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When it all came out, betrayed by Vicky's signature scent, I thought Kate would see it from my side. Or at least try to.

After all, she knew what her younger sister was like, how the little minx would tease with her come-to-bed glances, her endless innuendos, the short skirts she would wear whenever she knew we were coming to visit her Mom's house — not to forget those low-cut tops, her makeup done to perfection.

During those weeks, the ones leading up to my undoing, I had to keep my disaffected cock on a tight leash. I cracked down hard, one slip and I knew I would be done for. My groin became a country under martial law.

Okay. I get it. Vicky is Kate's kid sister, just eighteen years old. But how could I not have her, being the beauty that she is? Please, miss! She made me do it, said it would be okay, that no one need ever know. Honest, miss! The saddest part was my cock's complicity, it egging me on. Such a betrayal.

When our little fuck-fest was exposed, my supposed despicability hauled over hot coals, it genuinely pained me to see Kate so profoundly hurt. Even so, it wasn't as if we had been the perfect vanilla couple. We had talked about swinging — or each taking lovers if the opportunity arose. We had vowed to be open with each other, said we would share the erotic minutia afterwards.

Perhaps it was all the not telling that pissed Kate off so much.

People have blind spots when it comes to those they love, and Kate could forgive Vicky murder, pardon her an atrocity. She was the baby of the family, cherished and lionised. "You know what she's like," Kate said to me one time after the girl's flirting had been particularly blatant. "She doesn't mean anything by it. She's just a kid, hasn't a clue what effect those tits of hers have on a sad old fart like you."

And I would think you're living a fantasy, luv. Try being saddled with a cock like mine, one that thinks its God's gift, one that can sniff out a willing pussy ten miles away.

The ability to give even a half-decent blow jobs is a skill hard-won by any woman, the recondite art taking long practise and dedication to master. And what did I learn as Vicky's sweet lips enfolded the end of my cock?  I'll tell you, shall I?  She was heading for gold sucking cock for England, her place in the Olympic squad already assured.

Kate should have known better, never gone off to bed and left us alone together like that. She must have foreseen the consequences. I'm more than sure now that she did. It was a false-flag operation, the perfect excuse to be shot of me. She was quick enough to jump into Karl Jenkin's bed a week after sending me packing.

When it all came out, the night of the big confrontation, Vicky was all wriggle, wriggle, wriggle, saying how I'd taken advantage of her familial affection. And so we three had argued, the accusation and recrimination like pom-pom-flak bursting around my head. And there's me with an obelisk in my pants from looking across at Vicky and those tits of hers, remembering how she had come to me that night all lovey-dovey, sliding her sweet butt onto my knee, her short dress riding up so that her thong-split-cheeks were all squishy on my groin. And then her face nuzzling, her gin-sweet breath warm on my throat, her perfume an opiate quelling my pathetic resistance.

Yeah, if you look at it like that, I suppose I did take advantage of her affection. But hey! Give me a break. What man wouldn't have? Oh, you love your wife, do you? If it had been you, you would have been upstanding, the loyal partner, a paragon of husbandly virtue. Yeah, I know, you would have told Vicky to be a good girl and run on home to mummy.

I'm sorry, my friend, believe me, you wouldn't have! Not with a mouthful of that sweet tongue scrambling all reason, her hand rummaging in the bran-tub of your boxers. What's this I have in my palm? A penis! My-oh-my, where did that come from?

When Kate kicked me out, I lost not only my wife and my home but my job too. You see, I worked for her father's firm, given the post of manager at the Luton branch. And I was doing quite nicely, thank you, until Kate told Henry I'd fucked his little princess.

Out on my arse. Finding a similarly well-paid job was hard, the ability to spin crap on the phone not as valued as I had come to believe.

What to do? What to do? There were always books. Yes, you heard me: books! As an avid collector, I knew a thing or to of their values. And so I came to eke out a living as a runner for the antiquarian book trade, travelling the country visiting bookshops and provincial auction houses, returning to London once a month to offload my finds on the Charing Cross dealers. Weeks on the road, from the Home Counties to Scotland, East Anglia to the West Country. Too many nights spent in cheap hotels. Sometimes not even that luxury, bedding down in an isolated layby or backstreet, a sleeping bag laid out in the back of my ancient Ford Transit.

There was this one shop. A Northern town. A Cathedral town.

You would never suspect the existence of Abbot's Bookshop, hidden away as it was among the helter-skelter of buildings girdling the hillside over which Blackthorpe Minster loomed. The shop had a narrow frontage, its sunken doorway set into ancient local stone, a single Dickensian window that shouted the need for a smattering of snow.

On each visit, I would scan the meagre window display before venturing inside. Through the leaded panes I would see the same volumes laid out just as before, their covers perhaps slightly more faded, their reality diminished by the inexorable grind of time. A pathetic assortment: The Wonder Book of Engineering; ten jacketless Blyton hardbacks, and a set of buckram-bound Waverley novels doomed to languish there for eternity. I wondered if Bede had chosen them to ward off the despised daytrippers.

