Day 1 - The Peculiar Mr Getsch

Think of 'house clearance' and you probably envisage some beefy bloke in a sweaty t-shirt and white van and a lock-up full of musty old sofas. I like to think I am a bit further up the food chain than that.

Most of my work involves acting for solicitors liquidising estates which are intestate or for which the beneficiary cannot be traced and that's why I was in the amazing house of the late Mr Maurice Getsch. As usual, I had been retained to catalogue the property and contents and I am then to dispose of the latter on commission. After years in this business, I am trusted to be fair and honest and my two lads who do the heavy work know full well that if they developed sticky fingers, I would chop the buggers off.

Like I said, this is the kosher end of the market.

And I thought I had seen it all, having cleared all manner of places in my time, but this one was quite exceptional, and as I was to discover, so was the late Mr Getsch. Never knew him, of course, but I reckon he was one strange character.

The solicitor's clerk had already left - he had taken away any documents that might be used to wind up the deceased's affairs - and as usual I was left to my own devices for the day, to make a full inventory. Once that had been agreed, my lads would return and empty the house.

I set up my laptop in the dining room. A rambling old house like this would easily take a whole day or more to list, but I aim to do a good job and that's why I am never short of work. But this clearance was unique.

Maurice Getsch had more or less done my work for me.

Never have I found such a meticulously tidy and ordered house. Not just neat - this was like a cross between a museum and a warehouse. In the kitchen, everything was lined up inside the cupboards, packets and cans segregated logically and ordered by 'use-by' date. Cutlery, crockery was similarly stacked as if ready for stocktaking. In the workshop at the back of the garage everything was equally immaculate, all the tools clean and racked, and pots of screws arranged on dusted shelves by size and type. Throughout the rest of the house, each cupboard and drawer even contained a small lined index card, handwritten, which detailed the ruddy contents!

I was particularly excited by the racks of books all over the house, for not only were they catalogued and sorted as if in a library but for many authors there was a complete collection, and I mean complete - including all the obscure works - they should fetch a premium price, especially as everything was in near-mint condition.

I had most of the house listed on my laptop in just a couple of hours and the more I sifted through the rooms, the more intrigued became with its late owner. The chap was without doubt compulsive in a big way, judging from the way his clothes were arranged in his wardrobes and even in the way all furniture was arranged parallel to the walls, with no unnecessary ornaments or pictures to disrupt the orderliness. You know, even the appliances were labelled with a cross-reference to a box file of copy receipts and user manuals.

The man must have spent so much of his time sorting and indexing his life. Incredible. It made my work a complete breeze.

With the bonus of spare time, I poked around in the small office.

The solicitor's clerk had taken with him most of the files from the desk, but behind it on shelves were two rows of matching binders, marked by year and I picked one from each shelf at random.

The lower shelf contained Mr Getsch's diaries, which were a telling insight into his personality. Each day, in a tiny, measured hand, he recorded his business transactions. He was a dealer in old maps, retired I imagined, as I had disappointingly found only a few cherished charts from what I presumed was simply his personal collection.

A further paragraph in the diary entry for the day indicated any points of note in his domestic arrangements - bills paid or expenses to be claimed etc and below that, when the fancy took him, he allowed himself space to record his thoughts. These were quite amusing at times: rants about world events or a driver who had cut him up on the way to town.

I was warming to him.

The upper shelf was also revealing, as there was a corresponding scrapbook-cum-photo album for each year, a mix of punched papers with things stuck to them and transparent plastic sleeves containing loose documents. Photographs were few, tending to show Mr Getsch modestly receiving an award or visiting a trade show but there was one huge exception that fascinated me.

Towards the end of every year, without fail, the diary was blank for around five weeks. And the explanation was to be found in the scrapbooks.

"You sly old dog," I commented out loud.

For once a year, Maurice Getsch abandoned his private, self-obsessed world and let his hair down in the fleshpots of SE Asia!

Seriously.

I was amazed with my discovery and lifted out more diaries and scrapbooks, to check that I was right. Well, well. I had from the outset formed a vision of Mr Getsch as a bit of a sad loner, almost certainly a 'confirmed bachelor', who had ended his days without sampling the lighter side of life. I had doubted that he had a sex life and if he did, it might well have involved furtive fondles with other men.

Now I had to revise my prejudices completely.

It might well been the case that for ninety percent of his time he was reclusive, compulsive, obsessive and probably several other kinds of 'ive', but he certainly seemed to compensate for that during his annual escape! The shots of him half-cut and pink faced in loud shirts, arms around a string of grinning oriental bargirls were such an unbelievable contrast to those dour, bespectacled snaps of Maurice Getsch, expert in antiquarian maps.

Respect, Mr G!

The same male faces featured in many of the photos and it became obvious as I flicked through a few years' worth that he made his annual tour with the same two or three buddies. Maybe they were fellow map collectors, who knows? Well good for you, Maurice, looks like you had plenty of fun, judging from the rather candid nature of some of the pictures! I swear in one of them he was standing in the middle of a busy street with his fingers right up some grinning tart's pussy.

I checked my watch - I could not be bothered to go back to the office now. I would tidy up and knock off early. I replaced the diaries and scrapbooks, chuckling as I found myself being careful to insert them in the right places on the shelf. Strange though - two years were missing - 1995 and 1996. I shrugged and went on to the landing. Damn - I noticed the hatch to the loft and realised I had forgotten to go up. There was a pull-down ladder and I had my mini-maglite handy in my pocket. The weak beam showed the attic to be empty, which relieved me as I would not have been best pleased to go crawling around up there, as it was the one place in the house that was not regularly dusted and polished.

But something else caught my eye. Something that was not quite right.

I ducked my head below the hatch and back up into the loft. I could sense what was wrong: the attic extended noticeably further than the upstairs corridor.

Retreating down the ladder, I went to the far end and tapped the wall. There was wood behind the wallpaper instead of the expected solid plaster. To my left was the main bedroom and on looking back inside I homed in on the heavy wardrobe and tried to pull it away from the wall. I had found a hidden room once before in a house clearance and was becoming quite excited - maybe I would discover Maurice had a secret cartographic treasure trove after all!

The door behind the wardrobe was locked, but soon opened with my 'magic key' and I followed the beam of my torch inside. Blackout curtains: once I had swept them aside, the full extent of the room became apparent. Or rather rooms, for beyond the first one lay a compact ensuite bathroom.

"Wow," I said out loud. It was musty yet every bit as obsessively tidy and ordered as the rest of the house. Yet frozen in time. Off the main body of the room was an alcove, in which an ancient Viglen computer shared a small desk with an equally clunky old television and VCR player. And there was the direct door to the landing corridor, which I now realised, had been blocked up and hidden on the other side.

A king-sized bed dominated the room itself, which was incongruously papered with pink ponies. One wall was entirely taken up with a built-in wardrobe and I slid back the first door to reveal a rail of girls' clothing arranged neatly on hangers - a school uniform with blazer, brownie dress with sash, various skimpy tops and skirts. I felt my eyebrows raise to the max. Well, Maurice, I certainly wasn't expecting this! I finally located the light switch and was able to take it all in properly.

The central section of the wardrobe revealed drawers filled with neat piles of underwear and pyjamas, complete with contents index card of course. My mind raced through the possibilities - it was all too small for Maurice to wear, so cross-dressing wasn't his perversion of choice! Though clearly old, it was all clean and had obviously been worn, so a young girl had been here. Out of choice? Had the room been hidden then or was that a more recent modification?

I could not help myself and removed a couple of items of underwear - both bra and pants were Marks and Sparks, 'for ages 11-13'. Cute. They felt very pleasant in my fingers until I caught myself perving and chucked them on the bedspread, out of temptation's way. Inspired, I went back and checked the blazer and sure enough, there was an embroidered name label for 'S Rodriguez DLPC182'.

