The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

All this was a year ago. Perhaps I can best wrap the story up by offering a series of incidents during the intervening twelve months that strike me as particularly interesting or significant (or sexy or amusing. Or, in one or two cases, grim).

Last summer’s birthday weekend was the turning point. Once all the girls were safely captured, and the decision had been taken to go wholesale into the sex business, everything seemed to fall into place. I was very strict about ensuring girls had made all the necessary arrangements for this dramatic change in their lives. Doting parents were told whatever their daughter thought would best reassure them: that she had saved some money and was taking a year off, that she was doing some lucrative freelance job, that she was being kept and pampered by some mysterious wealthy man, and so on. One or two of the broader-minded parents actually got the truth, or a relatively lightly edited version of it.

Naturally some girls needed longer than others to prepare the ground so they arrived in the sex business in ones and twos over the next few months, not all in a rush. Gina gave advice and support, and it was her idea that the girls should work independently rather than give a slice of their earnings to agencies. The result was the institution that Wendy calls “the Stable”. This is not so much an agency as a loose federation. Wendy took voluntary redundancy from her job to help co-ordinate it; she maintains the records (which for obvious reasons are kept to a minimum), while Gina, in such spare time as she can manage (for she is still a whore first and foremost), provides the girls with what I suppose I can best describe as technical support. (I hear her taking calls from the girls and saying things like, “Yeah, I knew a guy once that asked for that. Weird, innit? Listen, hun, this is how you do it…”)

There are several reasons that the administration is not too onerous. In the first place, we can trust our girls implicitly. Secondly, they are all in touch with each other so they can make arrangements directly between themselves if an extra girl is needed somewhere or if one of them finds a client she thinks would particularly appreciate one of her colleagues. The third reason is that we do not take a commission off the girls, or at least, not in the normal sense. Basically, what they earn (and they earn plenty) is theirs to keep. All we ask (since we have to eat) is an occasional subvention, which means that I pick on a few girls at random and ask them to donate whatever we need; two days’ earnings (which they hardly miss) from five girls drawn by lot will typically generate about six to eight thousand pounds, which pays the bills for weeks.

It will be gathered from this that I have left the insurance business. It had become obvious to me, even before my birthday party, that FUCK was simply too powerful to allow me to lead a normal life without risking constant accidental captures such as Ursula’s. It is not the capture itself that troubles me – I am delighted that Ursula is on board and so is she – but every girl has family, friends, and colleagues and every uncontrolled capture of this kind increases the chances of detection.

So a few days after the party I asked to see Brian and told him that since, owing to the company’s financial problems, he would need to cut down on staff costs, I should like to negotiate a retirement package. Generous terms, I suggested, would be a fitting reward for my corporate loyalty in cosying up to George. He seemed a little surprised, since I had never before shown any interest in leaving, but I told him that what my late uncle had left me meant that I had no need to work any more. He assumed the look characteristic of him when he was pretending to be intelligent and he told me that he entirely understood and was sure something acceptable could be worked out.

The settlement we arrived at was, in fact, highly satisfactory from my point of view and I felt it was good of Brian to honour the terms of what was, after all, only a gentlemen’s agreement. True, I gave some very obvious sidelong glances at the drawer where the incriminating “CONFIDENTIAL” file was kept, coupled with some casual comments about how I was now in constant touch with my old pal George, but it would be churlish to suggest this had any bearing on the outcome.

I realised that a house and garden in the suburbs no longer suited my needs and I looked for something much more central, yet secluded from nosy neighbours. My new home is a mews house in Marylebone. It is perfect. It is the only house on this side of the mews, hence no party walls and no chance of being overheard if a girl gets a bit noisy. Upstairs it has two respectable double bedrooms beside an immense master bedroom, in which I installed the biggest bed I could find, comfortably accommodating me and four girls. Downstairs there is a large reception room and a kitchen-diner, the rest of the ground floor being occupied by a built-in garage. At the rear is a paved yard with a small pool, protected from prying eyes on one side by the house and on the other by a twelve-foot wall separating us from the rear gardens of the houses in the main street. If there is anywhere else in the middle of London that so wonderfully combines comfort, convenience and privacy, I should like to know where it is.

It did not come cheap. Even when I added together my life savings, my payoff from the company and the proceeds from selling my house and Albert’s house, I was still some way shy of the asking price. I had to fill the gap with my biggest-ever subvention, asking all the girls to give me all the money they made in a whole week. I even broke one of my strictest rules and told girls still studying that they should cut classes for a week and come and help out. The girls all knew what the money was for and worked extra hard, taking no time off at all, and at the end of the week Wendy, Fran and I found ourselves looking at an unbelievable three hundred and forty thousand pounds, all in fifties and twenties, neatly piled in bundles of a thousand on our dining table. I had dealt with much larger sums in the course of business, of course, but it had been cold, remote money, mere electrical impulses in a bank’s computer. I confess that seeing more than a third of a million pounds of hard cash made me go quite weak. Added to my other monies it more than met the cost of buying and furnishing my new home, plus a big housewarming and thank-you party (or orgy) for the girls.

I ought to mention that while I was still at the old house I settled my accounts with George Marjoribanks. Wendy and I invited him and Sue for dinner, as of course we were obliged to, and since it was such a golden opportunity to be annoyingly condescending about our relatively modest home he naturally accepted with alacrity. He seemed a little surprised when I commented what good company the twins had been when we dined with him, and I asked him to extend the invitation to them too.

By the time the agreed date arrived I had gone over my plans with Wendy, Alicia and the twins. They all knew what was expected of them. For Wendy and me it was something of a farewell; we were already looking for a new house by this time so it was the last time we should entertain formally in a home we had lived in for fifteen years. So when it came to the cooking Wendy, aided by Alicia (who under her expert guidance was showing great promise in the kitchen), truly surpassed herself.

I could see as soon as he arrived that George was still fascinated by Alicia. Whenever Sue’s attention was elsewhere he rested his eyes on her, drinking her in with palpable lust. I wanted him to get a good idea of what he was missing, so I asked her to keep an eye on him throughout the meal, and while Wendy, the twins and I kept Sue busy she was to shoot sexy smiles at him, push her bust in his direction, look away giggling shyly if he too obviously stared back, and generally be as forward and provocative as she could without getting him into any trouble.

After dinner the twins carefully steered Sue into the front room and talked to her about hardy perennials (she had been trying for years to interest them in her hobby of gardening, but with no success until that night – and none since, incidentally). Alicia and I also left the dining room, leaving George and Wendy talking, but we got no further than the hall, where we could eavesdrop without being seen.

It was obvious that Alicia had done a first-rate job of getting George going because he broached the subject the moment he and Wendy were alone. How did we find her, where did she work, that sort of thing. Wendy answered all these questions with the relaxed good humour characteristic of her.

Then George started to unburden himself. “You know, Wendy, you’re a remarkable woman.”

“I try,” she replied modestly. “But what makes you say so?”

“Well, um, about Alicia, you don’t seem, er…” he faltered.

“Sorry, George, I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, you know, she’s absolutely lovely, and a lot of wives wouldn’t feel at all comfortable with a girl like that about the house.”

Listening in, I reflected that the phrase “a lot of wives” could safely be taken to include Sue.

“What, you mean because of James?” asked Wendy with an immaculately simulated air of surprise.

“Well, yes, I mean I’m sure James would never, er… But he’s only human, after all, and with a beautiful girl like Alicia any man might, er –”

“James and Alicia?”

“Well, yes, I’m sure they never would but –”

Wendy gave a merry peal of laughter. “Why, George, you are silly. Of course James sleeps with Alicia. I should have thought it was obvious.”

George made a strangulated sound. “He… he does? You know? I mean, er –”

“Of course I know, George. I’m not blind.”

George was still having trouble articulating. “But, er… I mean, you don’t mind?”

“Why should I mind?”

“Well, most wives would,” replied George with considerable feeling, and once more some sixth sense told me that he was thinking of Sue, whom I could hear faintly in the front room babbling about gardenias.

“Well, George, I’m not ‘most wives’. The way I see it is this. As James’s wife I want whatever’s best for him, and since this girl Alicia has been here, he’s been twice the man he was before. He’s brimming with vitality, confidence and good humour, and I’ll let you into a little marital secret, George,” she lowered her voice confidentially and I had to strain to catch her words; “whatever he gets up to with Alicia, he’s never been so ardent with me, not even on our honeymoon. So you see,” she went on in a normal tone, “I benefit too, and Alicia seems more than happy about it and you’ve seen what a help she is to me about the house, and there’s not the least doubt in the world that James benefits, the old rascal, so why on earth should I mind?”

George did not reply for some time. When he did it was to say they should be joining the others, so Alicia and I hurried into the front room and took our seats just as Wendy and George came in. I shall, I am delighted to say, never forget the expression on his face: it was a combination of astonishment and desire, overlaid by a consuming jealousy. Even Sue noticed something was amiss.

“Are you all right, dear?”

“I’m fine,” answered George hoarsely. “Just a bit of overindulgence in Wendy’s delicious cooking.”

He took little part in the ensuing general conversation. Even when Sue started to brag about his wonderful new job he could not bring himself to join in. Instead he kept looking at Alicia, then at me, then at Wendy, and back to Alicia again.

