After coming off
the main road you pass through a sleepy village with a worn war
memorial and
then begin winding your way down a series of leafy lanes until,
finally, you
turn into the driveway.
The driveway is set
back from the road, shrouded by trees, and it’s easy to miss it,
which is
intentional. The drive is gated so you have to stop at the intercom and
press
the button to get the main house. Whoever answers can see you on either
the
camera built into the intercom itself or the one that sits well
concealed up in
the tree.
Assuming you’ve
expected, you get buzzed through, the big iron gate swinging lazily
open to let
you approach the house itself via a tree lined, curving driveway.
It’s a large manor
house, all leaded windows and high pitched roof lines, the ivy wreathed
main
building flanked on either side by smaller wings and the whole thing
sitting
squat and impassive amongst lawns and flower beds. The drive curls
sinuously
through the strictly maintained gardens to end at the front entrance of
the
house
It’s safe to say I
love coming here just as much as my bank balance winces when I do. But
it beats
grubbing around amongst the less savoury elements of the world trying
to find
what I want. This is a professional operation, strictly controlled and
with a
very limited client base that have been carefully vetted and offer
something to
the people behind the curtain. I know I do and I know that my
particular
usefulness, whilst not as glamorous or obvious as some others I could
think of
is nonetheless very highly prized. I’m looked after and used
sparingly in an
‘In Case of Emergency, Break Class’ kind of way.
The door to the
house opens and a middle aged, buxom woman with a perm comes out to
greet me.
‘David,’ she
says
with a smile, ‘how lovely to see you again. How was the drive up
this time? Did
you hit the roadworks on the 303?’
Her name is Mrs
Denning, Linda to her friends and customers, and, alongside her husband
Victor,
she owns and oversees the working of the house. We engage in smalltalk
and
pleasantries as I lift my suitcase from the car and hand the keys to
her. As we
enter the house, a tall, slim man in his 20s comes out and she
wordlessly
passes him the keys. This is her son, Stephen, and he’ll move my
car to one of
the farm buildings elsewhere on site. It’s a custom that the
Dennings keep up
so that guests don’t ever see anyone else’s car, which is
why you are given a
window of time in which to arrive in and why, when you stay at the
house, you
stay in your guest suite unless expressly told otherwise.
This is fine by me;
I am an intensely private person and its rules and procedures like this
that
allows me to truly relax when I come to stay. And this time I’m
here for two
nights, arriving Friday late afternoon, leaving Sunday evening.
In the house, Linda
leads me up the large, elegant central staircase and down a series of
corridors
to my room. It’s unlocked and she shows me inside, waiting to
make sure I’m
happy with the room as I give it a look through, again more out of
custom than necessity.
The room is more like a studio flat, with one large space that
incorporates a
spacious lounge and, slightly elevated in the rear of the room, a king
size bed
with en-suite off to one side with a walk-in wardrobe acting as the
short
passageway. There’s no kitchen; you call down for what you want
and it’s
brought to you. There’s even a laundry service, if you need it.
Everything’s
tastefully decorated with a mix of modern furnishings that sits
surprisingly well
with the more classical decor.
‘Thank you, Linda.
Perfect, as ever.’
Linda smiles and
hands me the key. ‘I hope you enjoy your stay with us, David.
Anything you
need, just ring down. Viewing runs from
I unpack into a
chest of drawers in the bedroom area, put the empty case under the bed
and then
entertain myself with the contents of the closet. As always, it’s
comprehensive; from relatively normal skirts, dresses and blouses to
full uniforms
to an assortment of fetish clothing in the usual array of materials.
There’s
also a decent selection of lingerie and undies as well as shoes and
socks. On
one shelf sits a good sized cosmetics box and next to it is a compact
but
reasonably complete toy box containing ropes, clamps and vibes and the
like.
Though I have a look inside, I rarely use anything from it; I prefer to
bring
my own.
But the clothing…
well, I do love clothing and I have a very pleasing time selecting a
few of my
favorites and putting them separate on the rail, ready for later.