But my astonishment reached new heights when I slid the doors to access the right of the wardrobe. There were two tripods: one for a lighting umbrella, the other for the lumpy old camcorder resting on the adjacent shelf. Or perhaps the smart SLR camera beneath. They were both top-of-the range in their day. Thirty-odd years ago.

Another shelf had a predictably neat row of VHS tapes, numbered sequentially and bookended by a plastic box containing several dozen old-style big floppy disks. I am sure you can anticipate that these too were labelled and sorted.

And on the floor of that part of the cupboard sat a fireproof file box. I extracted it and dealt with the lock (you don't need to know how - 'magic keys' and how to use them are necessary tricks of my trade).

I sat on the counterpane and placed the box next to me.

Day 1 - Meeting Sophie

Inside, I recognised the binders straight away - they matched those in the study: two marked 1995, two 1996. Another small puzzle resolved.

So, Mr Getsch, would I be right in thinking you were up to something back then, that you wanted to keep to yourself? I removed the other file from the box. Big clue: the label read 'Sophie'. I had part of the answer as soon as I opened it and unfolded the birth certificate. For one Sophie Rebecca Rodriguez, registered in Watford on 15 October 1983. Her father was shown as Ernesto Delgado Rodriguez, Engineer, and her mother Brenda Harriet Getsch.

Sister of Maurice Getsch, I guessed, as the solicitor's clerk had told me the guy had never married.

Bingo! I had not only identified who had worn the little bra and briefs which now lay amongst the files on the bedspread but had begun to make fit together some of the other jigsaw pieces - the girl was Maurice's niece. I confess that I was slightly disappointed that she hadn't been some young girl abducted for evil purposes but I still had a host of new questions.

I flicked further into the third file.

Most of it seemed to be either formal letters from solicitors - not the firm which had retained my services - or an exchange of handwritten letters between Maurice and two people called Horst and Svein, from Germany and Norway respectively. I flicked through quickly, phrases and sentences flashing through my head, fuelling my curiosity and making me crave more. A few answers were already apparent. I dived into the first diary and was stunned by what I read. Eagerly I scoured the scrapbook too. It was the usual stuff until the middle of 1995. And then it got interesting. Fuck me, it got very interesting!

OK so the girl was not abducted, but it was already obvious that Maurice's interest in her was not simply avuncular. I was hooked. But I took a leaf out of the late Mr Getsch's book and suppressed my enthusiasm, re-arranging the files neatly across the bed. There was a tale to be read here and it demanded to be investigated systematically. No matter how long it took.

"Shit!"

I had nudged one of the scrapbooks on to the floor and bent down to retrieve it when I noticed that there was a large suitcase beneath the bed, which I slid out and placed alongside the files. The lock was a doddle and my pulse now racing, I flipped it open. It was like the samples case from a travelling salesman.

For Ann Summers.

Carefully wrapped in tissue, its tightly-packed contents were a mind-boggling mix of 'marital aids', S&M paraphernalia and bizarrely, a 'Sooty' glove puppet and a teddy bear.

I have to admit that by now, my throat was dry and my cock was painfully hard inside my y-fronts. Now that threw up another enormous question - did the contents of the case coincide with the girl's occupation of this room? Surely not!

Needing to think, I abandoned the mystery room and went outside for a smoke.

"Dave?" I called my assistant on my mobile as I paced up and down the garden path. "Listen, mate, this one's a bit tricky so get on with the city job tomorrow and forget coming here. I'll ring you late tomorrow when I've finished up. OK?"

That bought me 24 hours. I was dying to get back upstairs to delve further into Maurice Getsch's missing year but I was uneasy about it. I had a strong hunch that I was about to uncover something illegal and the right thing to do would be to put everything back where I found it and call the solicitor's office. But I had already seen too much, just skimming a few pages of the files. And there were still the tapes and the disks and the rest of the files to check out. My gut feel was that Maurice's relationship with young Sophie was unsavoury. And though my head hoped I was wrong, my heart and my crotch were desperate to learn the details. However dark they became.

It was as if I were teasing myself, ignoring the stuff all around the room and forcing myself to be disciplined, to start with the 'Sophie' file and not dive in to anything else. I turned to the first solicitor's letter and opened the diary to the same date. I pictured Maurice receiving the letter and penning the day's diary with hugely mixed emotions. As he recorded, he was upset more than utterly distraught with news of the death of both his sister and her oil engineer husband in the road traffic accident in Dubai - they had not been close and done little more than exchange Christmas and birthday cards for many years - but it was the consequence of that tragedy that seemed to perplex him more greatly then his loss.

'This is most serious. Seems B's (his sister, Brenda) husband had no family either and that makes me only NOK (next of kin) for the poor girl! Cannot contemplate being the child's guardian and she cannot live here! Not good. Ask solicitor for other options immed.'

And that he did by phone the next day and it was made plain to him that he could not avoid his responsibilities. Two days on, he writes of his painful visit to the Sophie's boarding school.

'Spent an hour with S (Sophie). V pretty and quiet and not at all like B! She is bearing up well and the housemistress is outstanding in her support. Little option but to play the devoted uncle. This is such a mess and I hate to think of the business I am missing out on because of all this upheaval. Mileage 220.'

There was a wad of correspondence around repatriating of ashes and the arrangement of a memorial service and signing of guardianship papers. The related scrapbook records included an Order of Service and the diary recalled Maurice's increasing frustration at the intrusion of such matters into his neat life. A fortnight later, the end of June:

'Collecting S in the morning. Last day of Prep school so have to bring back load of clutter to fill up the house. God knows how this can work. Decorators only just finished in time (Invoice 95/047) so better hope she likes her room. What do kids eat FFS? Done her timetable, dress code and the first set of rules (copies to S file appx) and TG she's been to a trad school so she'll be used to a degree of discipline. Got an idea now of value of B's estate - half to me and half in trust for S, so at least some compensation for my troubles though may have lost sale of AX-22 to FG. Diarised to follow up in 2 wks - may yet salvage it and prevent reputation crumbling further.'

And the following day:

'S now here. Exhausting, not realised it was Prize Day so had to sit through speeches and put up with cooing parents but boredom relieved by sight of rows of cute little girls in white socks! Must tell Horst about that! Stopped en route for supper (mileage 231 expense chit 95-21). Unpacked into garage and sent her to bed 21:30.' And added later with a different pen: 'final school photos in album pp 44 et seq (£25!!)'.

I moved to the next plastic sleeve in the scrapbook and though I had glimpsed her picture when I had skimmed previously, these were the first proper look I had had of young Sophie. Nice. A couple of decent-sized glossy portraits - a head shot and one of Sophie standing in some gateway. Maurice was not wrong: she was very pretty for her age, and looked angelic in her best uniform. She was very slim, with a nervous, almost forced, smile across her smooth young face. I love seeing them at that age, when their mouths are still just a tad too small to fit all their adult teeth. And her eyes were quite beautiful, large and dark with long lashes, thanks I assumed to her father's Spanish or Latin heritage. What a few weeks she would have had - losing her parents, meeting an uncle whom she had possibly never seen before and having to leave her schoolfriends, perhaps for ever?

They would have a made a very odd couple, these two: a sad, orphaned eleven-year-old schoolgirl and an obsessive loner with no experience of even living with someone else, let alone looking after a child. Maurice would have been well into his fifties and I had just a little sympathy with his predicament.

He summed it up at the end of a blank Sunday: in a desperate scrawl scored heavily across the bottom of the diary page - 'God what the Hell am I going to do with her????'

But it was the next item that instantly transformed my emphatic thoughts to ones of astonished envy.

It was a copy of a handwritten letter, to his German friend, Horst - who else but Maurice would have used carbon paper to keep a file copy of a personal letter? I had a little shiver as I read it; my instinct had been on the right track:

'Thanks for the long call, I needed a bit of moral support and who better than my best and most trusted friend to listen with a sympathetic ear? Or should I say immoral support!! You have given me so much hope with that idea and perhaps I can look forward to things going back the way they were in the not too distant future.