Just after midnight, Wendy, Alicia and I were outside the house seeing our guests off. Sue and the twins (who had behaved impeccably all evening, giving no indication of their true relationship with me) kissed me decorously on the cheek and I gave George a firm manly handshake. He gave me a long look that was even more gratifying than the previous one: not only did it speak of a horrible, yearning, hopeless envy but also a grudging yet powerful respect.

“Goodnight, James,” he said. “You’re a lucky man. I never knew how lucky until tonight.”

“Goodbye, George.”

It sounded final because it was meant to; I wanted his final image of me to be in his rear-view mirror, sandwiched between Wendy and Alicia, each of them with one arm round me while they waved goodbye with the other. I never expected to meet him again. And to date, nor have I; but the business had an interesting and unintended sequel.

A few months later a couple of the girls were at my place, sitting around chatting after recovering from a good fucking, and as they idly discussed clients they began to think they might have one in common. I had not been paying a lot of attention but it gradually dawned on me that the man they were discussing sounded familiar. I logged onto the website of George’s bank and found a picture of him. The girls instantly confirmed that this was the man; he had become quite a regular over the last couple of months. So I showed his picture around, and a few other girls also recognised him. He was a bit of a starfish in bed, the consensus went, but his money was good. In fact, I calculated that he must have spent nearly six thousand pounds in the last four months on my girls alone (and there must have been others, since I do not control every whore in London (at least, not yet)).

The only use I have made of this information, incidentally, is that to avoid what would be a most embarrassing encounter I have forewarned Alicia and, of course, the twins (who took the news reasonably philosophically).

As my girls gradually moved into prostitution, a small but significant change took place in my own life. Ever since infancy I had been “James”. My parents actively discouraged the more familiar version of the name, although personally I had no objection to it and tentatively experimented with it in my twenties. But then I met Wendy, whose strong preference for “James” settled the matter, and the only time since then I had used “Jim” was when I first called on Gina, when I suppose it served as a psychological disguise. But she naturally introduced me to other whores as “Jim” and I found I quite liked it. Besides, after my birthday party, I found it helped me to keep track of developments if I got girls to call me “Jim” once they had made the transition to whoredom, so by now I am “Jim” to almost everyone. I gave Wendy and Fran a free choice and they both adhere to “James” but Connie says “Jim” suits me a lot better, and I think I agree with her.

After a couple of months the effects of FUCK stabilised to the extent that although my sexual potency and desire were extraordinarily powerful they did not further increase. The randiness never really goes away – even if I have fucked myself into near insensibility I still like the idea of sex – and even after a good ejaculation I can be ready for further action within minutes. But it is about an hour before further relief becomes a pressing need and I can go ninety minutes if necessary. At night I seem to tolerate slightly longer intervals and my usual practice is to sleep with four girls, one of whom will normally be either Fran or Wendy, and I wake up a few times to drill whoever comes to hand.

Usually I invite girls to my place but sometimes I visit them; a group of girls with the day off will assemble in one of their flats and I go along for a nice orgy. A change of scene does me good. Between all the sex I still find time to relax in front of the television or with a book, and of course many of my girls are well able to offer educated conversation.

As an aside, the ability of some of the girls to do this has proved surprisingly popular with certain clients. Elspeth was telling me, when she was working during the last University vacation, that one man booked her for what proved to be fifteen minutes of rather mechanical sex followed by nearly three hours of quite deep discussion about determinism. He seemed more than happy with what he had got for his money and was keen to book her again. It takes all sorts, I suppose. For my part, I am available to talk determinism to anyone for two hundred and fifty pounds an hour, but somehow I doubt whether the market is there.

I have continued to recruit in large numbers. In fact, in that respect the move into the sex business has been a godsend (probably not the most fitting word to use, on reflection). My girls move freely in the strange sexual parallel universe they inhabit, are well acquainted with my tastes, and are constantly on the lookout for girls with the right attributes. Every few days one of my girls rings to say she would like to send someone along, and my tally is now nearly two hundred. I feel it is best and safest to recruit girls already in the business, since the tricky process of handling family and friends is automatically taken care of (either they know what she is doing, or she has her cover story in place). I tend to favour girls from overseas; recruits are chiefly drawn from Africa or eastern Europe but I have added some very nice orientals and latinas to my collection. Fortunately London’s thirst for new young girls seems unslakable; the supply is such that there is no need to compromise my high standards.

With so many girls it no longer troubles me that I cannot remember all their names. Besides, they almost all have two; a working name in addition to their own. Apart from the fact that some of their own names are too homely or otherwise unsuitable for the sex trade, I think this dual identity helps them separate working from their personal lives. Mostly I let them choose their own working names; Connie, for instance, insisted that she was Randy. I told Fran that she had to be Fanny; it took some time for her to appreciate this choice of name but it made everyone else smile.

I like the younger girls; most are between eighteen and twenty when recruited. The age of eighteen is important because it is the legal minimum for selling sex in the UK, but it has to be said that quite a few girls, when I get round to taking details, turn out to be on false papers and are actually under age for working. To my horror, one African girl turned out to be fifteen, not even old enough for legal sex, but in my defence (if this is any excuse) she looked older and I did not realise her real age when I fucked her.

I have continued occasionally to capture girls from outside the sex business, but sparingly because of the risk. However, I sometimes take walks around London and very occasionally, particularly in areas frequented by students, I see a girl of such exceptional quality that I have to possess her. But the most recent such instance illustrates what can happen. I saw a gorgeous black girl near London University and followed her from a safe distance. When she got on a bus I ran for it and got on too, managing to sit fairly close so FUCK could take effect. Within a few minutes she was looking doe-eyed at me and licking her lips so I got off. As I walked down the street I realised, however, that not only she but another girl too, an oriental, had got off to follow me. This other girl was very attractive but not exceptional and at the conscious level I had not noticed her at all, but FUCK had worked its magic just the same. She has, as it turns out, proved to be a thoroughly welcome acquisition but the fact remains her capture was accidental. The story illustrates why I avoid public transport.

Many people would say that this addiction to young flesh is depraved in a man of fifty, and part of me might even agree, but I would point out that I do not bring these girls from far lands to work in the London sex trade. The great majority are in it already, and they are, in some cases at least, frighteningly naïve and vulnerable. Some of them have been beaten by their controllers and a few are getting drawn into drug abuse and other types of destructive lifestyle. I put a stop to that. True, my girls sell their bodies, but they also look after them. They do not smoke or use illegal drugs; drink is permitted only in moderation. And I ensure they work as safely as possible. In parties and parlours there are always other people around in case of trouble; and escort work means wealthy clients who are unlikely to risk everything by maltreating a girl. Moreover, although my girls dress well and live well, I make sure they all save; there will come a day when they need a nest egg. After only a year some of my original girls have savings far into six figures; Olga, the record holder, is about to buy herself a very nice flat for cash.

This special pleading would be more persuasive, I know, were I not shagging these girls all day and all night; but for what it is worth, there it is.

While I am justifying myself, however unconvincingly, let me claim what credit I can for the fact that I have led no girl under eighteen into prostitution. The Stable includes girls under eighteen, I admit it, but all of them were whores before I found them. I refused to let Yvonne work until she turned eighteen, and to this day I am standing firm on Kylie. Kylie has, incidentally, blossomed impressively over the last year and is now over fifteen stone of pure unadulterated sex, giving it away with abandon but under strict instructions not to sell it. I have to admit, however, that although I know this is a terrible thing to say about a girl only just turned seventeen, if ever there were a girl temperamentally suited for this business, it is Kylie.

Unless, that is, Connie is in the equation. Connie took to whoredom with a gleeful enthusiasm that was a joy to behold. She was promiscuous in any case (I never realised quite how much until my birthday weekend), but FUCK has sent an already strong sex drive into orbit. Her enthusiasm and capacity for fucking draws admiration even from experienced whores. She gets relatively little escort work because clients willing and able to pay for this rather expensive service tend to prefer perfect European teenagers to big-assed African girls, but in any case (and like a lot of my girls, actually) Connie prefers parlours and parties: “More guys,” she explains.

Connie seems insatiable and inexhaustible. “Don’t you get tired?” Fran once asked her. “Or sore?”

“A bit, now and then,” Connie conceded, “but if I just keep going it soon wears off.”

This conversation led to a friendly bet. Connie wagered that she could work in parlours and parties for at least twelve hours each and every day, without a break, for a solid month. Not only did she do it; at the end she was still bright-eyed and fresh as a daisy and hungry for more.

An awed Fran paid up cheerfully. Five thousand pounds is little more than small change for my girls.

Maybe Connie is exceptional but in truth, virtually all the girls adapted with surprisingly little difficulty. Their new desire for constant sex, of course, gave them every inducement to do so, and it has to be said that the money did not exactly deter them either.

Laura possibly had more trouble than anyone to sever her existing commitments. Her entire life, professional and (such as it was) personal, was so much bound up with Cambridge University that it was hard to break away. In the end she had to tell people that she had realised that such a wholly academic existence was too far removed from normal experience for her to be able to write the second book for which her publishers were pressing. So she took leave of absence in order (she told everyone) to seek employment in a field in which her academic qualifications would be irrelevant. Having thus created the impression that she was going to work in a chip shop in Gateshead, or something equally mundane, she left for the life of a high-class London whore.