But the establishment was worthy of a Time Lord, the shop's narrow frontage belying an interior that bloomed into a warren of corridors, stairs, nooks and secret spaces. But the lure of what awaited me inside was not merely down to foxed and dusty volumes. Sometimes there would be Eva.

During the summer she watched the shop while her father, Bede, attended to his mailorder business. She had done so since she was sixteen. She'd smile for me whenever I entered, seeming secretly bemused by my visits. I always teased her, asked her why she had not brought some organisation to this shambles of a place. She would hold my gaze as I eased my way between the counter and boxes of unsorted books left next to the towering glass-fronted cases where her father kept the erotica under lock and key. The secret world of bygone smut was his obsession. No one knew more about the subject than Bede.

Those cases held everything from seventeenth-century double elephant folios with their full-page plates, hand-tinted and tissue-guarded, to fifties lesbian pulp paperbacks in their worn and garish wrappers. Before moving into the interior, I would always turn to inspect the contents of those locked, glass-fronted shelves, memorising spines for future reference.

I had only ever known her father as Bede. Outwardly, he was the least bookish person you could imagine; a lumbering haystack of a man in a leather biker jacket that gave him the air of an outcast from some north country Hell's Angels chapter. It was a wonder to see him pilot his body through his stock, all those narrow aisles and tottering shelves. Even to the most spritely, the interior presented as a Ninja Course, the aisles made impassable by random stacks of books rising up to obscure the lower shelves, the piles often collapsed into shapeless mounds, their volumes fleeing in a desperate bid to escape claustrophobia.

At some point in a vague past there had been an attempt at categorisation, subject labels tacked onto shelves, notices placed above the door of each of the many stockrooms: science; Art; Medicine; Fiction; History; Military; Crafts. But now such niceties had long ago fallen out of favour, anomalies and aberrations on every shelf; needlework titles where no craft book should rightly dare venture. Crewel Embroidery the centre of a threesome, its slim binding squeezed between the unforgiving boards of The Campaigns of Napoleon and The Galleys at Lepanto.

Over the four years that I'd been visiting the shop, I'd developed quite a thing for his daughter, her fiery-beauty, her astonishing eyes.

Eva and I shared a love of video nasties. After my run of the shop was over, we would discuss our latest viewings as she totalled my haul as we sipped tea and dunked digestives into chipped china mugs.

It was the summer of nineteen-ninety-nine when Bede phoned me to say he had acquired a country house library. The world-renowned Dammartin collection. He said several items might be of interest to me.

Lord Dammartin had specified in his will that Bede's tender should be given preferential consideration, his way repaying a debt of gratitude for the years Bede had sourced texts essential to the completion of his Lordship's Opus Magnum, "Bound To Delight: an Explicit Exploration of Victorian Bondage".  Out of print these last five years, the study is itself a collector's item in its own right.

And so I had driven up the country knowing there would be gems aplenty, my sorry finances my only limit.

Eva was twenty-one years old by now. After completing her degree in fine arts she was studying for a Masters in film craft, her ultimate ambition to become a film director. Knowing she was home for the summer excited me more than the thought of picking through the Dammartin collection.

The tinkle of the shop bell. Beyond the counter, at the rear of the office area, Eva was sitting on a high stool with an old black telephone handset to her ear, speaking to a customer. She was wearing frayed denim shorts, her sleek legs crossed at the knee, one calf gently swinging while her foot kept a slow beat that caused her flip-flop to slap against the ball of her heel.

She had dyed her dark-red hair to the hue of tangerine segments since my last visit, complimenting her pale and freckled cheeks. When she raised her head to acknowledge my entrance, I saw a new strangeness in her eyes, and for a moment I wondered if Bede had replaced his daughter with a queer simulacrum. Then it dawned: she had rounded off her new look by donning contacts of aquamarine. They gave her already pleasing prettiness a hint of the outré, a predatory feline edge.

"Hi Mark," she said, giving me a cursory glance while covering the mouthpiece. "I'll be with you in a sec."

Her father was supposed to show me the books he had put aside in his warehouse. I was on time, but there was no sign of Bede. I assumed he was somewhere in the depths of the shop.

I watched her from the far side of the counter while she jotted down the customer's requirements, listening to half a conversation while feeling stupid for torturing myself with a fantasy that one day I might get to enjoy her youthful beauty. I watched how gracefully her fingers gripped the handset, and imagined how those same fingers might tackle my cock. Thinking of lying naked at her feet, her painted, bare toes on my face twisting gently. "I know just what you need after your long journey," she would be saying as she kneeled beside me to take my roaring cock between her lips.

Back in the room. She had put the receiver down and was talking to me, saying, "Dad's in hospital. His heart is playing him up again."