'As you can see, the girl is now here. I hope you like the polaroids. You would certainly have enjoyed being surrounded by a hundred of them in her school end of term service. She is so smooth and skinny and so tiny. She just needs Asian eyes and she could easily be just like the tiny sort you like the best! She was as good as gold when I examined her by the way - another great idea of yours. It reminded me so much of that fantastic week in Laos helping out with the 'Mission' girls. I am so grateful you talked me into that, even if I still prefer my holiday girls a lot older and more experienced than you do!

'Which reminds me. I can't see any way I'll be able to make it this year, even if I stick her in a new boarding school. So damned annoying all this business with the girl, as the remote villa you described sounds like the perfect place for hosting the Boys' annual expedition!'

Wow. I wasn't expecting that.

My eyes were still popping at the small snapshot paperclipped behind the letter. Maurice had kept one back. There was Sophie in this very room, stark naked against the wall behind me, her blank face staring out from beneath her well-brushed black hair, feet apart and arms limply by her side. On the bed beside her was a clipboard and tape measure.

That was the moment I resolved to keep all this to myself. The contents of this room would find their way home rather than go to the warehouse. Apart from the birth certificate, Mr Getsch's solicitor did not need to know about it. I held the polaroid up to the light and my cock throbbed as I studied the tiny half moon shadows beneath Sophie's pointy little breasts and the perfect bulge and cleft of her smooth, sweet, little girl pussy.

OK, Maurice, what did you do to your poor niece, then?

On the back of the photo was pencilled 'First exam Sat 21/6/95 see chart'.

I had seen the sheet of graph paper when I had first looked inside the wardrobe. It had once been stuck to the door I supposed, as it had fossilised blobs of blu-tak in each corner. I fetched it, now that I had a clue what it represented.

Fascinating.

Day 1 - An Unconventional Approach To Childcare

He had drawn up a grid and near the end of each month, had meticulously recorded a couple of dozen measurements - height, weight, bust, waist, feet, but also circumference of upper thigh (left and right) and length and diameter of each nipple (relaxed and stimulated). Jesus! Stimulated - now that shows admirable attention to detail! What did he use for that? I could hardly imagine what the young Sophie was thinking on her first full day in her new home, bemused, nervous, naked and being pawed and fussed over by her weird uncle. The last entry was for January 1996 and I wondered why it stopped there. Perhaps he sent her off to a new boarding school after all, but what about after that - what became of her?

At least I could find out more about her first year - there were plenty more pages of diary and scrapbook to go through.

I placed the polaroid on top of the girl's bra and pants and had to pop out into the garden for another smoke, feeling more than a little jealous of the strange but very lucky Mr Maurice Getsch.

Come on, Maurice - how far did you go?

A lot further, I was soon to learn. Much to my delight.

I had to fight the desire to dive into the evidence. No. Be patient. Back to the diary.

That same Saturday as he had had her strip for him to check out her body and make some photos to share with his German pal, Maurice had laid down his ground rules. He recorded her reaction.

'First exam and measurements (charted). S is like putty in my hand. Issued her with first rules and timetable (in appx) and had her sort out clothing for the wk. Hesitation but no backchat. S said it was a bit like school! Horst is a genius so shall stick to his advice as never expected such an easy time. Still worried S too small yet but he is right S is no smaller than his favourite Asian girls so looking fwd to seeing if his plan works. Know she is way too young for me but still v def enjoying looking at her nude!! Note to self: hair needs to be let grow - too short for some styles.'

That was the second time he had referred to 'rules' so I checked the back of the file and sure enough, Maurice had placed copies behind labelled dividers. Poor Sophie. Just when her schoolmates would have been excitedly enjoying the first day of the summer holidays, I could imagine her standing awkwardly in front of her uncle (wearing 'pleated skirt, pastel or patterned blouse - allowed on Saturdays but white during the week), and ankle socks, white), being drilled in what she could and could not do. What on earth would she have made of it? She would not have been wearing that cute little bra and knickers, for a start - 'underwear is not to be worn whilst in the house, except with express prior permission'. She would have learned to address him as 'Sir' although apparently she could call him 'Uncle' when out with him or in front of guests. And she would have been a very clean little girl, with three minute showers at 07:30 and 19:30 daily, plus a thorough wash after using the lavatory and brushing her teeth on waking, after each meal and before bed. There was indeed very little she seemed to be able to do without seeking his permission, though the several hours a day she was expected to assign to food preparation, cleaning and laundry would have kept her occupied.

The diary also revealed what happened if she got it wrong. Half way through the following week:

'Had to discipline S for repeated inadequate standard of washing up. (6 by hand to btm str to bed).' And two days later: 'S. Discipline for dirty rm and bathrm (6 by hand to btm and naked for rest of day).'

I felt sorry for the kid, but I could fully understand what Maurice was up to.

Horst had replied and was his letter filed accordingly. I have trouble reading some European handwriting; it always looks as if it has been written by a right-handed person using their left hand. His English was unsurprisingly impeccable. He had loved the photographs (of course), as had some of his friends, and he confirmed my hypothesis that Maurice had previously sought his advice and that the German had proposed some programme of conditioning, either to tame the girl into Maurice's idiosyncratic lifestyle, or, as I had hoped as much as suspected, to prepare her for additional sexual duties. Now it was clear, as he ended his letter:

'Remember that amazing girl in Kampot, Maurice? When I had that bet with you? She was exactly the same age as Sophie and you know what tricks she could do, yes? She had been trained from a young age but you can do just as well. Time is on your side so work hard to control her mind and it will not be long before you can control her body as well. Ten, twenty or fifty years of age, a female is just a female - a mouth, two tits, a cunt and an ass. They just have small differences in size and usefulness and education. By Christmas perhaps Sophie will be performing just like that Kampot girl at your own party eh?!!'

It was frustrating; I had a shrewd idea of how this was shaping up but the diary was not giving much away. Then a tantalising snippet gave me encouragement:

'Loved that! Bathed S myself tonight and then did the masturbation talk H suggested! Was her face redder than mine? I doubt it!! Only time so far I have enjoyed being her uncle. Made her demo for me. S knew what to do but reluctant to show so had to be firm and insist she did it nightly as per H's plan. Shall have to do her myself regularly too so did one with her in drawing rm for 1st time - def needed KY. 15 min which was more then expected. Fingertip in only but def wetness produced!'

Oh yes, good for you, Maurice, you sneaky old perv!

And it got better. A few days later:

'At last bloody camcorder is here (Invoice 95/055). Convenient to have sexy model to test it on!'. Beneath, added later I presumed, was the inevitable cross-reference. God bless you, Maurice Getsch. I located the referenced tape easily - no surprise that it was on the left of the small collection, and clearly labelled. The TV and VCR were plugged in and I was quite astounded when both fired up, though the remote control no longer worked.

Though a typical first video, full of stops and starts and pictures of feet and ceilings, it still made fascinating viewing, for now I could both see and hear little Sophie and for a few seconds even Maurice himself (complete with jacket and tie!), reflected in the hall mirror. She was just like any other eleven-year-old, happy to prance around the garden to her uncle's off-camera instructions and even daring to poke out her tongue as he learned the art of zoom and pan. Her cartwheels on the lawn were a tantalising tease and I cursed Maurice's lack of videoing expertise as each time there was barely a decent glimpse of her bare backside. No underwear in the house: I remembered the rule. A good rule for little girls - well done with that one, Maurice!

I forgave his lousy filming skills in the second five minutes of the tape, which must have been taken after he had bothered to sit down and actually read the manual, for it was steadier and the subject matter quite delightful, as he followed Sophie as she had her evening shower.