After that,
there’s a menu by the TV and I phone down for something to eat
and drink for
when viewing starts.
Viewing takes some
getting used to.
I turn on the TV,
flick to AV1 and settle back with my steak and chips. It’s not
quite time so I
spend a few minutes watching a camera feed from somewhere else in (I
presume)
the house that shows a bare-walled, windowless room lit by the cold,
clinical
light specific to fluorescents. There’s a small chair in front of
the lens and
that’s it. Eventually I hear a door open off-camera followed by
some shuffling
sounds and then the first girl walks tentatively in front of the camera
and
sits in the chair. She has a small card in her hand and her red-rimmed
eyes
flick uncertainly between what’s printed on it and the camera, or
those
standing behind it.
She’s a pretty
little thing in scuffed jeans and a dirty t-shirt with Hannah Montana
on it.
She has shoulder length black hair and wide eyes with the tell-tale
smudge of sleeplessness
underneath. Under the light she looks pale and weak and vulnerable. She
licks
her lips, looks for a second like she might cry and then she begins to
read.
‘My name is…
Sara.
I am 9 years old. My favorite things are… are ponies
and… and puppies and…‘
She looks up, visibly distressed, bottom lip trembling, the card
shaking in her
hand. Off camera, there’s a hissed voice, and though I
can’t make it out
because the camera mic’s not positioned to pick it up
(intentionally,
obviously), its tone is sharp and threatening to make the girl jump in
her
seat. Again she looks like she’ll break down but she sucks in a
breath and
continues.
‘… ponies and
puppies and… b-being fucked in my tight… tight little
c-c-cunt and ass.’ I feel
my cock stiffen as a single tear trickles from her eye and I guess
she’s been
doing a lot of that recently. ‘Please let me sh-sh-show you what
a good… a good
little… whore I can be.’ She looks desolate by the end, as
if there’s nowhere
lower she could go. Clearly, she’s new.
Another terse hiss
from off camera and she almost leaps out of the chair. A few seconds
later, a
second girl takes her place in front of the camera. She couldn’t
be more
different than Sara.
Her eyes have a
glassiness to them that’s due to more than tiredness and the
smile plastered
across her painted lips is the grin of someone who doesn’t know
they’re the
punchline but laughs because everyone else does. She’s wearing a
long cotton
shirt over a pair of tracksuit pants and her body wavers and sways
slightly as she
holds her own card up. She reads it silently, frowns then gives a
short, harsh
laugh that seems to take her as much by surprise as it does me. The
hand
holding the card drops and she fixes her blinking, befuddled gaze into
the
camera.
Someone speaks off camera
and the girl nods, mouth open, face screwed up in concentration.
‘I’m Debbie.
I’m
11.’
Again the voice
murmurs off camera and Debbie’s frown deepens before a slow
dawning comes to
her features and she gives a smile that has enough brightness left to
hint at
how dazzling it once would have been.
‘Oh… ok. Yeah.
A
whore? Yeah. A whore. I’m a whore,’ she says and smiles and
grins a bit. The
voice again, she frowns. ‘Oh. Right. Junkie whore. Ok.
Yeah.’ She gives another
short burst of laughter and the voice coaches her again. ‘What
will I do? I’ll
do, you know, yeah… I’ll do whatever.’ Another
pause. Another few words from
the voice. ‘Yeah. For a hit. I’ll do anything for a hit.
Junkie whore. Yeah.’
Exit Debbie stage
left before walking back across the camera to leave the same way Sara
did. Off
camera I hear someone off-camera give a snort of laughter as she
finally gets
it right and exits from the shot.
Next up is the
oldest yet, a gangly teenager with lank hair and waxy skin. She’s
wearing a
pair of denim shorts and a white t-shirt and I see a few fading bruises
on her
wrists and upper arms. One eye is a little bloodshot and darker than
the other.
‘Hi. I’m
Danielle.