"Is it serious?"

"He's out of danger, has to take it easy for a while. The boxes he set aside for you are down in the cellar. I'll need to lock up before I take you down."

She came around the counter with a bunch of keys and began to squeeze past me, not caring if I made way for her or not. When her small, impertinent breasts brushed against my chest through the cambric of her summer top, my cock sprang to life. She stood for a moment with them pressed against my ribs, two curled and sleepy creatures beginning to stir. We looked into each other's eyes as the rise and fall of her chest untangled my thoughts.

"I'll just get that lock," She said, emphasising the L of lock as she eased herself away from me. "We wouldn't want to be disturbed now, would we?"

She went to the door, leaving a trail of her sweet fragrance to torment me. I inhaled deeply, my cock now crawling the walls of its cell.

"There!" she said as she returned, "I'll just put these back where they go." She held the keys high for me to see, a saucy twinkle brightening her eyes. "Then we can get down to business."

She turned her back to me, leaning slightly over the counter while pushing her buttocks into my hips as she attempted to slide by.  

This opportunity was not going to slip away. Both hands quickly resting each side of her hips, stalling her progress, drawing her butt against my trouser-closeted cock. We stood together like that, neither of us moving, my cock now rampant, a rod to discomfort her. It was a moment out of time, a place where chronology held no sway, a non-space in which the air about us became electric with anticipation.

She did not turn, just wriggled her butt against my fossilised erection. Then husky with need, her sweet voice, soft, curious, "Mark?"

"Yes," I answered, surprised to hear my name at that exact moment while thinking, Oh, please, Eva, don't shoot me down.

Expectant silence, then her saying, "Well, what-the-fuck are you waiting for?"

Still, it took a moment before my fingers said, 'fuck you, brain' and went their own way, reaching around her to undo the button of her shorts, tearing the zip down with reckless haste. Then my right hand eased into her panties beneath denim, the rough seam and stitching against my knuckles. Between her legs was subtropical, her moist cunt and pubes had lushness, and I thought of her ginger bush and whether it was now all tangerines like her hair. Even if not, the feel of that tangle of ginger made the tip of my cock seep with pre-cum.

And then she was using her hands to pull her shorts down, her knickers gently coerced to follow. Both garments fell together to rest in a tangle about her ankles, and she shuffled her feet to be rid of them. Her legs widened as her hands reached behind herself, a scramble of fingers and thumbs groping for my belt and zipper.

Chinos bunched over my shoes, my feet stepping free of them. My palm over her butt cheeks, my fingers stealthily finding her pussy, three digits sinking, to the knuckles. Her cunt all crème anglaise, viscous and warm.

My cock biding its time in my hand while the fingers of my other hand attended to her clit from behind. My palm covered her cunt, staunching seepage. Her erratic breath telling me how much I excited her. It was as if she had waited all these weeks for my return. There was long neglect, an ache to be brought to completion.

She reached around herself to take hold of my wrist — the one attached to the hand whose fingers stirred her clit from below —  extracting it from behind herself, bringing it around herself to attend to her clit from the front, from above. She conducted its rhythm, piloting my movements until she had the tempo exactly to suit her. "Like that!" she finally gasped relinquishing me, my hand now trusted to continue unsupervised.

My bare cock jammed vertical against her buttocks, moment by moment sinking deeper into its fissure and becoming enfolded, submerged. It was pressing into her as if wanting to hide, not even trying to penetrate her, quickly swathed in all that doughy flesh. She made odd little sounds, whined for more of it, like a dog for attention. Nothing but cock filled the length of her crack, sausagemeat wrapped in warm dough, a toad-in-the-hole of fleshy delight. Driving hard against her while fearing my balls might become permanently misshapen by the delicious pressure.

She stretched her torso over the counter to emphasise the curl of her hips, widening her legs and reaching back with one hand to take my cock and guide it to her pussy from behind. The mouth of her warm cunt circumscribed its tip as it slipped into her. And then half accommodated,  pausing for a moment to enjoy her cunt's eager handshake of welcome. God! How as her muscles contracted; such a warm and heartfelt greeting. This would please and impress her.

I would make her cum in the moment of maximum penetration. She was already at the edge of orgasm, delivered there by insistent fingers. Now my cock was her undoing, one brutal lunge and its shaft hurtled to its inexorable conclusion.

From the self-loss of her orgasm, from the place beyond herself into which she had been catapulted, she called my name over and over: "Oh-God! Mark. Mark! Mark!"

Undone, absolutely. My jizz flowing. It all happened in less than five minutes. That was the effect of fucking Eva after all the dreaming of it.

We remained locked together, breathing hard and fast. Me upright with my palms each side of her soft haunches, and she with her chest pressed onto the counter, her face to one side, wood against her cheeks. My diminishing cock finally slipped from her to dangle uselessly dripping cum.