Although she clearly relishes her new life, and has unbent to the extent of actually being quite good company, she has not left academic ways altogether behind. She remains thoughtful and analytical, and she and I have had some very interesting conversations about how her life has changed. I asked her whether she could put her finger on the biggest single difference.

“It’s not the actual sex,” she replied, “great though that is. It’s not even the orgasms. It’s the passion; the way I clench up inside with a wonderful, unbearable hunger. I never knew it was possible to feel this way so I never missed it, but now I can’t imagine life without it.” Laura’s comments on sex, and selling sex, are always intelligent and insightful, and sometimes very witty; if she ever gets round to writing that second book it will be well worth a read.

I ought to say a little more about the girls in general and their relationship to me.

First and foremost, they are in love; passionately, rapturously, overwhelmingly in love. Every waking moment they think of me, and when they sleep I inhabit their dreams. Women have loved me deeply before – not many, but Wendy certainly did during our courtship and the early years of our marriage, and so did one of my University girlfriends, if only for a term or two – but never have I known anything like the absolute and unconditional devotion I get from my girls.

They bless the day they met me. I can do no wrong in their eyes; they put the best possible light on everything. My ruthless promiscuity, for instance, shows my generosity: I am sharing my magnificence as widely as possible. Of their work as whores, they tell me I am one in a million, so caring, so understanding; what other man would let them do this without getting jealous? The rule against other boyfriends shows (they say) how important each girl is to me; and why should she want anyone else anyway, when she has a share of me? I am so clever, so witty, so wise. Jim knows best.

Uppermost in their minds, even stronger than their physical desire for me, is the wish to make me happy. Newly recruited girls, I notice, tend to assume that what I want from them (apart from their bodies) is deference and obedience. But as they get to know me, and see how I behave with established girls, they realise that (except in a few cases, such as Florence) I prefer girls to behave in a more natural way, and they begin, tentatively at first, to treat me more familiarly and informally. They learn that they are not required to like cricket or the Marx Brothers merely because I do, and they gain the confidence to express their own opinion, to volunteer requests and suggestions, even to disagree with me about something. All this I permit, even encourage, because we all know that, in the end, what I say goes.

There is one important constraint on this freedom of speech: the complete inability of my girls to offer any moral judgment on me. This is not of my doing; rather, it seems to be imposed by FUCK. It can be quite limiting. It means that if I ask a girl’s honest advice about what I ought to do, the course of action she recommends will be the one she thinks will make me happy.

For instance, girls planning brief visits home to Africa or eastern Europe often tell me in great excitement that their native district is full of poor but beautiful girls whom they could easily lure to London on the promise of waitressing jobs and the like; the idea is that they will then introduce them to me, and FUCK will do the rest. It is important to be clear that they are not suggesting this because they think I want to hear it; on the contrary, they are well aware that I have set my face against dragging naïve girls into prostitution in this way. They are suggesting it because they think having hordes more young beautiful girls would make me happier (and I have an uneasy feeling they are right).

When I tell them that what they are proposing is morally wrong, it simply fails to compute. To most of them, it is simple: my happiness is the supreme good, so anything that promotes it is morally right by definition. The more thoughtful girls can grasp at an intellectual level that there might be a difference between moral rightness and my pleasure, but even to them it is mere abstract theorising with no possible application in the real world. Recently, some girls have started to turn the ethical argument against me, arguing that it would be a praiseworthy act to import young girls wholesale from poor countries; they would make money and have fun, their families and the local economy would benefit from the money sent home, and (this is presented as the clincher) the girls themselves would get to meet and fuck the most magnificent and desirable man in the world. Everyone would win, in fact.

So far, I am resisting this. But I know how FUCK has eroded my own standards of conduct, so I wonder how long I shall hold out.

The upshot of all this is that what few moral constraints exist are those I supply myself. Nina’s rape still troubles me more than anything. I had no idea that I was capable of such an act, and I have taken great care that there should be no repetition, but nearly a year on that look in her eyes still haunts me.

All my girls have put on weight, of course, and in the great majority of cases look far better for it. The process seems to stabilise after a while, but no two girls are affected quite the same way. Florence, I have to say, is a sight to behold. Her tits are now so big that it is an effort for her to get up from bed, and when she sits down they rest on her legs. It would be impossible for the poor girl to lead a normal life, but in this profession, her bust is what the advertising industry calls a USP: “unique selling point”. A tit-man takes one look at her and she can virtually name her price. She cannot go out very much (she travels by taxi) and I let her spend a lot of time here when not working, so that she can display not only her tits but her now abject servility. Despite my normal aversion to cosmetic surgery I shall allow her a drastic breast reduction when she stops working.

As for the other changes FUCK has wrought in my girls, the sex industry is the exact place they are least likely to attract attention. Body shaving, high heels and lots of sex go with the territory. If anything makes my girls stand out from the general run of London whores, it is not the FUCK-induced changes but their honesty and reliability, their lack of piercing and tattoos, and their clean-living aversion to cigarettes, drugs, and heavy drinking.

Perhaps they are also unusual in that they work so hard. Most ordinary whores, Gina tells me, will work only a couple of days each week, or perhaps more intensively in short bursts interspersed by periods of taking it easy. But my girls are driven by the remorseless sex drive and spectacular orgasms that FUCK induces, so they typically work all day, day after day. They take the odd day off to relax and unwind only at intervals of a week or more, and even then the craving for sex never really leaves them alone.

It is fascinating to listen to my girls talking about their work; it reminds me of hearing specialists in some technical area of expertise – law or medicine, perhaps. They constantly swap tips and ideas about how to attract clients and make them happy, and frankly I am bewildered by some of the vocabulary they have developed to describe the finer nuances of sexual activity.

(To take but one example: I simply had to ask for an explanation when I heard one girl warn another that a particular client, although a nice guy, was a terrible “starfish”. It turns out to mean a notably inactive lover: a client that asks the girl to go on top and simply lies there, limbs splayed out, leaving her to do all the work.)

The girls in general form a kind of loosely affiliated sisterhood. When I venture out I constantly bump into them in twos and threes, enjoying a day off shopping their way along Oxford Street or looking for a nice restaurant somewhere. They socialise together, gossip together, and shop together. They share flats, clothes, sexual hints and tips, clients, and even the occasional non-paying male friend.

Here is a vignette. The aural details are correct; the visuals and a few other particulars are from my own imagination, but I doubt I am far off the mark.

The luxuriously appointed bedroom of a fashionable West End apartment: between the satin sheets lie entwined two perfect young lovers. Their sighs of pleasure as they caress each other are disturbed by a cellphone on the bedside table. The man groans; this kind of interruption is painfully familiar. The girl calmly answers the phone. Her accent has only a slight suggestion of eastern Europe. “Yes … right … thanks, good,” she says, and replaces the phone. She thinks she has rung off but in fact she failed to press the button properly and the line remains open.

“You must go?” asks the man sadly, for he knows the answer already.

She holds his head close to hers. “I can give you one minute,” she tells him.

“But –” he begins to object, then gasps slightly with surprise and pleasure as she performs some practised act of stimulation.

She giggles in delight at her own expertise and his reaction to it. “Plenty of time,” she says.

He utters a little cry as she again exercises her skill and suddenly he is inside her, thrusting in a frenzy of lovemaking. She responds, bucking her hips and moaning with arousal but yet retaining some vestige of control. Then with a subtle but irresistible move she drives him to climax and as she feels his seed within her, her own orgasm breaks and waves of pleasure flood over her.

Since she thought she hung up the phone precisely fifty-three seconds have elapsed.

Abruptly she pushes him aside and is out of the bed, scampering to the ensuite shower and manipulating the taps. She stands at the shower door and claps her hands briskly. “Playtime’s over. We gotta move it, move it!” With that she is in the shower busily lathering herself while he groggily drags himself from the bed and fumbles for his clothes. “Get me a cab,” she calls from the shower. “Five minutes. Numbers by the bed.” By the time he has found his phone in his trouser pocket and made the call she is out of the shower and towelling herself off. She claps again impatiently. “Quick, quick.” He begins to dress with more purpose while she opens the wardrobe and rapidly searches through it. She has already stepped into a pair of high-heeled slingbacks but is otherwise wholly naked. She is nineteen. The pale flawlessness of her skin is emphasised still further by her complete lack of visible body hair. Her movements are graceful and she might be a catwalk model but for her very full breasts and rounded buttocks. Her allure, however, is not diminished, but rather enhanced, by these suggestions of voluptuousness.

As they continue to get ready they casually gossip about a friend of hers. It is obvious that the man is the other girl’s lover too, but neither of them considers this fact embarrassing or even remarkable. She picks out a long elegant evening dress and eases herself into it. She wears nothing underneath it. Then she sits at the dressing-table to comb her long golden hair.

“You seen the guy before?” he asks.

“Mmm-hmm,” she confirms.

“What’s he like?” he asks with studied carelessness.

“Jealous?” she smiles. “Don’t be. Fat, bald, and fifty.”

Dressed now, he stands behind her chair and massages her shoulders tenderly while she dabs perfume on her wrists. “Poor you,” he consoles.

“Keep your sympathy,” she laughs. “He’s a very nice fuck. One thing I’ve learnt from this business,” she muses aloud, “you can’t judge a book by its cover.” She stands. “Do me up, please.”

There is no need for this request, for she can easily reach the zipper herself. But why not use his services since he is so readily to hand?

