks, and mounted the stairway's blunt-ended wooden banister rail, her wet gash humping and mashed against its vibrating length.

I desperately fought with the urge to join them.

There was a great undulating sound from The Rutting Room and before I knew what I was doing, I had straddled the banister at the bottom of the stairs, aiming my throbbing olympian-sized erection up at Imogen's dripping cunt. The smacking noises my huge cock made as it slapped wetly against the railing succeeded in gaining her undivided attention.

Grinning lasciviously, Imogen let go, quickly sliding down the slick wooden banister. I was almost sent flying across the floor as she powerfully impaled herself on the full length of my battering ram of a penis. Imogen let out a blood-curdling scream is the huge shaft suddenly plowed all the way into. Her magnificantly large, pointed breasts flopped around giddily as her momentum ground to a bone-jarring halt.

I found myself running my hands over her luscious orbs, squeezing and pulling at her elongated nipples till milk flowed out freely. I felt the smooth, sweeping curve of her bucking thighs and ass cheeks, as I pushed and pulled her, forcing her wet pussy on and off my relentlessly pounding member.

We rutted away like wild beasts for what seemed like long hours till my swollen penis was raw. My seed boiled and seethed inside my testes till it felt like it was backing up into my belly. She let out a roar of wicked delight that echoed my own as my body shook violently and blasted her insides with a tremendous amount of burning spew. As I ejaculated the undulating sound from the room itself intensified.

The clobwebs momentarily cleared from my mind, and I dragged myself back up the stairs. I could not leave Valentine to his fate. But, as I passed by the grossly contorted form of Giselle, the human pretzel, my pulsing dick drew me over to her like a metal needle swinging to point at the north pole. She now hand her phallus-fist shoved up her ass. Her swollen, moist, pussy meat called for me to skewer it. I could not resist. Like some weird wet dream, I sank my enormous, blood engorged shaft deep into her. Fucking each other frantically, her cunt lips and inner muscles bit and crushed at my massive erection until I blew a massive load into her hungrily, semen craving quim.

Trembling with pleasure I withdrew, feeling the thudding power of the room intensifying yet again. On wobbly legs, I again made for the door. My shaking hands grapped the tit-like thing the doorknob had become, and I opened the door.

Of Sarah Jane and the young constable, no evidence remained, except for a shuddering cube of stressed flesh that was trying to move around the room.

Valentine hung suspended and naked in the center of the room. He thrashed at the heart of a twitching web, a great spidery crucifixion. Filaments and protrusions extended from every corner of the room to penerate his mouth and rectum. His pelvis bucked and his penis slammed like a piston in and out of a soaking orifice that the room had manufactured for itself.

"Valentine!" I shouted, but he did not respond. His body spasmed automatically. The far wall no longer existed, and in its place there was the vista of staggering abnormality, through which the monsterous "buildings" lurched. What looked like inhuman faces were scorched on the other walls. Leering, symbol drawings like forgotten glyphs appeared and were erased by unseen hands. The word "SUBMIT" was scrawled with some diarrheal substance that faded into bilious smoke. Saliva ran from the walls. I felt that I was being allowed to simply observe a battle that I could not comprehend.

Looking up, I saw Valentine extend his flaming Hand of Glory. The tiny candles flared, and shredded paper began to rain down from the ceiling. The room's breathing grew more rapid and the walls flushed red. The same color spread across Valentine's skin like a rash. His own breathing was synchronized with that of the room. Together they ascended toward some inconcievable climax. The Mysteries reached into the room, spreading a scabbed, diseased shadow across the gaping windowsill.

There was one ineffable moment when everything paused at once, and then Valentine threw back his head and screamed.

It is to my eternal shame that I fled from the room and did not stay to help my friend. Instead I joined Mrs. Bedlow and the others for a final mesmeric orgy. Imogen's three tongued mouth wrapped around her father's cocks as Mrs. Bedlow's bruised lips locked about my singular one. I was lost.

Sucking me fast a furiously, Mrs. Bedlow was what we all had become: unchained wild things. My hulking organ oozed slickly as she plunged, first her ass then her pussy onto it. Spending just enough time for us to reach a mutual orgasm in a hole, she would trade off with one of her other orifices till our juices flowed and pooled both in, on and around our heaving, straining, sweating bodies. The depraved side effect of being in close proximity to the Horney Chamber was our ability to orgasm an almost inummerable number of times, fatigue almost being irradicated. However, there is a limit to consciousness. I found it and was pushed beyond it.

When I came back to my senses, as if waking from a fantastical wet dream of boyish youth, it was to find Valentine standing over me. The fingertips of his left hand were charred to matchsticks.

"I'm sorry..." I began.

"It's all right," he said. "They're gone for now, and there was nothing you could have done to help. This doorway to them has been sealed forever."

"Thank God," I muttered. Then I saw the unconscious bodies of my consorts laying in a tangle on the floor all about me. "What have I done?"

Valentine shook his head. "More than you know. Yet, what a price! More lives ruined by those gastly monsters."

"But what about you?" I asked.

He simply turned and walked back toward the door that opened onto the Horney Chamber. At the threshold he paused and looked down.

"When Angela died, I thought I had died to love," he said. "I was cored-out, a hollow shell. Now it seems I've found the thing that was lost to me."

"The room?" I said, barely articulating the words.

He nodded. "I was enflamed," he said quietly. "I transformed the room into an instrument of purest love. The carnal and spiritual united. The Mysteries had managed to pervert the room's true inclinations. I restored them."

I knew then what he was about to say.

"The Horney Chamber, powered by love, opens out into innumerable worlds. It can be followed through dreams, into unimaginable universes," he said. "Rainbow skies, and blue, raging storms of tear-stained love notes. And there are others out there. Enemies of The Mysteries. Beings so wonderful that a whole world can not contain them. It's all out there old chap."

He smiled at me. "That's were I'm going. Where I must go."

He reached out and laid his ruined hand on my shoulder. The gentle touch filled me with such a presence of joy that I could hardly contain it.

"Remember, we will always be friends," he said. "Goodbye."

He opened the door. From within, I heard the sound of great sighing. The room was filled with light; spring mornings and new rain, scented black chiffons, red lamps swinging in the sweat of the night. All colors of desire, all love and longing expressed in one eloquent rush of charmed air.

"Goodbye, Aubrey," I said.

Aubrey Valentine stepped into the room where love lives and closed the door, and I never saw him again.