A tussle with my trousers while she stooped down for her shorts and knickers.

"What just happened?" I asked as I fastened my belt.

"I've not been myself for days," she said almost coyly, though there was no coyness in her eyes when she turned to face me.  

"Oh, why's that?"

"I'll show you soon enough — but just at the moment I want you to kiss me."

Stood between the shelves of erotica and the counter, we kissed for a while. Someone rattled the handle of the shop door, startling me. I broke from her and looked towards the door in alarm. She told me to pay no attention, that I was to kiss her again until she said I was not to.

When she had had her fill of kissing, she said, "I want to show you what's down in the basement."

"There's a basement too?" I said. "Is that where the books from the Dammartin collection are stored?"

"There's something else down there I want to show."

"Can't it wait?"

"No. I need you to see this now."

"Help me out here. Perhaps a clue?"

"I can't explain. You need to see it."

She went back to the far side of the counter and put the shop door key on the hook and picked up another bunch.

We travelled deep into the shop, stepping over wayward volumes as we went, finally arriving at the foot of the staircase leading up. But we did not ascend. Instead, she unlocked the door beneath the stairs which I had imagined opened on to a cupboard.

"There's no electric until we get to the cellar," she said, "But I have a torch," she said, picking one up from a small shelf just inside the doorway. "You'd best stay close."

Into the pressing darkness, cut only by the sweeping beam of her torchlight. Heading downwards, the ancient stone steps steep. Above us, the arched brickwork quickly giving way to sandstone. Descending swiftly, soon we were deep inside Minster Hill. Over my shoulder, an utter blackness consumed the tunnel.

"And the Dammartin collection is down here?" I asked.

"Yes. But it contains more than just books."

"It must have taken forever to get it down here."

"The entrance to the warehouse is on the far side of the hill, just off the by-pass. You'll be able to drive your van in. Just that this is the quickest way by foot from the shop."

As we descended, numerous openings would open up to the side, the cold of dank air chilling my cheeks as we passed by.

"This place feels ancient," I said.

"Something to do with the monks," Eva said. "There was a monastery on the hill before the Cathedral was built. These were the tunnels they used to hide from the Vikings."

"I thought they were sea raiders."

"They used rivers to pillage inland. Sneaky bastards, eh!"

"How come you know so much about it?"

"It was my history project when I was in the sixth form. I'm not just a pretty face, you know." And she turned to me while holding the torch under her chin, her features made hideous.

"Quit it!" I play-punched her shoulder.

Arriving on flat ground, her beam picking out a light switch set in brickwork. "Here we are," she said, flicking the lights on. "Voila!"

The area that opened up before us amazed me. There must have been five thousand square feet of warehouse space, half of it stacked to the low ceiling with teachest and fruit boxes full of books. At the far end, at least thirty yards away, there was an up-and-over garage-type door. Beyond it, the hiss and rumble of passing high-speed traffic.

"Before we start on the stuff Dad has set aside for you, you just have to see this."

"What is it?"

"What I told you about up in the shop."

She led me to an office elevated above the warehouse floor on a wooden frame. It had a large window overlooking a loading bay, set to one side of the metal door. Here the ceiling was high enough to accommodate my van. Inside the office it was surprisingly cosey, having a burgundy leather three seater Chesterfield set against one wall, a bookcase, and a large oak desk on which sat a desktop PC.

"When Dad fell ill, I had to sort the erotica from the other Dammartin stuff. That's when I came across dozens of cans of film among loads of other none-book stuff. There are hundreds of hours of footage."

"What sort of films?"

"The sort they use for movies."  

"Yeah, but what's on them?"

"That's what I want to show you."

"You have a projector down here?"

"We don't need one. I've digitised a couple of reels." She sat down and began to negotiate the screen with the cursor. "These are not home movies — although, in a way, they are. Whoever shot these scenes knew what they were doing," she said as she used the mouse to open the folder she wanted. "I love the use of lighting in this one. Everything is so stark, overpowering, inescapably real. The camera work is first-rate, professional, the editing seamless."

On the screen, a well-lit and spacious cellar, its white tiled wall reflecting the lighting. There is a starkness to the scene that reminds me of that Ken Russel movie — the one about nuns and possession. Along one are ten cages set side by side, each just large enough to hold a single person when standing to attention. In each stands a girl, each one wearing an identical white semi-transparent gown flowing to their ankles. A garland of tiny white flowers crowns each girl's head.

"Oh, God, Eva. What the fuck is this?"

 "Isn't it fantastic?" she said as the camera visited each cage in turn.

"But what's going to happen to them?"

"Don't worry, no one is going to chop anyone into pieces or anything. You're going to love this." We were both silent as we watched. Then: "There are so many other films, and I've watched them all, but this is my favourite."

As Eva spoke, the camera zooms in to linger on one of the girls. She looks too young to be involved in such depravity. Seventeen — eighteen at a push. She has tangerine hair and green eyes. She is clutching the bars, her agitation unmistakable.