The door intercom sounds and she answers it: “One moment, please.”

She turns to the man, putting her arms around him. “Why don’t you get me warmed up?” She kisses him passionately and he responds, holding her tightly as their lips lock together. For a few moments they lose themselves in the kiss. Then suddenly she pulls away. “That’s enough. Mustn’t overdo it. Thank you,” she smiles. She picks up her bag and her phone, and they leave. In the street below she kisses him on the cheek and gets in the cab alone. He watches her disappear into the night, and walks slowly away. Only when she tries to call ahead to say she is on her way does she realise the phone has been connected all this time.

These non-paying lovers were a development I had not foreseen. They began to appear quite early on. Girls would go out dancing or socialising on their days off and, not surprisingly, attract the attention of amorous young men, whom they would sometimes take home. I had no problem with this, of course, but I wanted no attachments to form so if the girl felt that she had found a man with potential she would pass his name and number to other members of the Stable and a day or two later he would be surprised to get a call from an unknown girl saying she needed a date for the evening and her friend had given her his number; could he help out?

Assuming he lived up to my girls’ exacting standards the man would find his social life taking a remarkable turn for the better as he found lovely girls constantly calling him out of the blue. Often he would arrive at a girl’s flat to find she was with a friend, who would be equally beautiful and highly flirtatious. A favourite trick of girls in this situation is to change clothes right down to the skin without any attempt at modesty and chatting unconcernedly of neutral topics the while. Unable to believe his luck, he would find himself with a succession of gorgeous and sexually promiscuous young women, provided of course he did not allow himself the fatal indulgence of developing too strong an attachment to any particular one of them. If he did, he would find that the phone calls abruptly ceased and his messages would go unanswered.

The girls have deemed a few men to be of such outstanding quality that they have encouraged them to find work as escorts for female clients. This is not, of course, a service provided by my Stable but with their contacts in the wider sex business my girls were able to provide plenty of advice and useful numbers. I gather that at least three of these men are now earning a good living brightening up the lives of lady clients (divorced businesswomen in their forties apparently feature largely), and of course they still socialise with my girls when they can.

I had not anticipated these developments but I did not intervene. So long as nothing interferes with my prior claims, the girls are free to find their amusements as they please. Gina, however, strongly disapproved and told me I should put a stop to it.

“Why should I?” I demanded. “I can’t see what harm it does. If a girl has a bit of time to herself and wants some fun, what’s the problem? She’ll still come running to me if I want her.”

“I don’t care what you say, hun,” insisted Gina. “If she wants a fuck she should go back to work. It ain’t right, giving it away like this. It’s unprofessional.”

“But,” I pointed out, “you fuck me without charging.”

“That’s different,” she explained. “That’s payment for services rendered.”

Of course, my girls have been involved in occasional incidents and difficulties over the months. Perhaps the worst was when a Russian businessman treated one of them very roughly, not so as to make her fear for her life but badly enough to leave some cigarette burns and quite severe bruising. Instantly the word swept across the Stable and indeed beyond it, for at parties and parlours my girls took every opportunity to spread the warning. Of course, I know this kind of alert would not cut off his supplies completely, but I like to think the thug suddenly found it harder to get girls and had to pay more for poorer quality.

Another case that I found disturbing, as did many of the girls, concerned a fairly prominent London solicitor, a senior partner in a major firm. He was a familiar client and seemed unremarkable until one day he poured out his heart to a girl about his money worries. She told me about it and since she liked him and found him good company she suggested that maybe I ought to tell the girls not to take his business any more. I was sympathetic to this suggestion but rejected it. My reasoning was that there is no shortage of whores in London, so even if we banned him he would still spend just as much money on women; the only difference being that my Stable would not see any of it. So my girls continued to see him. Then one day his cheque (a few regular and trusted customers are allowed to pay this way) was refused by his bank. A day or two later I saw in the paper that he had declared personal bankruptcy (which, apart from the disgrace, meant the end of his legal career). The day after that he hanged himself. He left a youngish widow (second wife) with three small children. Nothing was said about prostitutes at the inquest but it was revealed that he had been gambling heavily. He was well liked by the girls that had met him and they were very upset about his death, as indeed was I. Indeed, I still am, even though it happened months ago and logic tells me that he was on a self-destructive streak and there was nothing we could have done to avert his death. All the same, it leaves a bad taste.

There has been one other tragedy. In the middle of wild and exciting sex an apparently fit and healthy client of about forty suffered a heart attack. He died instantly. The girl had to call the police, who it must be said were very discreet and understanding about it. They even spared the widow’s feelings by telling her that her husband had been found dead in the street. The girl was deeply distressed, even though she was in no way to blame. Gina’s suggestion that she use it in her advertising was unworthy of her.

The girls have also, of course, suffered more mundane misfortunes unconnected with their work. One or two girls have lost close relatives; one girl was mugged in the street; another came off her motorcycle in a daring attempt to swerve across three lanes of traffic in the Haymarket, fortunately suffering no worse than cuts and bruises. On each occasion it was heartening to see the way everyone rallied round to offer emotional and practical support.

Speaking of advertising, as I was a moment ago, reminds me that the girls have developed a variety of methods of bringing their wares to the attention of the paying public. The internet is very important, of course; and the girls tend to link their sites to each other so that potential clients (to say nothing of cheapskate voyeurs, out for nothing but a cheap thrill) can, so to speak, wander around the Stable to see what takes their fancy. You have to display the merchandise, naturally, and a surprising number of girls seem to be happy to show themselves in the most blatant way with no attempt to hide their features. Others conceal their face by cropping it or electronically blurring it or, like Fran, by ensuring that their hair falls artfully across it. And word of mouth, from client to client or by recommendation from one girl to another, is maybe an even better form of advertising.

My girls do not resort to cards in telephone kiosks; nor, of course, do they walk the streets seeking trade. Having said that, however, it has to be admitted that there is a certain je-ne-sais-quoi about a working girl. This is not a simple matter of their dress or appearance. My girls look great and dress well but not so as to stand out from the many other attractive women around London (a city, by the way, singularly well furnished in this respect). It has more to do with their aura of confidence and assurance, and the fearless way they will meet a man’s gaze. At any rate, it is a quality to which some experienced punters are sensitive, so it is not entirely unknown for a girl on her own in a shop or bar to be the subject of an approach; nor is this unwelcome if the man is reasonably subtle about it and is willing to embrace the financial consequences as well as the girl.

This sort of contact shades imperceptibly into the activity known as “fishing”, in which a girl will go out to some likely location with the intention of getting herself picked up by a wealthy man who is, in the initial stages, entirely unaware that his allotted role is that of potential client. He, poor sap, is under the impression that he is making a great hit with this sexy young woman, and she will lead him on with every possible encouragement until he suggests they slip off somewhere together, at which point she breaks the bad news that for this service there will be a fee. Surprisingly often, I am told, the man takes the disappointment in his stride and after a brief negotiation the deal is struck and matters take their normal course. Even when the man withstands the girl’s powers of persuasion (“I promise you I’m worth every penny”: this with a wriggle of indescribable sensuality, a dazzling smile and such a wicked glint in the eye), the parting is almost always on amicable terms and the girl goes her way with a slinking walk designed to heighten the man’s awareness of what he has passed up.

One of the reasons the girls enjoy “fishing” is the exciting possibility of capturing a man for whom this is an entirely new experience, someone that has never before paid for sex. Once such a fish is hooked, she will spare no effort to give him the experience of his life: his first time maybe, but, if she has anything to do with it, far from his last.

One day Olga, a particularly adept angler, was round at my place preening herself on having thus corrupted a businessman of nearly sixty who, until he set eyes on her, had over thirty years of blameless marital devotion to his credit. Since that day, she told us proudly, he had seen her twice more plus at least three other girls whose numbers she had given him. On hearing this story Fran characteristically felt a qualm of conscience, and said so. Olga shrugged.

“Is good for business,” she said. “Increases customer base.”

At such cynicism Fran shook her head sadly. “Oh, Olga, that’s an awful thing to say. Isn’t it, James?”

“Well,” I said, “it was certainly a tart remark.”

Virtually all the girls have among their clients a number of regulars and they are very welcome as providing steady and reliable income, but inevitably such a relationship can get out of hand and we have had quite a few cases where a client becomes fascinated by a particular girl, either sexually obsessed or emotionally attached. Sometimes he wants to rescue her from this degradation, and there have been a number of apparently serious proposals of marriage. Fran holds the record here, with three, which is striking since she is neither the youngest nor the sexiest girl in my Stable. But she is possibly the most serious-minded, she is very pretty, and she has a wholesome girl-next-door charm about her. And of all my girls, she is probably the one that looks least like a high-class London whore and most like the girl you take home to meet mother. It is this, I feel, that probably accounts for her high proposal rate (and I have personal reasons for finding it interesting, as I shall relate farther on).

At any rate, when a client gets too much attached to a particular girl we try to deal with him tactfully. The best way is to offer him a two-girl on favourable terms, with the girl he likes plus another. Not only does he have a good time; he gets a sharp reminder of what his girl is and how she earns her living, and usually this does the trick. But sometimes it fails, or maybe the client refuses to see any girl but the one he has fixed upon. In that case there is nothing for it but for her to sever contact, if necessary changing her number, swapping her flat with another girl and avoiding her usual haunts for a while. Sometimes it must break the client’s heart, I know, but it is for his own good; and it beats the alternative often preferred by girls outside my Stable of stringing a besotted client along and ruthlessly fleecing him.

