Chapter 46

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.