"Don't let her little girl lost look fool you. She is a wicked little cow, exquisitely cruel. You'll soon see. Do you like her hair?" Eva said. When I said nothing, she turned from me to watch the screen and then added. "She's not as young as she looks. Her name is Harriett."

"How do you know?"

"I found a portrait of her in a shipping crate along with those of all the other girls. They have their names and ages written on a plaque at the bottom of their portrait. There are lots of paintings. All those in this film have one, and there are ones of girls from other films. And there are photo prints and their negatives. And diaries too, kept by Penny Dammartin, the youngest daughter, in which she describes all the goings-on, as well as short biographies of the participants, the parties they'd attended, the roles each played."

On screen, Harriet's eyes are frantic with apprehension. It is as if she is preparing for something unspeakable. It was impossible for me to equate her look of trepidation with what Eva said about her being cruel. Her seeming ordinariness was quite at odds with the extraordinary events now unfolding about her. It was hard to imagine even a particle of sadism in her make up. Her girlishness, her fresh-faced demeanour, made her participation in this sordid pageant of the wealthy incongruous, dissonant. So much so that I could not avoid wondering who she was — someone's daughter, sister, girlfriend, wife. To me, back then, this was not the kind of girl you saw in porn — for this is what I now realised I was watching. In my mind, pornstars were supposed to be brash and full-breasted. This girl could be a vicar's daughter.

The camera turned to show an audience, men and women as well as Lord Dammartin and his wife, and four servants overseeing the proceedings. One or two of the guests stood and chatted and drank from flutes seemingly uninterested in the prisoners, while others wandered from cage to cage, sometimes commentating on one of the captives with an air of blasé disinterest. Others were feverish with anticipation when they came to stand and stare.

And yet no one wore a mask, that cliches of the movies and books. The women in their evening gowns were all beautiful, the older ones no exception. The men projected the arrogance of power. Few were young, though most had once been handsome.

Two maids in short black dresses, sheer, black tights and white aprons; two young men in tails and powdered wigs playing the role of footmen.

 A startling rap at the door. A maid went quickly to admit the new arrivals.

"This next one's named Caroline," Eva said before we could see who it was.

A naked girl made inordinately desirable by salacious circumstance is led into the room by a golden chain attached to a choker about her throat. Her age is hard to pinpoint. She looks to be anywhere between eighteen and mid-twenties.  She casts her eyes here and there as her captor leads her through the audience. From time to the man jerks hard on the chain to hurry her along, causing her eyes to flare with recalcitrance.

Chatter subsiding, a hush settles over the room as one by one the guest become aware of the girl Caroline's entrance. They are astounded by her nakedness, her fierce beauty. Then the germination of clapping, only one or two hands at first and then others joining in until they all applaud her entrance like concertgoers might a conductor taking to the stage. She moves through them with proud disregard, her eyes defiant as she turns her head this way and that challenging their eyes with sincere contempt. She is an Amazon queen taken in battle, quite stunning to behold.

Her long dark hair falls free over her shoulders, her tanned skin an icing of silkiness over good bones and lithe limbs. Such pleasing curves. And despite her air of contempt as she passes among the leering guests, hands reach for her and take strands of her hair and let it slide through their fingers as she passes by, others stroke her thighs, breasts and buttocks fleetingly, fondly.

I watched the screen in fascinated silence while Eva continued her narration. "This is Caroline's first time at one of these gatherings.  She must be very nervous."

"She doesn't look nervous."

"The girls in the cages are all local girls, regular playthings of the Dammartins, but this is Caroline's first time with so many people. A kind of induction. Tonight she must punish one of the regular girls. Lord Dammartin thinks Caroline has a sinful heart and will make a fine mistress. Well, that's what it says in Penny Dammartin's notes. Which one do you think she'll choose?"

Deciding was impossible. Instead, I asked, "What happens to the other girls after she has made her choice?"

"After the guests have watched Caroline's performance, the girls will be turned loose, sent off to hide in the house so that the others can track them down and then use them however they want to. There's a girl for each couple. But they don't film that part."

"This really floats your boat, doesn't it?"

"You have no idea..."

"Would you like to have been there, been one of those girls?"

"I dream about it at night."

"It's become your fantasy?"

"Its more than daydreaming. I really do dream about this stuff at night. In my them I'm the one named Harriet, and yet myself, both at once. We get all mixed up with each other. I don't know if I am her, or if she is me."

"I suppose that accounts for the hair does it?"

"Shhh! Its Lord Dammartin now."

An ageing man addresses the audience in the plum-rich tones of the British aristocracy, says how Caroline is his latest acquisition and that he has high hopes of her.  

He turns to Caroline and tells her: "Now, dear girl, the time has come for you to choose. Take your time. You are among friends."