As for the girls, their devotion to me leaves no room for romantic feelings for any other man. However, it is clear that they like some clients more than others. I have found this very interesting. Good looks, for instance, seem to count for very little; in fact, girls say that after a short while in the business they hardly notice whether clients are handsome. Proficiency between the sheets, on the other hand, is well appreciated; and of course generosity with tips and gifts is also most welcome to all girls, although unduly flagrant attempts to buy their esteem tend to be resented (but not to the extent of rejecting whatever inducement is being offered – business is business).

Good personal hygiene is very important in a client, while politeness and a bit of old-fashioned courtesy play remarkably well with many girls. One girl told me how she was at a party and in mid-fuck with a guest when he realised they had not been introduced; hastily and rather breathlessly, they exchanged names and he politely took her right hand and kissed it. She thought this was the funniest and most touching gesture and called everyone’s attention to his lips pressed to her hand and his cock already within her. Not every girl would have found this quite so charming, but all the girls like clients that treat them with a little respect and above all make them laugh. Time and again I hear girls telling each other that so-and-so client is so sharp and witty, he said or did such a funny thing. I thought it was a quirk of my slightly unusual Stable, but Gina assures me that most whores feel the same. All my girls’ clients get outstanding service, but what earns some of them that little bit extra is nothing more mysterious than the simple human touch.

The clients themselves vary enormously. They come from Britain or abroad, they are tall, short, fat, thin, black, white, impressively skilled in bed or wretchedly inadequate (although my girls pride themselves on getting the best from any man). They tend to be thirty-five or over, and in fact girls do not especially welcome younger clients, finding that they tend to be rude, offhand, and not nearly such good lovers as they like to think (although as with all these generalisations there are the exceptions). There is no upper age limit and we have a number of more elderly clients, at least one of whom was over eighty; I understand he needed some encouragement, but his eventual performance was deemed adequate. And, of course, virtually all clients seem to be either married or in a committed relationship. Some come to us because they get little sex at home or things are unsatisfactory in some other way, but many, perhaps most, appear genuinely to value their relationships and love their wives or girlfriends. They come to us for variety, to recall the touch of a younger woman, to taste forbidden fruit, or most simply (do not underestimate this) just for fun.

To me, candidly, the clients are little more than a source of income for my girls. I feel no jealously about the sex, probably because my own needs are so well catered for, but if I am frank I have to admit to twinges of resentment, not strong enough to be called envy but nevertheless perceptible, when it becomes evident that a girl finds one of her regulars likable or interesting. I feel guilty about this and try to suppress it, because I know how valuable regulars are in this business and it would be unreasonable to expect the girls to form no sort of bond with men with whom they are in such intimate contact. They have their human feelings after all; the only girl that I can honestly say shows no interest in her clients at all except as a source of financial reward and sexual pleasure (in that order of priority) is Olga, and although there is something impressive about her cynical ruthlessness it goes with a callousness that is definitely not an attractive characteristic.

Laura put it very well when she was talking about her regulars. “It’s so good,” she said, “when I can just be myself when I’m with my one of my boys; it would be awful to have to act out my warmth or smile. I talk to them between appointments as well, it’s nice when it’s just a chat call, not a meet call. I like them for different aspects of personality; they’re like one big collective lover, all the good things and none of the bad. We don’t question each other, we accept each other: it’s a strangely unconventional trust. We don’t have to lie to each other. I know there’s a wife or girlfriend, and he knows what I do. I know it’s not perfect, but then again,” she shrugged, “what is? Somehow it’s more real than a lot of other lives.”

I smiled at this little speech, and not only at the sentiment. I could not but reflect on the buttoned-up academic I met a year ago and marvel that it was the same person I was hearing speak of “warmth”, “smiles”, and “my boys”.

Next to me the girls love their families, and after that, and far ahead of even the best-liked client, they love the money. Although I like women (as I hope this memoir has made clear), I have always found that in general they are, if I may be forgiven for saying so, a mercenary bunch; and in this as in so many other respects my girls seem to outdo the rest of their sex. I was entertaining about a dozen girls one day and, during a lull as I was getting my breath back, they were chatting about life in general and work in particular and one of them got several nods of assent when she remarked that the sight or even the mere thought of the redness of fifty-pound notes would have her insides tensing with arousal and her juices starting to flow.

This striking example of the conditioned reflex would surely have been of interest to the late Dr Pavlov.

Occasionally a well-moneyed client will invite a girl to accompany him on a trip and provided the absence is not for too long (for the girls love their London lifestyle) and the money is right (always a paramount consideration), the opportunity to travel and be wined and dined in some exotic location more than makes up for having to give undivided attention to one client for so long. But when an American businessman offered Olga a very acceptable four thousand pounds to spend a few days in an exclusive resort near Cancun, she devised a characteristically resourceful and sexy way of overcoming even this drawback. When, on the second day, after lunch at a very good restaurant, the client started making noises about getting back to the hotel for the usual reason, Olga, who had been much struck by the number of unaccompanied wealthy-looking men around, asked him to go on ahead: he had, she said, been such good and generous company that she wanted to buy him a present. As soon as he left she did a rapid trawl of the local girls hanging around the area hoping for business, selected one she was sure would find favour, and engaged her to go to the hotel and introduce herself to the client as the promised present and keep him busy for the afternoon. Paying the girl and impressing on her that she must take no money from the client even if he offered it, Olga promised her a substantial bonus later if he turned in a satisfactory report. Having thus gained her temporary freedom, she cruised around sending out availability signals. Naturally, as a stunning fair-complexioned blonde in a sea of pretty but rather samey latina girls, she soon attracted the attention she was after and was able to turn two rapid tricks at premium rates – she earned more from each of them, in fact, than she had paid the local girl – before she thought she had better get back to her principal client, who pronounced himself so delighted with his “present” that they repeated the arrangement with a different local girl the next day. So the client got two very nice Mexican girls at no cost to himself while Olga got some variety and, best of all, turned a very tidy profit. There are no flies on our Olga.

I have not yet mentioned the most fundamental change in my life over the last year. The seeds of this were sown one Saturday morning a month or two after my birthday party. I was still living at the old house. Fran was visiting, as she often did at weekends in view of her new status, and she and Wendy were downstairs while I showered with Alicia after a nice fuck. Alicia’s overnight bag was already packed as she was going to see her parents in Worcester and the plan had been for me to walk her to the station and see her off. But she could see I was tired; it had been a warm humid night and, unusually, I had had trouble sleeping between fucks. So she insisted that I should try to get some more rest; she could, she assured me, easily manage the bag by herself. I yielded, and went back to bed. Before I dozed off I heard her calling “’Bye!” followed by the slamming of the front door.

I woke to the sound of women’s voices. There was nothing unusual about that, but these voices were raised in argument. As I pulled myself together I realised it was Wendy and Fran. Obviously they thought I had left with Alicia, as intended, and supposing themselves to be alone in the house they were taking the opportunity for what diplomatic communiqués call “a candid exchange of views”.

I could not make out what they were saying, so I got quickly but quietly out of bed and crept down the stairs.

“Fran,” said Wendy crossly, “you can be maddeningly obstinate. Just stop arguing and do what I say. It’s all for the best.”

“It isn’t for the best,” insisted Fran, “and James would never agree to it, so please just drop it. I’m fed up hearing about it.”

Wendy pulled rank. “I’m James’s wife,” she asserted. “Suppose you let me be the judge of what he will and won’t agree to. And this is what he wants, I’m telling you.”

“Has he told you so?” demanded Fran.

“Well, no,” conceded Wendy. “It’s not the sort of thing he’d say. You know how he hates to hurt anyone. In fact, I’m not sure he’s even thought about it in his own head. But it’s what he wants. Trust me, and stop being so stubborn.”

“Stubbornness is my birthright,” retorted a suddenly very Scottish Fran. “And I’m not taking this from you, Wendy. I won’t do it, not unless James came in here and asked me himself.”

This was a cue if ever I heard one. Without warning I threw the door open and found myself looking at two angry faces, shocked at my sudden appearance. I spoke to Wendy first. I was aiming for “kind, but firm”.

“Wendy, darling, I know this is hard for you but if you have a problem you must talk to me. Don’t have a go at poor Fran. And I’m sorry, darling, but you’re completely wrong about what I want.”

“You see?” said Fran, and stuck out her tongue at Wendy like a schoolgirl.

Wendy did not reply so I persisted. “You know what Fran means to me. How could you think I’d want to send her away?”

The two women exchanged a peculiar look. “But –” began Fran, and Wendy laughed.

“James, darling,” she smiled, “I think you’d better tell us exactly how much you heard and what on earth you think we’re talking about.”

“I heard enough to know you’re trying to tell poor Fran I secretly want her to go away.”

“What I am trying to tell her,” said Wendy slowly, as if explaining something to a child or a halfwit, “is that whether you realise it or not you want her as your wife.”

For a moment all I could do was look mutely from Wendy to Fran and back to Wendy again. “You mean, instead of you?” I gasped eventually.

“Of course instead of me, unless they’ve legalised bigamy and forgotten to announce it,” snapped Wendy.