I’m nearly 14,’ she says in a monotone, going on to
describe how she’s into
pain and degradation and ‘aphixation’. She barely looks at
the camera until the
voice mutters sharply, when she looks into the lens and says ‘I
know the risks
of playing like that. I want to pay them’ in a halting voice.
And so it goes. In
all, 15 girls aged from 6, a girl named Steph who wears a long flannel
nightie
and clutches a pale blue Care Bear like someone drowning clutches a
life ring,
through to Danielle at 14. When the last girl’s been through, the
camera’s
turned off and the screen goes black for a minute or so until a
recording of
the viewing begins to play on a loop. It’ll do so until
However, if you
flick to AV2, you see a different screen. This one displays a list of
the girls
names and you use the remote to select a girl you’re interested
in so you can
go through to her ‘specifics’ page.
This page is laid
out as follows; top left is a picture of the girl taken from the
viewing and
next to it is a brief summary of things like age, hair and eye color,
height,
weight etc etc.
Underneath are the
maximum options that come with each girl. For instance, Steph, the
youngest, is
suited for ‘loving’ oral sex, giving or receiving. That
means no rough stuff
like face-fucking or gagging is allowed with her. Likewise, anal
penetration is
listed as ‘max 2 fingers or similar’ only and vaginal
penetration is completely
out except, because of the oral sex criteria, by tongue as long as
it’s
‘loving’.
Steph is also
suitable for mild spankings via hand only. That means no belts, no
canes… not
even a hairbrush. Bondage is ok but with (provided) underwear only and
not
rope, but pain beyond nipple tweaking and the aforementioned spanking
is,
again, not on the menu.
And so it goes on,
a concise and pretty comprehensive list of dos and don’ts summed
up one screen.
Then you go to
Danielle, the ‘know the risks’ 14 year old and you see the
other extreme. With
her, you see, you pay for the right to ruin her, make her unusable by
anyone
else after you’re finished, to destroy her even, but you pay, in
full and up
front, for the right to do so and what you pay entitles you to everything. And if, afterwards, you’re
found to have done less than you paid for by
the houses estimation then you will receive a refund.
So if you want to
do something that’s not in the specifics of the girl you most
want to do it to,
then tough. Lower your desires or, much more preferable, find one you can do it with and maybe make her suffer
for not being the one you truly wanted.
So you view the
girls, go through their specifics, find the one you want and then it
turns into
EBay. Pretty much literally.
Some have a ‘buy it
now’ price that entitles you to do what is listed in her
specifics and nothing more and there are, as Linda
once explained to me, ‘strong consequences for those who break
the house
rules’. These can range from financial penalties to permanent
bans and
everything in between. And, as Linda also said, it’s not about
damage done to
the girls or loss of income for the house; it’s about trust.
They provide a
service and you pay handsomely for it but they have to be able to trust
you, to
know they are safe to turn their back on you, that you have
self-control and a
sense of respect and responsibility towards them. If you don’t,
then why should
they welcome you into their world? But I
digress.
‘Buy it now’
lists
a high price but comes with a guarantee that she is yours for the
duration of
your stay. Other than that, there’s a minimum price the house
will accept for
you to have the right to do everything detailed in her specifics and
that price
varies wildly depending on the girl more than it does on what she will
or won’t
do.
You bid a value
over the minimum and if someone else bids more you’re told by the
girls name
flashing on the screen. There’s no hint of how many others are
bidding, only
that you have been outbid. Enter more or move on to another.
The money you can
bid is a fixed quantity, set by you, which the house holds via a funds
transfer. Cumulatively bid more than you’ve allowed and your bid
is ignored
until you’re outbid and get some money back. Any girl that gets a
bid has a
clock of 15 minutes against her that begins to count down. If there is
another
bid, the clock resets. Girls that receive no bid stay open and
available all
weekend and their price is revised accordingly
It’s a juggling act, of balancing desires against options against resources and it is, I have to say, hugely entertaining. But not as entertaining, obviously, as what happens afterwards.
I tuck into my
sticky chocolate cake dessert and start to play the game.