He gives the word to undo the shackles that bind her. She rubs each wrist while her collar is removed, the chaffing of her throat then clear to see. She brushes her hair from her face and then stands proud as she casts her eyes over the guests before she turns around to look at the line of cages. The camera goes close to catch her first reaction. It is a moment of disconcertion, her eyes growing wide as she begins to take on board the reality of what she sees and what it means for her.

The enprisoned girls are restless, fidgeting in their confinement. When they see Caroline studying them, they become attentive and return her gaze. Whether their eyes are pleading to be chosen, or asking to be passed over, is hard to say. She turns back to face Lord Dammartin, her expression asking for guidance.

A father to his daughter: "A word to the wise, my dear: let beauty be your lodestone."  He nods for her to proceed.

She is hesitant. The man — her escort — whispers in her ear and places a hand on her shoulder to gently encourage her. She gathers herself, takes a deep breath and starts towards the pens. Soon she is weaving between them, one cage to the next, pausing from time to time to stare, imbibing every detail of each girl's physique.

One girl, a blonde, Scandinavian looking, fetchingly gorgeous beyond the others, causes Caroline's progress to waver. There is an immediate fascination, and Caroline stares and stares. The girl's body is sturdy, a young farmgirl's body animated by a vitality that radiates from every pore. And yet her athleticism is ameliorated by full curves and softness. Her flesh is pure West County cream, her eyes blue as howlite crystals, her lashes massacred black as a porcelain doll's.

The camera lingers on the girl's breasts, hardly veiled by the haze of her gown's sheer cascade. They rise and fall with each anxious breath. Despite their size, they retain a tautness, a pleasing upturn and puffiness redolent of a girl's first full blooming. The camera moves down her body, to the suggestion of her pubic down through the diaphanous haze of the draping, delicate fabric. The camera pans upwards and studies her face. Its stunning prettiness is soured by apprehension: she expects to be chosen, wishes it on another.

This is Rachel. She is just nineteen years old.

Caroline moves on, stands and studies the petite brunette named Chloe who occupies the neighbouring cage. She circles her twice and then looks back at blonde Rachel before continuing on her way. Back and forth, meandering among the pens, her eyes scrutinising each girl as they suffer the humiliation of sexual appraisal. Caroline studies each one from every angle, spending longer on some than others.

She takes forever, will not be rushed. The audience grows restless.

 "Yeah, luv, it's a tough call,"  I say under my breath.

She is close to a decision. Will it be the sylph-like Harriet or blonde Rachel? Caroline's face is a portrait in celluloid as she studies blonde Rachel for the final time. A weight has been lifted, a conclusion reached. Blonde Rachel has stirred some dark spark in Caroline's soul, and her eyes now beam with a dawning understanding the power she will soon wield over this rare creature, this avatar of evolution's drive towards female perfection.

Caroline looks to Lord Dammartin, for his permission, even though there is no need. She knows it is assured.

"If you are quite sure, my dear," he says.

She nods emphatically, and yet bashfully. It is as if her most secret vice has been made public. On Lord Dammartin's command, the two maids approach blonde Rachel. They move towards her side by side as if conjoined — as if clockwork figures. A key is inserted into the lock and turned. The cage door swings open on hinges in need of oiling.

Blonde Rachel steps uncertainly from her prison and stretches her limbs, arms and legs unwinding into an illusion of freedom that is soon snatched from her. Given no time to reorientate herself, she is handled, bustled with inconsiderate haste and taken to face her new mistress. Each girl regards the other warily, neither sure how to commence what has been scripted. I wonder if Rachel resents Caroline, the newcomer, the usurper, a dark rival to her fair beauty. The tension in the room is palpable. It has permeated celluloid, infected the computer's hard drive.

"You must undress her," a maid prompts Caroline.

She does as she is told, slips the ethereal garment from the girl's shoulders and lets it slide over her body and down to her feet, and then takes two steps back to view what she has unwrapped. Pleased with what she sees, she steps forward again so that mere inches separate their nakedness, their breasts. She reaches out and draws her nails down over the girl's chest, more spitefully on her nipples as they pass. They leave red tracks in their wake. She repeats the action over and over until blonde Rachel's chest is a netting of scarlet tracery.

Caroline smiles, pleased with the raw abstract she has etched, the feverish tattooing on each pale breast. Next, she brushes away the dense silk strands of hair that fall across the girl's fetching features, making a ponytail of it before pulling hard. A moment of shock. Hurt flashes across the girl's face as her head is jerked far back and held cruelly in place, leaving her throat exposed. I think of an Anglo-Saxon queen: swan-necked.

Caroline's lips hover, not sure if she is allowed this liberty. And then a moment of decision and her lips engage, licking and nipping her way upwards, to chin and cheeks, and then sealing blonde Rachel's mouth in a kiss, deep and prolonged. On screen, the fabulous exchange is shown in closeup. There is a ripple of applause.