Fran broke the ensuing silence. “James, darling, she’s been harping on about this for weeks. I keep telling her I can’t hurt her like that and she’s wrong about what you want, but she won’t listen.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ll sort it out.” I turned to Wendy. “So, Wendy, you want out? I suppose I can’t blame you. All this –” I made a vague sweeping gesture that took in Fran but was intended also to encompass the dozens of besotted girls scattered across London and the south east. “It’s not what you had in mind when you first took me on all those years ago. All right. I understand. I won’t force you to stay. But I’ll always love you, no matter what.”

I was expecting tears but what I got was the sardonic look. “Very pretty speech, darling, but you’re being ridiculous. Of course I don’t ‘want out’. I’ll still be here, for as long as you want me. But I’m not the right wife for you any more. Fran is. Take her, darling. I’ll throw rice at the wedding.”

The whole idea was so totally unexpected that I refused to discuss it any further until I had a chance to think. But as I mulled it over, slowly it grew on me. I still loved Wendy and enjoyed her company (in bed and out) but I had to acknowledge that my feelings for Fran were growing stronger all the time. Over the next few days little more was said about the subject but all of us knew how my thoughts were tending.

Then, one day, I was visiting Fran’s flat for the usual reason. After I had seen to all the girls, Connie and Gabby had gone to the kitchen to rustle up some food, leaving Fran and me to lie back and enjoy that lovely, dozy, post-coital feeling. Suddenly an awful realisation struck me.

“Fran, darling, it won’t work. I can’t marry you.”

“It’s up to you, darling, I’m yours either way. But why not, if you wanted to?”

“Family,” I explained.

“But darling,” she replied, “so far as I can see you haven’t got any family. You lost your parents years ago, your uncle’s died, you mentioned some distant cousins, but that’s it, isn’t it? Apart from Wendy, I mean, and she’s all for it, bless her.”

I gave her naked rump a firm slap. “Pull yourself together. I mean your family, dunderhead.”

“My Mam and Dad? I’ve thought of that. They won’t like it at first because you’ll be divorced, but –”

“And because I’m a little matter of twenty-seven years older than you, don’t forget that.”

She considered this. “Come to think of it, you’re a couple of years older than my Mam and six months older than my Dad. That’s a bit spooky. You’re right, they won’t be wild about it, but – trust me, darling, you don’t know them and I do – it’s the divorce that will really count against you. But they love me and want what’s best for me, and when they see how I feel they’ll come round.”

“Well, it’s not just your parents,” I went on. “It’s the wedding. You know how I have to avoid social occasions. I don’t want another garden party. What about your sister, the one with the new baby? Suppose I fancy her and FUCK gets to work?”

“Jess? I hadn’t thought of that, but you’ll be safe enough with Jess. I mean, she’s a lovely person but she’s not very, er … Look, I’ll show you.” She jumped out of bed and fetched a slim photo album. “I took this when I went up to see the baby. Isn’t she just adorable?”

A glance at the picture was enough to confirm that she must be talking about the infant. Jess, Fran’s sister, glowed with maternal pride as she held the child up to the camera, but no one could have called her adorable. She had quite heavy features and, even so soon after childbirth, looked distinctly on the skinny side. You would not call her ugly, but she was not remotely my type.

Somewhat reassured, I thumbed idly through the album in search of embarrassing childhood pictures of Fran. These were her parents, obviously; this was a younger Jess; this was the kid brother she had mentioned once or twice; and this gawky schoolgirl must be Fran.

“No,” she said. “I’m behind the camera. That’s my sister Annie. Can’t you see she’s a lot fairer than I am?”

“I thought it was just the light. I didn’t know you had another sister. I should be all right with her, though; she’s only about thirteen.”

Fran fell silent. When she finally spoke it was in a low, sad, hollow voice. “It’s an old picture,” she said. “Here’s a recent one.”

She flipped to a photograph I had missed near the end of the album. Out of the page there smiled a girl of about seventeen, very like Fran in the face but with blonde hair instead of red, worn long like Fran’s but with a bit more of a curl to it (Fran’s was poker straight). In her blue eyes she had a playful glint, very different to Fran’s serious gaze. I let out a long, low whistle. “She’s absolutely gorgeous.”

“I know,” wailed Fran as if it were the worst news imaginable. “She used to be all gangly and awkward but in the last year or two she’s filled out a bit and suddenly she’s lovely.” She went on to tell me about her little sister. “As soon as she could toddle she followed me everywhere and copied everything I did, it was so cute. It’s thanks to her that I got to be ‘Fran’. My Mam and Dad still call me ‘Frances’ but she called us ‘Frannie and Annie’, and it stuck. She so much wants to be like me. She still wears her hair like me and she insisted on applying to my old university, even though I told her she was making a big mistake.”

“St Andrews? But it’s got a fine reputation. What’s wrong with it?”

“It suited me,” explained Fran. “I just wanted to get my head down and study. But it’s the worst place for Annie. I said she should study in London, because she loves excitement and bright lights, and St Andrews is the quietest, most out-of-the-way place you could ever imagine. But she wouldn’t listen, and she’s been accepted. She starts in the autumn. She’ll hate it.”

“Well, anyway,” I had to tell her, “the wedding’s off. You know what will happen if I’m in the same room as this girl.”

Fran nodded sadly. We left it there, and when I got home I explained the situation to Wendy (who said it was unfortunate, but she understood my reasoning) and after that I forgot about it and assumed everyone else had.

I was wrong. A certain Scottish redhead was giving the situation a lot of thought, and in the end she came to a remarkable decision.

By this time I had left the insurance company but I did not want anyone to associate my departure with Fran’s so she was still working there, patiently disengaging herself. Now and then we would rendezvous at her flat for a lunchtime fuck so it was no surprise when on this particular day she rang to ask me to call round at midday. She had the flat to herself by now, since Connie and Gabby had found new accommodation more convenient for their new calling. “I’ve got something to show you I think you’ll really like,” she told me, so I called a cab and ran over.

Fran had been watching for me because when I reached the flat the front door opened by itself and she stood there with a look of eager excitement on her face and a finger to her lips. She led me to the front room.

There on the sofa was the original of the picture I had seen in the photo album. She gave me a welcoming smile as Fran did the courtesies: “James Walker, my sister Annie.”

“Hello, Annie,” I said. I shot an accusing look at Fran. How could she do this? But she looked blithe and relaxed, not a care in the world.

“Hello, Mr Walker,” said Annie. She stood up to shake my hand, revealing she was a couple of inches shorter than her sister and generally smaller all round, in fact. The mischievous energy I had seen in the photograph was even more evident in the flesh, and contrasted with Fran’s more serious and sedate manner. But anyone would have known they were sisters; their features were very similar and their lovely lilting Scottish accents were identical. “Fran’s told me so much about you.”

“Really?” I asked, trying not to show my mounting alarm.

“Yes, how you were so kind and helpful to her when she first came to London.” That was a relief; I had no idea what Fran was up to and had feared she might have said far more. “I’ve always loved London,” Annie went on, “even though I’ve never been. It’s so big and exciting and glamorous, isn’t it, Mr Walker?”

“James, please,” I said automatically. Desperately I reflected that I had only a minute or two to escape this situation. I glared at Fran again. She had an infuriating butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth expression on her face.

I was loth to appear rude or eccentric in front of the delightful Annie but even as I decided there was nothing for it but to give any stupid excuse that entered my head and clear out, Fran, I suspect sensing my intentions, suddenly spoke.

“That problem, James.”

I had no idea what she meant. “Problem?”

“The one we talked about a few weeks ago. You know, the album.”

I got it at last. My desperate state of mind must have left me slow on the uptake. “Oh, yes, that problem.”

“I’ve solved it,” she announced smugly.

I reeled. Surely she could not mean what I thought she meant. Could Fran – Fran of all people – deliberately be introducing her little sister into my collection? In mounting dismay I realised that such an act had a brutal logic to it. If Annie were already mine, there would be no further obstacle to the wedding. “The solution might have some drawbacks,” was all I could think of to say.

“None that I can think of,” she replied. “Anyway, I must pop out. Shan’t be long. Don’t go ’way. ’Bye!”

Her exit, although obviously carefully pre-planned, was so abrupt and unexpected that I had hardly a moment to react. As she reached the door I opened my mouth to order her to stay but then I realised how odd it would seem to Annie if a word from me stopped Fran dead in her tracks. My momentary hesitation was fatal. Fran was gone. I heard the flat door slam and her feet on the stairs. I was left alone with a nonplussed Annie.

“What got into Fran?” she asked.

“No idea,” I lied. “She must have remembered she’d run out of milk or something. I’m sure she’ll be back in a moment. Look, I’m sorry, Annie, I have to go too. You’ll be all right on your own, won’t you?”

She looked both puzzled (who can blame her?) and disappointed at the prospect of my departure. “Oh, Mr Wal – sorry, James – please don’t go just yet.” She took my hand and sat down in such a way as to try to steer me down beside her, but I stayed resolutely on my feet. “I’m so excited to meet a real Londoner,” she said. “Can’t we talk for a bit?”

It crossed my mind that within a few miles’ radius there were several million real Londoners, a high proportion of whom (pretty well the whole of the male half, at a rough estimate) would have been delighted to talk to her. “Annie, you don’t understand,” I said. “I really can’t stay. Sorry.”