There was a telling moment when her face betrayed embarrassment or discomfort at being filmed naked but one quick look up at her uncle suddenly produced instant obedience, though she avoided looking into the camera after that. It was a quick shower and she kept trying to face away but after towelling herself, I heard Maurice instruct her to stand still as he circled her, carefully recording each lovely dimple and curve of her sweet body, then had her pose on all-fours on the bed so that he could capture her backside in lustful detail. 'Wider' I heard him bark when she lay on her back and opened her legs and slowly and rather sadly ran her finger up and down her crack, still resolutely looking away from the intrusive camera.

I think if the tape had not suddenly ended there, I might have had an accident in my own pants.

Oh for goodness sake - a taster but no more. There is something rather wonderful about a young girl's neat little cunt, isn't there?

Strangely, though I was unashamedly turned on by the young girl, I found myself instead thinking how crap the quality was in those pre-digital days! Impatiently, I replaced the cassette tape with the next one.

It was actually rather comforting to watch: this tape was about as normal and dull as it could be, taken on what would have been a day out to some castle, with a picnic. I was glad that at least some part of little Sophie's new life was something approaching normal. Apart from her somewhat old-fashioned dress, there was nothing even mildly out of the ordinary and I soon began to fast forward. Maurice had seemingly come to terms with using the camcorder by now as well and his technique had improved considerably. He even appeared himself, having placed the camera on a bench to record the two of them chatting happily side by side.

I wondered if he always insisted on wearing a collar and tie.

I was about to extract the tape when the screen flashed static and a second recording came up. This one was much more fun, and in stark contrast to the family day out. Mmm - much more like it.

He had obviously set it up in a hurry, as he had left the timestamp watermark on, and it looked like it was taken in the living room downstairs, about a fortnight into Sophie's stay. The lighting was poor and the time indicated 2 a.m., which was unusual in itself, given Maurice's obsession with routine, and the view was initially several minutes of an empty chair and I guessed that he had used the tripod and switched it on whilst he went somewhere. The sound was on but I increased the volume and could hear background noise of some description. I persevered and though the sound quality was weak, I could more or less hear.

Sophie was propelled into shot with an angry 'stand there!'. Dressed in a tiny nightdress that was little more than a blouse, she had her hair up in a short ponytail and wobbled when Maurice pushed past her and sat in the chair. Both were in profile but I could see that the girl had been crying and she kept rubbing her eye with her knuckles. I had to smile at his striped pyjamas.

"You are going to do it again properly this time, do you understand?" growled Maurice and when the small girl tried to respond he told her to shut up. His voice was even more plummy than I had imagined, deliberate and cultured and came across all the more creepy for it.

Suddenly he reached out, grabbed her wrist and hauled her down across his lap, adjusting her roughly until she was placed as he wanted and when her nightie rode up, the camera had a perfect view of her narrow young bottom. The clarity and sharpness of the slap surprised me, as I had the TV's volume right up. Sophie emitted a pained wail.

Great viewing!

He took his time, waiting up to a minute between spanks, his hands roving lightly across her hard little cheeks and up and down her thighs. Her tiny body jiggled with her crying and snapped taut each time his hand descended hard on her backside. Between her sniffling and moaning, she announced the count in a soft, quaking whisper ('two Sir, three Sir...') and when she had reached ten and he had done with her and pushed her down his legs to the floor, she remained curled in a ball at his feet, hands pressed hard to her throbbing buttocks and the small bundle of her body quivering with her cries.

Oh fuck! What now, Maurice?

The bloody tape stopped. Or rather it hadn't stopped, for there was again static and to my relief, the image settled for a few seconds, crackled again and finally resumed as Maurice had fiddled about to set it up again. About fifteen minutes had elapsed, according to the time display.

Her eyes flicked nervously towards the camera before a pair of hands turned her head back firmly towards the waiting cock. She was no longer tearful but her eyelids were heavy and I wondered if her pupils had seemed widely dilated not merely through tiredness but perhaps because Maurice had given her something to sedate her. To my amusement, he had kept his stripy pyjama jacket on, though beneath it his full erection was aimed directly at her face.

"Now this time, you are going to do what I tell you, aren't you Sophie?"

A quiet murmur, slurred and sheepish, "Yes, Sir."

"Good girl," he replied, guiding the head of his dick on to her waiting tongue. "I know you are going to become very good at this and it is so important that you learn it well, or else men will not want you. Do you understand?"

Her lips began to seal around him and she gave a slight nod.

"Mmmm, that's right - not too tight. Now slide your mouth down. All the way. Let it go all the way inside. Good girl."

Maurice must have been able to monitor the recording because after she had been sucking him for a couple of minutes, he shifted himself and guided her so that more of her face was visible. Nice one!

Sophie's brow was creased in a frown of concentration, as if she really wanted to show her uncle that she could exactly what he wanted. If he told her to stop and lick, she obeyed instantly, pressing her young tongue over him and lapping softly. Her eyes darted up to his, seeking approval and her chin grew glossy from an excess of saliva.

"Oh yes, that's very, very good, Sophie. I am ready to ejaculate. And this time, you are going to be a good girl, aren't you? Because if not, Sooty is going to deliver you the thrashing of your life."

Sooty? I glanced at the yellow teddy bear puppet in the suitcase. What the...?

But his hands were steering her now, and his hips moved more quickly, so that his stiff cock slid quickly back and forth, deep between her obedient lips. This was quite bizarre - his precise, formal language and crisp accent so much at odds with what he was doing to his little niece. They grunted simultaneously, hers being more of a stifled squeal of surprise, as his fingers held the top of her head against him. I had assumed that she had been punished for pulling away previously, but even if she had wanted to do so this time, he gave her no opportunity, and as was clear when he finally withdrew, he had emptied himself completely into her mouth.

Maurice let out a long sigh of satisfaction.

"Open your mouth to show me. More! Good. Now you may swallow."

She struggled but forced the contents of her mouth down her throat.

"That was so much better, Sophie, well done. We need to do this a lot more if you're going to be any good, but you're a very lucky girl to have someone to show you aren't you?"

She beamed at his praise. "Yes, Sir!"

"Excellent, now get yourself back to bed and don't forget to brush your teeth."

Phew. I had seen similar stuff on the Web but this was so much more thrilling, for I felt I almost knew these two now and was privy to their secret. I would happily have swapped places with Maurice, that's for sure.

Truth be told, being sucked off by a small girl has been one of my fantasies for many years.

I checked my watch. There was time for a bit more digging, but this material most definitely needed shipping home to be trawled through at my leisure. Perhaps one more scan in the files and then I should make a start putting it in the car. If I were to empty the bedroom, I would have to come back in the morning to get the rest safely removed before I arranged with Dave to start the 'real' clearance.

Day 1 - Sophie Gains A Tutor

I reopened the scrapbook where I had left.

A couple of short letters from the German. Interesting: he was arranging to pay a visit.

And sure enough, in the latter half of July, the diary referred to 'collecting H from Heathrow (mileage 92)'. The next day had a much longer entry, detailing how the three of them had been out sightseeing but much more revealing was Maurice's candid navel-gazing at the end of the page.

'Made me appreciate that poor S needed some time with someone other than yours truly. S has hardly been out for a month though her progress towards whoredom has been all the better for it. We will see for sure tomorrow! Glad that H persuaded me to wait. With 2 of us we can ensure that once broken in she can be fucked regularly every few hours to reinforce the concept that she exists to serve men generally and not just me.

'Have become more comfortable with the moral aspects now. It is not bullying and S is mainly well behaved and does not try to avoid her responsibilities, even if I have to be harsh sometimes. Have to forget that she is just 11! Almost think she is developing a taste for spunk - she is eating enough of it now! But H is completely correct on this. If I raised S as my niece in the conventional manner, I would be taking on a burden for many years. Emotionally and financially, notwithstanding that it would prevent me living my own life the way I wish. But this way, she will be 'employable' and will be effectively off my hands much sooner. If I had wanted to be a family man, then I would have chosen that path without its being thrust upon me.