The two girls have forgotten themselves, their kiss becoming intimate, self-referential. Lord Dammartin orders them parted and they are quickly separated by the maids. Rachel is taken away from Caroline, marched to a point in the room where manacles hang. The camera loiters while they fasten the dangling cuffs around her wrists. Her eyes are fixed ahead, choosing not to register the enthralled eyes that sweep her flesh, the covetous mouths that gawp. Such stoic determination.

Eva's watching me. I turn to face her as she says, "I bet she's loving every second."

Eva's eyes are feral with excitement, and I wonder who this girl really is at heart? I tell her,  "Not as much as you are. I never knew what a sick little bunny you are!"

"I thought this would be just your thing. You know, what with all those teen slasher movies you watch."

"But that's all make-believe."

"And you think this is real, that these girls have been snatched from the streets? You wouldn't believe how much some are being paid."

Rachel's wrists are pulled high by a footman operating block and tackle. Her arm muscles become stretched to tearing, her torso elongated so that the cage of her ribs are outlined through tender flesh.

Lord Dammarting tells Caroline she must now choose an assistant, and she does not hesitate to point to Harriet. A footman unlocks her cage, and she is quickly brought to face Caroline. No words pass between them as Harriet removes her own gown in a gesture of deference, her eyes never wavering from Caroline's as she lets the garment slip away from her as carelessly as consequences. Caroline seems unsure of what use to make of the girl-imp she now commands.

After a moment's thought, she reaches out and cups Harriet's head with both hands and directs her lips to each of her breasts in turn. Harriet does not have to stoop, her mouth is naturally aligned. Then down to the dark tangle of pubes where her girlish tongue performs secret passions known only to her new mistress.

The maids lead the two girls to a long table that display implements of pain laid out and neatly presented side by side. While they consider what to choose, there is a change in Harriet, an obvious delight as she moves from one item to another, picking up a lash or dildo and considering. She is a spoilt child with too many gifts. There is a fresh feverishness in her eyes as she contemplates each implement's unique ability to cause discomfort, a reckless glee growing with each item she handles.

While the pair choose, members of the audience approach blonde Rachel as she hangs helpless and forlorn in the centre of the room. They gather around her, and there is a genteel jostling, a vying for advantage as husbands and wives crowd together to share the spectacle of her debasement, the piquancy of her helplessness, her plight. While some are content to merely see the girl's hapless discomfort at close quarters, others are impelled to touch her.

The fingers and painted nails of women gently score her softest flesh, sometimes hooking between her legs. The impatient palms of men between her butt cheeks, and the lips of both sexes to and from each breast. Blonde Rachel closes her eyes and endures the growing fervour of their attention.

 At the table of savage implements, Caroline and Harriet have chosen. Caroline practises strokes with a slim cane, which she raises high and brings down with a ferocious sweep. The air hisses as it arcs downwards. Six times she lets it fly. Between each practising stroke, she runs its slender, knotted length through her fingers. She has a new friend, its kiss bitter.

We see Harriet putting the final touches to the fastenings of the strap-on she has chosen. A maid kneels and helps her with the fasteners from behind. The footmen are politely ushing the couples to form a half-circle around the hanging blonde Rachel, leaving space enough for Caroline and Harriet to begin.

Mistress and her imp stand before their captive. And there is no irony in Harriet's voice as she delivers her lines, no snarkiness, no subtle ingenuousness to undermine this charade when she asks Caroline, "Should I begin, mistress. Should I fuck her now?"

Caroline nods. And so it begins.

And I wonder how this is ever going to work? Blonde Rachel is tall and elevated by ropes, while Harriet is petite, no taller than five-one. Only the tip of her strap-on will reach the blonde girl's pussy.

But already the two footmen have lowered blonde Rachel. Then the pair flank her and lift her so that she sits in a cradle of their interlocking fingers supported by their strong arms. Her legs are spread wide, and the sight of her cunt's rawness becomes compelling. A patina of her excitement coats its lips while still more seeps to glisten under the stark studio lighting.

Caroline speaks from her script: "His Lordship is so-fucking pissed off with you... you ungrateful bitch!" She is self-conscious, her tone self-defeating. I expect her to snigger like an embarrassed adolescent in class.

"She's an ugly-disobedient-whore, mistress," Harriet says,

Offscreen: Eva says, "Caroline is an awful actress."

On screen: Caroline says, "Fucking disobedient whore." The words are delivered flatly, without conviction. She can hardly bring herself to speak them.

Blonde Rachel is hardly listening to Caroline. There is a more pressing issue at hand. She is mesmerised and appalled by the approaching strap-on, its immanence juts and sways outrageously from Harriet's hips.