“But it’s the first time I’ve ever been here,” she pleaded. “Fran told me about how you showed her round. She said you were such a kind and generous man that she was sure you’d do the same for me as you had for her.”

The way she put this had me speechless for a moment. I noticed how her chest was beginning to rise and fall as her breathing became slower and deeper. And then my cock intruded on proceedings. I had arrived with nice full balls ready to empty into Fran, and at my first sight of her beautiful little sister I had felt my cock twitch into greater alertness. It had been steadily growing ever since and now, as I stood there with this lovely girl sitting right in front of me, her face inches from my groin, a sudden hardening and stiffening forced it free of some restraining fold of underwear and it pushed itself as an unmistakable prominence against the outer fabric of my trousers. Her eyes widened and she gasped, but not with the horror or disgust one might have expected in a girl of seventeen.

With her saucer-like eyes fixed on the obscene bulge in my trousers, she spoke in a quiet, hoarse voice, “And you’re such a wonderful man, a big, strong, beautiful man, a big, kind, loving man, a big, big … big …”

She trailed off. She was simply sitting there with her mouth slightly open, her eyes staring at my cock as it pressed even more firmly against the fabric.

I gave up the struggle and sat down next to her. “All right, Annie, I’ll stay a while.”

When it came to the sex I have to say I was probably not at my most caring and sensitive. In fact, I think I took out on this poor child some of my frustration at being manipulated in this way. Not that she seemed to mind; despite her wholesomely innocent appearance, it was clear that she had some experience (so she did not follow Fran in everything). Being well charged with spunk and irritated to boot, I came very quickly and I must have put more juice into her perfect young cunt than I ever had with any girl before. I pumped and pumped and pumped and with each spurt she screamed and wailed as waves of ever-mounting ecstasy flooded over her. When I withdrew she looked obscene, flat on her back with unfocused eyes and white sticky spunk bubbling and frothing as it oozed out of her.

Leaving her there, I angrily rang Fran on her cellphone. I got a recording telling me the phone was switched off and asking me to leave a message. Ignoring this invitation, I made myself a cup of tea and waited. I had a feeling she would be back soon.

Not long after I had finished the tea I heard a key in the lock. I stood up to confront Fran sternly as soon as she came in.

“Hi, darling,” she said brightly.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” I demanded.

“I’ve been feeding birds in the park. It’s very relaxing.”

“Fran, don’t play games with me. What’s the big idea with Annie?”

“I told you. I’m solving our problem.”

“You call this a solution? Fran, how could you? Your own little sister.”

She looked totally unruffled. “Darling, you’re not thinking. It’s a perfect solution. As soon as I started approaching the problem logically, I saw it at once. And it works splendidly for everyone. Annie gets you. I get my beautiful James for my husband. And you come out best of all, darling, because you get a lovely girl and the wife you want, too.”

“But Fran, your little sister –”

“Look, darling, I know her a lot better than you do and trust me, she’s far more grown-up at seventeen than I was. And when she comes down, she won’t blame me for it, she’ll thank me. In fact, I’m envious of her; I wish I’d met you when I was her age.”

“I wasn’t FUCKed up when you were seventeen,” I pointed out.

“Well, if you had been.”

I was far from convinced, and told her so. But I saw Annie several more times over the next few days, and I had to admit that Fran had a point. The girl was simply radiant, gloriously happy, and effusively grateful to Fran for introducing us. She stayed in London for three weeks and she was so sweet and fresh I fucked her constantly. She was crestfallen when I insisted that she must return to Scotland and honour her commitment to study. She had made her bed, I told her, and she must lie in it. But I gather she has lain in a lot of other beds as well, besides having plenty of company in her own, and all in all her social life has enlivened sleepy St Andrews no end. She turned eighteen in January so now, of course, after giving herself away all term she comes to London to sell herself in the vacations.

Annie makes me smile. She so wants so much to be like Fran but she is quite different; where Fran is thoughtful, sensible and serious, Annie is frivolous, vivacious and light-hearted. She is also, as predicted, desperate to get away from St Andrews, a town (she says) with no night life and next to no day life; even the nearest railway station is five miles away. Once or twice I have almost relented, but so far I am sticking to my decision.

Fran invited her parents down from Scotland for a week to meet me. She told them I had some very valuable properties all over central London, a statement that, besides bearing an interestingly oblique relationship to the truth, adequately reconciled my apparently affluent lifestyle with the fact that I never seemed to do any actual work. They soon got used to the idea that I would regularly disappear for an hour or two, doubtless supposing I was inspecting potential new acquisitions or possibly attending auctions. They were, as she had foreseen, not altogether comfortable about me as a son-in-law but I was on my very best behaviour and Fran was so obviously in love that they came to accept the idea.

So Wendy divorced me by consent and Fran and I were married in the spring. We insisted on a small wedding in London, immediate family only. On her side this meant her parents, her elder sister and her husband, her little brother, and Annie. On my side, there was only Wendy (whose presence raised several Scottish eyebrows, but she threw rice as promised, and charmed my new in-laws as only she can). The only other guests were Alicia, practically one of the family by now, and Connie, proud beyond words at Fran’s invitation to be her maid of honour.

Fran lives with me in my Marylebone home, the only girl to reside there permanently. However, Wendy and Alicia share a flat round the corner and are in and out all the time, making themselves useful either between the sheets (always very welcome) or in the kitchen (almost a necessity, since for all her sterling qualities my precious Fran, hailing as she does from the nation that gave the world porridge, haggis, and the deep-fried Mars bar, is quite possibly the worst cook on earth). Other girls visit constantly, of course, and each new girl stays a few days with me to be fucked senseless while we sort out her future living and working arrangements. But Fran is the wife; she got after all what she begged me for all that time ago, in my office the day after Albert’s funeral.

And I ought to add that Fran has been nothing but a delight, full of surprises large and small.

Last autumn, when I was looking for a new house and beginning to despair of ever finding anything that would meet my needs, I went to visit a mews property in Marylebone – the house I was ultimately to buy, of course – and I took Fran along, as I always did when she was available. We were shown round by the vendor, a charming man in his mid-forties, a freelance television producer apparently, who explained that he was selling only with the greatest reluctance in order to fund a divorce settlement with his wife. I had introduced Fran as my fiancée, partly because it was true (this was not long after she had cleared the obstacles by introducing me to Annie) but also because I enjoyed the look of intrigued envy I knew I should get as he wondered why this strikingly attractive young woman would have thrown in her lot with such an unprepossessing man easily twice her age.

“You’re a lucky man,” he muttered to me at one point when he thought Fran was safely out of earshot.

But she has the acute hearing of youth and immediately replied, “No, I’m the lucky one,” with a calm conviction that earned me another envious glance.

I liked the house immediately, and as we looked it over I let the vendor know (without seeming too keen) that I was seriously interested. After being shown round we returned to the large, tastefully appointed living room, in the corner of which there was a stately grand piano. Fran, attracted (or so I assumed) by its undeniable magnificence as a piece of furniture, walked slowly round it, eying it admiringly and running her fingers appreciatively along its shiny black surface. The vendor, who in any case had been unable to keep his eyes off her as he showed us the house, could hardly have failed to notice her interest.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” he said, adding optimistically, “It’s for sale too.”

“Really?” said Fran, failing to keep the note of excitement out of her voice.

“Yes. You see, it was my wedding present to my wife in happier days, and she’s asked me to sell it. In fact,” he went on, putting his cards on the table, “it was such a tough job getting it in here – four burly shifters and a pulley system, and we had to take the frame off the door – that I was rather hoping that whoever bought the house might want the piano as well.”

This idea, I felt, had to be nipped in the bud. “I can see it would be very convenient, but,” I said firmly, “I’m afraid we don’t play.”

“Yes we do,” said Fran quietly.

I looked blankly at the vendor and back at Fran. “We do?” I said.

“We do,” she confirmed. “May I?” she asked the vendor.

So she sat herself at the piano, looking instantly at home I noticed, and after a moment’s thought began to play Beethoven’s Für Elise; maybe not the most demanding piece (I believe the great man wrote it as an exercise for a pupil with whom he was smitten) but a charming one and rendered very sweetly on this occasion with a nice touch and no obvious errors. I was so astonished at the way Fran had pulled this trick out of her hat that, as the final note died away and she sat back looking thoroughly pleased with herself, for a moment I failed to join in the polite applause with which the vendor acknowledged her performance.

“Well,” I said to the vendor, “in the light of further information that has only now been brought to my attention,” and I shot a sharp glance at Fran, who had risen to acknowledge the applause with a modest bow and was now standing there looking smug, “I think we might be interested in the piano after all.”

As we were leaving I had to tackle Fran about this incident.

“Well, young lady, you’ve been hiding your light under a bushel, haven’t you?”

“Oh, you mean the piano?” she asked with pretended innocence.

“Of course I mean the piano. How come you never told me you could play?”

“You never asked,” she smiled.

“Well, I’m asking you now. Have you got any other little accomplishments you’ve never let on about?”

She looked dubious. “Like what, for instance?”

“Oh, I don’t know, like riding a horse or something.”

“Don’t be silly, darling,” she laughed. “Of course I can ride a horse.”