'Looking fwd to tomorrow!'

I found his words quite chilling. What sympathy I had felt earlier was fast evaporating as I understood how he was executing some calculated plan to be rid of his unwanted niece.

That might have been a good place to stop my investigations and sort out my own topsy-turvy emotions, but I agreed with myself to look at one more day in the diary. It was evident from the larger, wilder handwriting that Maurice had sat himself down to write at the end of an exciting day.

'The deed is done!!!! S now sans cherry, literally shagged out and fast asleep!! Amazing day throughout. Hilarious face at breakfast when told her H was actually a sex teacher who had come to help me teach her! Then later watching her go pure white when we both took her up to bed and she realised what we were going to do. Messy but unforgettable and spare sheets were ready on hand! H is tireless! Own stamina leaves much to be desired. H intends to visit her in the early hrs but I need kip to recover!! Especially as we must keep up the pace tomorrow and the next til he goes. H suggesting al fresco if weather permits. Like the plan and must tape it as it will be enormous fun and he wants copy for the others.'

My imagination filled in so many gaps. Did I pity the poor little girl, being serially raped by both of them, or was I in fact secretly envious of these two men? There was an after-note quoting the cross-reference to a video tape. Only one way to settle that question, wasn't there?

"Last one," I told myself. And to be earthily frank about it, it had to be the last as I just had to have a wank soon!

It transpired that I had decided wisely to see just one more before packing the car because it was most entertaining and provided the relief I needed.

More of the mystery was coming together as I lined up the VCR and pressed 'play'. Ah, a new actor arrives stage right. So that was the infamous Horst, Maurice's mentor and companion in the sleazier parts of SE Asia? Sophie's new 'sex teacher'. Well over six feet tall, built like a prop forward and even his fair hair brushed in that cliché style - the German mullet. I instantly disliked him but in all honesty it was actually because I was jealous of him.

Lucky fucker.

The weather had been kind and the scene was a sheltered hilltop, with plenty of shrubbery to provide some seclusion. The big benefit of its being shot outside was that the picture was quite sharp and bright. It opened with Horst and Sophie walking hand-in-hand from the car towards the camera, him in slacks and shirt and an annoyingly self-satisfied smile, she in the shortest of pleated skirts, white knee socks and blazer. God, another cliché, it was her most of her old prep school uniform, the one in the wardrobe, though I suspected that the hem of the skirt had been taken up a lot so as to expose the most of her lovely dusky, slim legs. She was trying hard to keep up a steady smile.

This was both sinister and very erotic; anticipating the imminent voyeurism of seeing a tiny young girl being thoroughly fucked (please!) but also witnessing the coldness and cynicism of it, through the coded banter of the two guys, and how they manipulated this vulnerable eleven-year-old.

Silly, but I felt in some way complicit. Not only that but it was bloody frustrating too - so there was I feeling guilt at watching and yet I didn't even get the compensation of putting my own cock in little Sophie!

Unlike Maurice and Horst, the bastards.

A tartan car rug had been spread out on the ground, in front of a dilapidated five bar gate. Horst placed the girl on it and turned to address the camera. Jesus, it was what would in this digital age be called a video postcard, a souvenir tape made to show off to his mates back home.

His accent was strong but penetrable.

"Gentlemen, welcome to England. As you can see, I am enjoying the beautiful English countryside and I have with me a beautiful English girl."

Moving to stand behind her, he placed his hands on her shoulders and bent over to prompt her.

"Say hello to my friends in Germany. Say hello and tell them your name and how old you are. Remember to look straight at the camera."

She complied, and was so innocently coy, as if completely unaware what was inevitably going to happen next, that I had a pang of conscience at the hardness of my cock, which I had at last allowed to break free from the shackles of my trousers. I wrapped a comforting hand around it.

"Hello. My name is Sophie and I am eleven and a half," she grinned.

"Good girl, Horst cooed and to the camera: "Isn't she lovely? She is a very special girl, aren't you Sophie?"

She smiled on cue as he slipped off her blazer and smoothed it over the top bar of the gate.

"Could you give me your tie, please, Sophie?"

She unfastened it and handed it to him. He knelt and pulled her arms behind her back. As he wound the tie around her wrists, he called to the camera.

"Sophie is very sexy. My dear, tell the guys what we did last night." He whispered into her ear, completing the knot, then stood up and reached around her, fondling her chest and beginning to unfasten the buttons of her blouse. She hesitated and so he whispered again.

"Mister Weber fucked me a lot," she said, mechanically, ignoring her earlier instructions and staring at the ground.

As he finished opening her blouse, pulling it open to expose her narrow chest, Horst commented, "Yes and you like it very much, didn't you - fucking? Now let's show the guys how pretty you are and perhaps you would like me to fuck you again so you can let them see. Would you like that, Sophie?"

The small girl's eyes turned away and more quietly, she replied, "Yes please Mister Weber."

His fingers flicked at and pulled at her small, dark nipples.

"Nice little tits, yes, Boys? Just starting to grow eh, Sophie?"

In the bright sunshine, she had a well-defined furrow down the centre of her chest, from beneath her throat to just above her stomach, and at the sides of her body, her flat breasts had only a vague suggestion of rounded shape rather than actual substance. It emphasised her tender age but was still a delight to see. Each rib was fully visible and her waist and tummy seemed impossibly small. So tiny and vulnerable next to that man.

There was most definitely an air of menace about Horst.

Whereas Maurice's diary hinted that beneath his weirdness there was just a little tenderness towards the girl, Horst was undeniably malevolent. A calculated cockiness was betrayed by his eyes - he had this entire situation well under his control, with Maurice utterly under his Svengali-like spell, this time aiding and abetting by dutifully working the camera as this man did whatever he wished with his little niece.

That's not to say I wasn't enjoying watching!

Horst knelt beside the girl and licked her right nipple. She giggled nervously. He pushed the shoulders of her blouse down behind her back, immobilising her arms above where her tie was already taking care of her wrists.

"Now let's see what English schoolgirls wear under their skirts," he said, taking care not to obscure the view of the camera as he lifted the pleats and revealed her white pants. "Mmmm, nice."

She stumbled back a pace, held up by the gate, when he pressed the thin cotton carefully into her cleft with the tip of his finger, forming a delicious camel toe, which he proceeded to rub slowly and explicitly.

"I think my friends might like to see your pretty bottom, Sophie. Shall we show them?" he asked rhetorically, turning her around to face away from the camera. He rolled up her skirt, tucking the hem into the top of the waistband, then slowly and theatrically gripped the elastic of her knickers and gentled them tantalisingly over the slim pertness of her backside and down her legs, pulling them aside as she stepped out of them. He guided her away from the gate and instructed her to bend over, simultaneously snapping his fingers at Maurice to tell him to bring the camera closer. Stroking the inside of her thighs, he moved his hands up and pulled her buttocks apart to let the camera focus on the dark puckered dimple of her anus.

Looking up at the camera as Maurice panned back, he winked.

"Not bad, eh? And as yet still untouched."

Horst was full of himself.

"And now another tradition of England. It is when you are out in the country and you have a snack. It is called here a picnic."

His large hands turned the little girl around and he tucked the front of her skirt up around her waist.

"Oh, that looks very tasty!" he smirked, pointing to Sophie's prominent pubic mound. I had to agree.

Again, he orchestrated arranging her against the gate and had Maurice zoom in, to capture his fingers exploring around and between her labia, holding her open and fiddling with the tiny pink flap over her clitoris. The audio just caught a brief gasp from the girl.

"Guten Appetit!" he smirked, bringing his face down to her crotch and slithering his fat, grey tongue around the insides of her exposed lips, teasing her clit and probing the tiny dark hole below.