"Is this going to be a problem for you, sweetheart?" Harriet says with butter-wouldn't-melt sweetness, "I can see that it is." She smiles while she caresses the improbably large dildo with her dainty fingers. The apprehension in blonde Rachel's eyes feeds Harriet's spite. Something dark is brought to life from seeing the girl's trepidation, her comprehension that she will soon be penetrated by such a monstrous appendage. With each step that Harriet takes, the attached phallus swings arrogantly from side to side.

"You think you're something special, Don't you!" Harriet tells the girl as she takes up a position between her spread legs. "After I'm through with you, your specialness will be legendary."

The footmen hold blonde Rachel in place, adjusting her hips and legs to give Harriet the best of all starts, her cunt made an unmissable target. Harriet reaches out to stroke her cheek, distracting her while her other hand rams home the swaggering phallus, sending it beyond all resistance.

Rachel's cries are not of pain: they are bleatings of humiliation, regret and anger. With each thrust that Harriet makes, the girl's pleas for this to stop grow louder, more insistent, her cries echoing around the tiled walls. But, little by little, as Harriet finds her rhythm, each thrust leeches her of all resistance. She is captured and dragged down by the unappeasable undertow of Harriet's fucking, each thrust taking her beyond herself until her cries become something else entirely: sensuously extracted moans of gratitude, a halleluiah in praise of a growing delight.

Caroline stands behind blonde Rachel, her cane momentarily set aside as both her hands reach down, each taking a breast and lifting as if weighing exotic fruit for size and ripeness. "No one would give a shit about you if not for these," Caroline says, her voice now authentic with cruelty. She reaches down again and pinches both nipples, even plucks at them as if to part them from their areolas, like an impulsive child, snatching daisy heads from their stems. Rachel endures this with a clenched jaw, her eyes tightly shut. Perspiration glistens on her brow.

Harriet's palms join those of the footmen's under blonde Rachel's butt, groping for traction that she will use to draw herself onto the girl further still, sending her strap-on pummelling hard and fast, trying to extract the full potential from her cock-of-a-cyclops dildo.
 
A footman brings Caroline a smaller strap-on, one of a size fitting for its intended purpose. One of the maids helps her with the fastening as the other maid lubricates between blonde Rachel's butt cheeks, even as Harriet's dildo continues to come and go, no end in sight of its punishing implacability.

Rachel is between mistress and slave. We do not see the double impaling, hidden as is it by naked girl-flesh. We see only blonde Rachel's expression; the gritted teeth of an unanesthetised amputation.

Rachel can endure nothing more, and so the two footmen lower her onto her feet. But she can hardly stand. Her legs betray and she crumples, sinks to the floor. But there is no respite as block and tackle retake her weight, her arms winched high, to the verge of dislocation. As her body ascends, she looks beyond caring. She hangs and swings free as Caroline sets about her with her slim cane, soon joined by Harriet with the riding crop she has fetched from the table.

The two girls, each still encumbered by their jutting strap-ons, laugh and taunt poor blonde Rachel, thrashing and lashing her delicate flesh, their eyes often meeting to share in the other's delight, smiling for each other in their wicked complicity. For Caroline, this is no longer play-acting.

In our reality, Eva is telling me what she would like to do to the girls from her old school, the ones that made her time there hell. "In my dream, Emma Fenton and her clique are hung side by side like washing on a line, each one of them naked and pleading."  I see a look in her eyes like none I have seen before. "Do you think there is something wrong with me, Mark?"

"I didn't know you liked girls."

"I don't — Not in that way. Not as much as boys. But there are some females you can't help wanting to hurt."

"Do you think about this stuff a lot?"

"All the time."

"And it turns you on?"

"You wouldn't believe how much."

"I hear there are clubs."

"I have a friend. We have watched this together. I hinted I might enjoy whipping her."

"Is she likely to agree?"

"I don't know if she took the hint. I'll suggest it again tonight after we've watched another one."

"What is your friend's name."

"Natalie. She's a blonde too."

"Mind if I stick around?"

She smiled, leaned and kissed me. We made love again, face to face. She was full of fire and freshly stoked need.  

Later. On screen.

The guests are gone, the cages all empty, the girls released into the wilds of the manor's interior, perhaps only half-hiding from their pursuers. Maybe some will be eager to be caught, paid and sent home. Caroline and Harriet too, their role played out have become mere sex fodder for the aristocracy. I image them hiding with the others in a game of sardines, all nine squashed together in an antique wardrobe.

But blonde Rachel remains. She hangs stretched and spent, her weight supported by only her tiptoes. Before the servants take their turn with her — girls and boys, dildos and cocks — the camera sweeps her body one last time. I inspect it for welts and bruises but make out only flushing where cane and crop have teased, mere residues of pain in pleasure.  

And I wonder if Eva will be so lenient when blonde Natalie says okay.

 THE END
( Almost. You never know).

AUTHOR'S END NOTE.

Caroline is featured in my series, "From Teen Bride To Hot Wife". If you want to read about how she came to meet Lord Dammartin, you could do no better than check out chapters two and three.