I thought she was joking and left it there, but it turns out to be true. Apparently a man living just up the road from her, back in Scotland, used to breed ponies and she started riding almost before she could walk. And now that money is no object she has joined an exclusive riding club with stables adjacent to Hyde Park and she often hires a horse and goes for a brisk canter along Rotten Row. Occasionally I go and watch. She looks incredibly sexy, totally in control of a huge powerful horse, her red hair flowing behind her in the wind in splendid defiance of the club rule that riding helmets must be worn at all times.

She gets away with it because this is usually about six in the morning, which reminds me of another of Fran’s quirks, and one that is all the more remarkable considering her profession: she must surely be the only “early to bed, early to rise” whore in London. In complete contrast to the rest of my girls, who stay up late and sleep late and in some cases appear to be almost entirely nocturnal, Fran is always up and about by six, sometimes much earlier, and since she likes to be in bed by ten she will turn down lucrative late-night meetings with perfectly good clients because she is afraid she will inopportunely fall asleep. On the other hand, her early morning availability is appreciated by many clients, and if you are a business traveller staying in London with an eight-o’clock erection in need of attention (what the girls call a “morning glory”) you could do no better than to call Fran, who for a trifling two hundred pounds, or an extra fifty if you want her to take it up the ass, will put a smile on your face that will last all day.

Fran has approached her new calling with the earnestness and focus typical of her in everything she undertakes, and as her husband it gives me nothing but pleasure to say that the inexperienced and rather strait-laced girl of a year ago has blossomed into a skilled and attentive lover, full of ideas to make a man happy.

Nor is the seriousness with which she goes about things the only characteristic that has remained constant: she still reads omnivorously (the fruit of a childhood without television); she displays incredible ingenuity in reconciling the requirements of her profession with her enduring instinct to occupy the moral high ground in any situation (not for nothing do the other girls sometimes teasingly address her as “Mother Superior”); and she still combines her fascination with the world around her with a complete lack of interest in matters domestic, so she remains the same Fran for whom boiling an egg is a major culinary challenge.

So, in spite of everything, Fran is unaltered in her essentials. But for some time I felt that something was different, something subtler and more elusive that the loosening of sexual morals that is the most obvious change. It irritated me that I could not put my finger on it, but maybe I was too close.

Last month, when Fran went back to Scotland for a long weekend to see her family and a few old friends, she looked up someone that has known her all her life: the head teacher, long since retired, of the local primary school. It was she that encouraged Fran to read and first sat her at a piano, and she has ever since kept a watchful eye on her pupil’s progress through life. She was, naturally, delighted to see Fran so … happy? No, that was not quite the right word. Contented? No, not that either. Serene. With that the old lady hit the nail on the head. Over the last year Fran has attained a kind of rich inner calmness that she never had before. And now that I have been alerted to it I realise that this quality of relaxed assurance comes across in everything she does, even in the way she walks and the way her eyes meet yours, and it is this, rather than any change in her physical appearance, that has transformed the pretty girl of a year ago into the ravishing young woman of today, who turns men’s heads wherever she goes.

I think most men might be surprised to learn that despite the life I lead I still have my unfulfilled sexual fantasies. And they are going to stay unfulfilled, too.

For instance, there is the one in which I am invited in some capacity or other to address an assembly at a girls’ school. The girls are aged about fourteen to sixteen and are wholly black, so maybe the school is in Africa. Of course, their burgeoning sexuality soon excites my pheromones and I am hardly into my talk before the polite attention on the sea of faces before me is replaced by a desperate yearning lust. Brushing aside the efforts of the staff to maintain order, the girls rush the stage, stripping as they come, rip off my clothes and fuck me relentlessly, one after another after another, and somehow I am able to keep up with them until finally the hall is deep in black adolescent flesh oozing my spunk and I am in the same state of blissful oblivion that I have bestowed on so many women.

Or there is the one in which I am attending a wedding. It is a truism that even the dowdiest woman seems to acquire a certain allure, even beauty, on her wedding day; but the bride on this occasion would have been a head-turner in any circumstances. In full white regalia she is simply stunning and, like every other man at the ceremony, I can hardly take my eyes off her. She revels in the attention but at first pays no particular attention to me; before long, however, I catch a half-averted glance in my direction, then another, longer, more significant look. Soon everyone else is ignored, even her husband of thirty minutes, as she focuses increasingly brazenly on me. And then she surrenders to her craving totally, runs to me and throws herself upon me. Perhaps this fantasy is not so different to the previous one after all, because after taking the bride I work my way in short order through the bridesmaids and the other female guests, while the groom and other male guests are horrified spectators but somehow (in a fantasy there is no need to be specific) they are powerless to intervene as one after another their wives, daughters and sweethearts joyously envelop my spurting cock within their thirsty cunts.

All right, these are fantasies, but just the same I think anyone organising a wedding or looking for a speaker at a girls’ school would be well advised to cross me off the list of possible invitees.

What of the more realistic future? How long can I go on like this? Wendy insists that I have got younger over the last year and that FUCK is some kind of elixir of youth, but this is wishful thinking. It is true that I have lost a fair amount of weight, and my muscle tone has improved, but these changes result not from any magical quality of FUCK but from all the horizontal exercise I have been getting. Although I still refer to myself as being fat, I think these days a passer-by seeing me in the street would probably describe me as stocky. I detect no weakening of sexual capacity or desire at the age of almost fifty-one, and I reflect that Albert was nearly seventy when he died, yet clearly still expected to get the benefit, so I ought to be good for a few years yet.

I have yet to decide what to do when my girls’ sexual desire lessens and their fertility returns. Fran, of course, will still be easily young enough to start a family and I look forward to giving her the children I am sure she will want. She can have as many as she likes. Other girls too will, of course, want children and I ponder from time to time whether to supply the need myself or encourage them to find husbands. I suspect the answer will be a bit of both. I feel confident, incidentally, that my girls will make excellent wives if called upon in that capacity; they will, according to Albert, be fertile, affectionate and maternal, and while their sex drive may no longer be spectacular I can guarantee that their present occupation will have taught them more than enough to keep any husband happy in the bedroom.

My fifty-first birthday is coming up in a few weeks, and Wendy and Fran are preparing something special for me. I keep coming across them plotting and giggling together; they think I am desperate to discover what they have in mind, but in fact I am content to let it unfold in its own good time. After all, if I were as much consumed by curiosity as they think, I could have ordered one of them to tell me.

And today is the exact anniversary of FUCK, a year to the day since I so heedlessly swallowed Uncle Albert’s potion. It is a time to look back and reflect. It has been a time of dramatic upheaval in my life, especially the first few weeks when I struggled to understand and deal with what was happening to me. I wonder what Albert would have done, had he used FUCK on himself as he intended. It is sobering thought. He combined a consuming interest in sex with, so far as I could see, an entire lack of concern for women as people, and I fear the result might have been devastating for everyone. His motto, I suspect, would have been “Find ’em, fuck ’em, forget ’em”. I like to think I have done better by my girls than that. But maybe this is self-deception.

And what of me? Has FUCK made me happy? The answer, which I know must come as a crushing disappointment to all good moralists, is that it has. Any other outcome would, after all, be a poor reflection on the nearly two hundred women whose uppermost concern is my pleasure. Before FUCK came into my life I was in a rut; and I still am, only an entirely different type of rut, like some rampant stag in a never-ending mating season.

FUCK certainly has its drawbacks. One is the fear that my activities will become known to the authorities or, worse still, the press. Another is that I cannot undertake any activity that will last more than a couple of hours unless I can arrange for a sex break; so simple a thing as taking Fran out for a meal means insisting that we must be waited on only by men in some alcove well away from other diners, and I have to ensure there is a flat nearby with a girl where I can go for relief between courses. Travelling any distance would be so hard to organise that I am a virtual prisoner in London, although I have to add that I can think of nowhere else I had rather be confined.

But FUCK has its blessings too. I bask in the love and admiration of my girls. Induced it may be, but Fran’s Law applies. Not one of them would undo it if she could, and that must count for something. And of course, there is the sex; there is still nothing to equal the feeling of drenching a moist young cunt in hot sticky cum, especially when the girl is a new one, confused, even frightened, made helpless in my hands by an overwhelming lust such as she has never known. This moment of capture remains, if I am honest, the sweetest taste of all. It is something that I suspect will feature largely in whatever Wendy and Fran have planned for me.

As this first anniversary has approached, I have spent more and more time between fucks writing up this account, and a couple of days ago I got it into a state that I was willing to share with Fran and Wendy in order to get their views and satisfy their curiosity about why I have been at the computer so much lately. I discussed it with them just now. They both claimed to have enjoyed it thoroughly, but they are, of course, programmed to please so I am not letting this praise go to my head.

Wendy pointed out that the printout bore no title.

“Don’t you think,” I asked her, “that Uncle Albert has already chosen the only possible title?”

“I suppose so,” she agreed, “but in that case I think it needs a subtitle to give a clearer idea of what it’s about.”

“Like what, for instance?”

She thought a moment. “How about,” she suggested, “A Summer’s Tale of a Man, a Corrupt Genius, and Two Birthday Parties?”

I weighed this. “Hmm… What do you think, Fran?”

Fran wrinkled her nose prettily. “It’s a bit wordy,” she replied. “If you want a descriptive subtitle, why not one that just says what it is?”

“Which would be…?”

“Well,” said Fran as if she were stating the obvious, “it’s A Love Story.”