"Ja, English girls taste good."

He checked momentarily where was the camera and a flash of impatience flickered across his ruddy face. He gesticulated impatiently for Maurice to film from a more acute angle, to ensure nothing would be missed. When he was satisfied that his viewers would see, he held her hips and began to work his tongue into her vagina.

He slobbered away for a full minute, cocking his head to and fro to push in deeper and make her wet with his spit, then when satisfied with his preparations, rolled his bulk aside on to the rug and when the camera jumped as Maurice had to dodge backwards to avoid him, I glimpsed Sophie's face momentarily, her mouth open and frozen in bewilderment.

Like a mischievous mime artist, Horst played to the camera, holding his index finger aloft and pointing to it with his other hand. He held his arm up and as if swallowing a sword, inserted it deliberately in his mouth, ensuring it came out wet. He beckoned to the camera, inviting it to follow the finger closely as he placed the tip between Sophie's legs and slowly screwed it back and forth, up into her little pussy.

"So tight," he informed the camera with glee. "But where are my manners? Sophie has no picnic!"

And hamming dreadfully, he feigned inspiration, slapping his forehead.

"But of course, it is good luck that already I have brought some special food from Germany. You will like it very much Sophie: hot German sausage!"

He sat with his back against the gate and reached out for the girl, who cried out when he pulled her down, fearing that she was falling and would be unable to save herself with her arms secured behind her back, but Horst's hands were large and strong and he plonked her beside him. He unzipped his fly and extracted his fully erect cock and taking her firmly behind her neck, pushed her face down until she took the end into her mouth.

"Ach! Ja, Sophie, that is good. Suck your picnic sausage! Tasting good, yes? Finest Horstwurst all the way from Germany!"

His generous stomach wobbled as he chuckled at his own joke. Again the camera shook whilst Maurice scrambled to record the girl's lips encircling the swollen dick and struggle to service it in the way she had been taught. Horst let her continue for a while, but was unable to resist holding her head and thrusting so that she coughed as he drove his whole length into her mouth and probably her throat.

"You want I should fuck you now, girl?" he asked, lifting her head so that she could gasp for breath and reply.

She was scared - her eyes were wide and close to tears. But she nodded.

"OK. But you ask me, OK?"

Sophie cleared her throat and trying to avoid the intrusive lens, willed herself to say softly, "Please Mister Weber will you fuck me?"

He chortled.

"But of course, sweet Mädchen, it will be my pleasure."

And with that, he lifted her bodily and lowered her until she straddled his thighs, facing him. Placing his hands under her ribs, he pulled her upwards until there was room to hold the end of his cock against her hole and he pushed it upwards, ensuring enough had forced its way inside before he grasped her waist and lowered her in stages, watching her eyes and her groin alternately, until her bottom rested on the top of his thighs and she was completely impaled. The camera could not capture her expression but the microphone recorded her string of pained nasal grunts as each time his fat cock entered her more deeply.

At last, even Horst kept his mouth shut. His huge hands spanned the tiny girl's waist and he guided her slowly up and down, like a doll, carefully keeping her speared on his glistening cock.

Maurice was struggling to keep the camcorder steady as he shifted around to film the action. At one point he paused on her face, flushed pink, eyes screwed closed and mouth loosely open, her head flopping about helplessly as Horst lifted her up and down faster and faster.

She moaned, "Ahhhhhh. Oooow!"

Maurice swung the camera back and Horst was now holding her hips, pulling her hard down on to him and was now rocking her back and forth rather than up and down, forcing himself very deep so that he was crushing her baby clit against the base of his penis and was more than likely bruising her cervix, high up inside her immature young pussy.

"Oh yes, Sophie, you fuck like a pro!"

Without warning, he suddenly lifted her off. The camera showed blue sky, then grass, before Maurice steadied it. Not the most professional bit of porn I've ever seen but quite possibly the most arousing.

Sophie was now pressed against the rug with her bottom raised, her breasts squashed against the rough wool and her head twisted with her cheek jammed to the ground. Her hands still bound behind her back, she had to bear her own weight on her chest and shoulders. Horst nudged her knees wider apart and drove his cock into her from behind. She let out a breathless groan and for a moment I thought that he had taken her up the arse, but soon the shaky picture moved around to show him pounding hard into her shiny little pussy.

He was close to finishing, his meaty fingers clasping at her hipbones as he simultaneously pulled her to him and thrust himself into her. When Maurice retreated slightly, the shot showed just how tiny was her little body compared to his. Her skirt formed a tight coil of grey around her waist and the tail of her blouse flapped in the breeze and with the relentless rocking of Horst. Even her little grunts and squeaks had subsided as he held her wrists on the small of her back and gripped her tight, slamming himself against her again and again.

She was entirely overwhelmed.

Hastily, he leaned forward, wrapping his bulk close across her back and tucking her up against his belly, supporting himself with his arms folded on the rug so that he could press on the top of her head to keep her from sliding away. Sophie almost disappeared beneath him. With a stilted roar, his backside bucked half a dozen times, signalling his climax, and he crushed her tiny body under his own whilst he remained inside her and ensured there was nothing left to give before finally rolling off beside her.

Sophie collapsed sideways away from him, her ribs rising and falling quickly as she sucked in breath.

"Maurice!" prompted Horst curtly and the tape's final half minute concentrated on the girl, surveying her from head to toe before lingering closely on the gaping pink wetness between her legs and the white drool oozing so very slowly from her still dilated vagina.

I left the tape running as I had unfinished business of my own to complete; my own explosion of semen could only grace the gusset of Sophie's tiny Marks & Spencer panties rather than the girl herself, but it was nevertheless a very welcome release!

A little ashamed, but glowing pleasantly from the performance, I cleaned up and began the task of moving the first consignment to the car.

Day 2 - Assembling The Clues

My head was throbbing.

I had been awake much of the night, denying my self-discipline and good intentions and instead staying up to learn more about little Sophie. With the files and tapes dumped in my guest room and the VCR successfully connected to the TV, I had found it impossible to sleep and so I resorted to some unscientific dipping into the evidence, skipping through to try to piece together the overall picture and perhaps discover why it all stopped after only a few months.

I did not think the same way as Maurice, clearly, for if I were in his position, I reckon I would wanted to fuck her young brains out for as long as I could get away with it, not be shot of her by any means, fair or foul!

And unlike Maurice, I would not have tolerated having my strings pulled by that ruddy Horst bloke.

It was the diary and odd bits of correspondence between Maurice and the German that were most likely to give me some answers, I had decided, making yet another cup of strong coffee after midnight as I had fought to keep up my concentration. But even then, I had to call it a night during the early hours with the last parts of the files still unread.

And so here I was the next morning, knackered from lack of sleep, back at the house on my own and congratulating myself for remembering to fill a thermos as I sat on the kitchen doorstep with a mug and a fag and tried to sort out what I had learned so far.

Damn, this was so much better than working!

There was still so much to discover, I was sure. Most of the bedroom stuff I had left at home but I had brought the files back to the house with me.

Still unexplored and waiting at home was the shoe box of plain DVDs that had been stashed out of sight high up inside the understairs cupboard. Tantalising labels such as 'Viet/Thai Nov-Dec 2009' gave me hope that they contained souvenir pictures or videos of more recent 'Boys Safaris' to the Far East. If so, that would give me some entertainment over the coming weekend.

But there was still the most pressing job in hand - finding out what happened to Sophie.

My random readings overnight had thrown up some notable information and I had assembled the timeline. I now knew that Maurice had taken Sophie to Germany for a brief stay in the autumn of 1995 and that Horst was off on the Asian expedition until that Christmas and that by New Year's Eve 1995, Maurice's patience had all but evaporated. He was increasingly seething at having missed the oriental action that year and sick of having to share his life with the girl, despite the advantages. In a long, angry diatribe he had committed to paper a couple of days before Christmas, he wrote about 'being at the end of his tether' at having the 'millstone of the girl dictating how he spent his life'. Tellingly, he confided to the Diary that 'a more final solution was now in sight'.

I didn't like the sound of that.

As for the Sophie's unpleasant tutor, Horst, his influence just seemed to grow and grow. When Maurice wrote to him in exasperation just two weeks after the German's summer visit, he had replied with an intriguing letter in which he gave the strongest clue yet to what was going on:

'You must not weaken, my friend. What we discussed when I was in your house will happen but it will take time. You must continue to prepare the girl and I shall make an appointment for us to meet the man soon. I repeat that he has no problem in sourcing staff from the East so if we want him to employ our protégée then she must be well prepared to pass her audition and show a special talent. Please do the steps of her training as I said to you before she needs to be as good as a Cambodian! Mind and body, my friend, think of her only as a problem that needs solving and do not be soft on her.'

As to what this training involved, there was a jolly coloured graph which I discovered in an appendix when it was mentioned in the entry for Sophie's August measurements. At first it just seemed like a simple graph with three lines but of what I was unclear - recorded on Sundays and Thursdays were three numbers on an axis entitled 'Duration'. So three measurements each time? The numbers increased steadily and so whatever it represented, there was steady improvement, from single figures at the start to a presumably impressive peak of over 100 by the end of December 1995.

Sooty the glove puppet provided the answer!

Maurice had mentioned it before in some diary entries but it was only when I opened an envelope of polaroids that I worked it out. For once his filing had let me down as this batch was unclassified and I had previously overlooked it. Maurice could almost have labelled it the 'Sooty Files' as the puppet featured in almost every one of the many dozen shots. Taken over a number of months (bright sunshine to a background of tatty Christmas decorations), the theme was the same and when added to the veiled references in the diary, led me to understand Sooty's role.

Maurice must have found a particular amusement in using the puppet to abuse her.

There was one photo that upheld the saying about a picture being worth a thousand words. Sophie's face, red and glossy with perspiration, hair stuck to her forehead and eyes wet with tears. Beside her, held up close by an unseen person, and without doubt the reason her eyes were wide with fear, was the puppet. Holding a particularly uncomfortable-looking plastic dildo, life-sized, black and shiny and covered in ridges and bumps designed to rasp the sides of any pussy it entered. The previous one showed its blunt end protruding from between her legs and she was tied naked across a wallpapering table in the garage. Telltale red lines criss-crossed her little bottom. The photo before that continued the story - a close-up of the swollen marks and resting above them on the small of her back, was the empty puppet and a three-foot length of narrow bamboo cane arranged across its paws.

If Horst were Sophie's teacher, then it looked as if Sooty was her tormentor. She was being conditioned, clearly, to associate the puppet with punishment and the like, for there were plenty of similar pictures, including one disturbing yet erotic one of her again naked and tied but this time with her thighs pulled wide and latticed cane welts all the way up the insides, from above her knee right up to her crotch. Goodness knows what crime she had perpetrated to deserve that and she seemed barely conscious.

Sooty, this time without a hand inside him, lay on his back precisely central between her legs, posing in triumph in the midst of his handiwork.

Though Sooty was much more than just the wielder of a cane. More shots revealed 'him' applying a screw clamp to the girl's nipple. Her face was frozen in a nasty yell, eyes screwed shut and mouth wide open in full cry. And another shot was of the puppet cheerfully inserting a scarlet butt plug into her well-lubricated but tiny rectum.

And the evil little bear was also responsible for that puzzling graph.

For at least twice a week, I deduced that he slipped another dildo into her pussy, flesh coloured and not especially thick but pointed and with smooth, fluted sides designed to make it slip in and out easily. Numerous polaroids recorded her frantic efforts over the weeks to perform a set routine of ballet-style exercises without letting it slip out of her. Sooty's cane showed what happened if she did and it clicked at last that the graph's steady gradient testified to the increasing strength of the poor little girl's vaginal muscles: it showed how long she could grip and keep the wretched thing inside her.

"Christ", I exclaimed as I looked at the last polaroid before stuffing the collection into my jacket. These guys were thorough. Giving her a very useful life-skill and fucking with her mind at the same time. She stood no chance, did she?

I marvelled at how amazing it must have been to fuck a small girl like her, who had already mastered the art of internal muscle control.

Time for another smoke. Phew.

Warming to my new-found role as a sleuth, I mused on the twisted mindset of Maurice Getsch. Haha - now I had become an amateur profiler as well!

No wonder he could allow himself to subject his eleven-year-old niece to that sort of treatment. The man was entirely bonkers. Once upon a time he would have been called 'fastidious' or 'set in his ways' and nowadays like everything else, he would be diagnosed with a fancy label: 'obsessive-compulsive personality disorder'. Either way, he was a nutter who could not cope with not being able to organise his life the way he wanted. He was uncompromisingly frantic to get back to his ordered, self-centred existence.

On top of that, his entire experience of women, relationships and sex seemed to be based solely on brief spells of wild excess in the bars and whorehouses of the Far East. I'm no expert but that hardly presents a very balanced perspective. So it was hardly surprising that in his desperation to be rid of her, not only was he transforming the unfortunate little girl into some clone of a Thai child prostitute, he now also appeared to be proposing to have her put in some brothel.

Day 2 - Cabaret In Berlin

Well, that's what the late October letter from Horst seemed to explain:

'At last I have set up the meeting. DB has been so hard to convince but I made a strong sell. We will go to Leipzig on Saturday and she sees him Sunday afternoon. If she is as transformed as you say, my friend, he will be sure to want her. He says the market is lively and that guys who prefer tender meat now go to him more than ever as Hamburg has become these days too risky for keeping Lolitas. The Ossis meanwhile have a good tradition of looking the other way!'

The diary was full of Maurice's administrative arrangements and so he seemed too preoccupied with it to offer his customary inner thoughts:

'Note to self, pack 2 outfits so H can choose what best to suit DB' and 'Do prep checklist for S final briefing' and intriguingly, emphasised in capitals, 'REHEARSALS!!'.

And the outcome? It would have been too much even for Maurice's files to expect a job advert or CV or offer of employment! But I surmised that whatever took place in Germany must have succeeded as the tone of Maurice's diary changed greatly after their return:

'Mission accomplished and now just the waiting. Great week all round. S knows something is up and is even more withdrawn - still in shock from so much male company! Hardly said a word all the way home so not all bad. Can no longer risk taking her outside as she may be unstable. But hopefully not long now.'

A few days further on, it read:

'Depressed to think the Boys are on their way to Cambodia and I am stuck here playing fucking Mary Poppins. H says no news still from DB so must now hang on til Xmas when he gets back. Fucking wks that is!!! Going insane. But O cfms has posted Berlin vid so looking fwd to watching and reliving the party - S was utterly magnificent!!!'

And more still, the following weekend.

'Watched Boys' vid (P/95/11) - 10/10 and had to sit S down to watch again with me. S never seen herself on tape before so reaction was joyous. S looked so horrified so made her watch best parts over and over! She is a complete tart now for sure. Had to fuck the little bitch up the arse 3 times last night to make up for not being on safari (S hates it hoho so make her beg!) & tomorrow plan nice long painful session in garage as Sooty wants to have her again!!!!!!!!!'

Good for Maurice and Sooty; less so for poor Sophie, who was obviously bearing the brunt of Maurice's frustration.

And when at about 3 o'clock last night I located the particular video he had been talking about, it sent me to my bed a little out of breath myself.

No wonder Sophie had been horrified.

Making a few confident assumptions, I would say that it had been filmed in Berlin a day or so after Sophie's 'audition' as it began with a toast to Maurice and his recent 'success' and there was a raucous, booze-laden atmosphere to proceedings. Horst's place perhaps? No idea but big and well furnished - a ring of fancy Nordic sofas around one of those big, heavy German tables with a tiled top that can be raised and lowered using a handle.

The camera had been fixed in the corner of the room but judging by the way the later shots wavered wildly, it appeared that several drunken hands had subsequently operated it as things warmed up. The tape itself was a reasonable copy and again I speculated that the original had been left behind so that each of the men could be given their own duplicate. Apart from Maurice and Horst, two other middle-aged gents attended the party, which I deduced also to be the assembling of this year's Boys Safari party before it departed for the Far East. No wonder Maurice didn't seem to know whether to laugh or sulk.

It was the best part of an hour long, which meant I was fighting to keep my eyes open last night in order to finish it. Not that it was boring. Far from it. I know I shall watch it regularly when I need to indulge my own fantasies in future.

Naturally, Sophie was the centre of attention.

Whether Maurice or Horst had come up with her costume I don't know but I at least appreciated the humour, for she had at last been entirely transformed into a look-alike Asian child-whore. With a flourish, Maurice led her into the room, she sporting a fine chain collar and lead. She was wearing bright green satin pyjamas and as Maurice had instructed himself months earlier when he first measured her up, her hair had by now grown sufficiently long to be parted down the centre to form two stiff plaits, each finished off with matching green ribbons. No wonder there was a spontaneous round of applause from the three seated men.

She kept her eyes on her bare feet, save for stolen glances at the others, in particular Horst, who beamed with proprietorial satisfaction. I recalled his letter when he had joked about her performing at the Christmas party and realised that he had in fact been quite serious, as would soon be apparent.

He had reason to be pleased, as she gave a very good account of herself and was indeed ahead of schedule, for Christmas was yet several weeks away!

Horst made a short speech, introducing Sophie and congratulating her on her recent success in passing her 'interview'. To the amusement of the others, he quipped 'but do not worry, Boys, tonight is free and you will not have to pay huge money to Dieter Bauer this time!'.

Dieter Bauer was undoubtedly the 'DB' mentioned before: pimp, porn producer, psychopath? All of the above? Either way, I knew that she had been taken to Germany to be 'interviewed' by him and his connection with everything pointed to his being the endgame of all their plotting and preparation.

Sophie was led to be shown to the other men. The room's acoustics were poor and the background noise and cheesy music interfered. The lanky guy with long red hair was Svein but I could not catch who was the older one. He was almost spherical - short and fat and his porcine eyes twinkled above a huge bristling grey walrus moustache. I would put Svein in his forties and piggy-eyes at least twenty years older. It was Piggy who took the chain from Maurice and manhandled the little girl to stand between his knees.

He was grinning, she was shy as he talked to her, his hands roving up and down the backs of her thighs. She replied to something he said and was lifted up on to his lap and was held tight as he pressed his moustache to her face and pushed his tongue between her lips.

The others paid little attention, huddled together at the other end of the room in conversation and they missed Piggy lifting her back to the floor and guiding her head into his crotch. He toyed with her pigtails whilst her head bobbed up and down and her obedient young mouth pleasured him.

Either Sophie was very good or he had little self control, for it was less than a minute before she sat back on her heels and held her mouth open for him. He nodded and after a brief pause as she swallowed and wiped her lips with the back of her hand, she stood and he patted her bottom in approval, sending her back to Maurice.

"Excellent, Morry!" the man chirped across the room as he zipped his fly, "You have taught her well."

Sophie offered the end of the chain to her uncle but it was Horst who took it. He guided her to the coffee table and took a handful of breadsticks from it, breaking a piece off each and patting the four even in her fist, showing her how to conceal the lower parts with her other hand. She was despatched to offer a stick to each man in turn and with great merriment and raising of glasses, they gathered together to compare. This seemed to be a traditional ritual as no discussion was deemed necessary.

"Bravo: Svein you get to conduct and we know you're good at that. But before we begin," interjected Horst loudly, "we have our cabaret, so gentlemen please take you seats as I present to you, our very own superstar... Miss Sophie Rodriguez!"

There was a loud ripple of applause and Sophie, blushing, waited whilst Maurice unclipped the chain from her collar and handed her a polished wooden box, which she carried steadily before her. The glasses and snacks had been cleared and the table top had been cranked higher. She made her way to Piggy and bowed and lifted the lid. He peered inside and exploded with laughter when he recognised the contents. Nudging Svein, he pointed and roared, "Kampot!".

The hilarity continued and a toast was drunk to past memories. She went to each man in turn, who took an item from the box, then she placed it under the table. Bowing again before Piggy, she stood patiently as his fat fingers fumbled at the fastenings at the front of the pyjama jacket.

"Get on with it," chuckled Horst, "I could not get the real thing in Karstadt so they're only kid's pyjamas with normal buttons! Rip the fuckers off if you have to, Man!"

When he had finally succeeded with the last button, Sophie spun about with a flourish and squatted so that Piggy could slip the jacket from her shoulders. His narrow eyes devoured her little flat breasts when she turned again and bowed her 'gratitude'.

I was thoroughly enjoying myself and tried to imagine the fun Maurice and/or Horst had had choreographing and teaching and rehearsing her in what to do. Just a few months before, she had been just a normal eleven-year-old schoolgirl yet now she was cast in the role of erotic little submissive and she had everyone enthralled, including me.

My tiredness was forgotten as I leaned closer to observe her display.

Next she approached the tall one, Svein. There was something around her waist - a belt or in fact a strip of the same ribbon used to make the bows on her pigtails, but although I paused the tape and strained my eyes, I could only make out that there were several shapes taped to it.

Svein nodded in response to her polite bow. He stroked the sides of her hips and kept a steady smile at her as his hand snaked to the front and slithered between her legs, Sophie remaining stock still as he rubbed her pussy through the smooth material. He pulled her closer and teased the points of her nipples with his tongue and placing his other hand on her bottom, bid her rock her groin so that she rubbed her pubis rhythmically on to his palm. All eyes were on her, performing just as she had been taught, provocatively, obediently, grinding her pussy against him for their delectation, until Horst once again broke the silence and told him too to 'get on with it'.

Pretending to be cross, he gave Horst the finger and took his time to peel the small girl's pyjama trousers down to her feet. He snatched at her hips, hauling her against him and wiped his tongue hard up into the cleft of her vulva, before passing her on to Maurice, to whom she handed her clothes.

My pulse thumped. Seeing the tiny girl being used like this, fuck - it turned me on!

She waited for her uncle to nod and returned to the box, squatting to remove from it a small tube and she looked up at her audience, a little unsure.

"Me first," responded Horst.

She knelt before him. He held what looked like a tiny egg with a tail and a roll of insulating tape and deftly attached it against her left nipple, applying three strips of tape to secure it in place. He applied its twin to her right nipple and held her ribbon belt, fixing the tails into a couple of the boxes, like attaching headphones to a walkman (that shows my age!). Now I had caught on, realising that the eggs were tiny vibrators and she wore battery packs around her waist. There were more attached there and I licked my lips, having a good idea what might be to come.

Her uncle called her over. He held up what he had taken from the box and once more she knelt for him to fit it. The thing looked obscene, affixed to the angelic face of a little girl - an ugly black leather or PVC gag, with tabs to hold back her lips in a grotesque 'O', plenty big enough to allow the passage of the fattest of cocks, but instead he reached down for his second accessory, a fearful-looking gnarled phallus which he clipped to the straps of the gag with half of it inserted inside her mouth. He too connected the thin wire and her head twitched as the device began to move. Only later when the camera had been picked up and was being operated by hand did a long close-up reveal that it was not just vibrating but somehow revolving eccentrically and even moving a little in and out.

Two more guys, two more things from the box and two more holes? Please let it be so!

It was, and even better than I had dared hope.

Piggy was next up, brandishing with delight a distinctively shaped butt plug of modest proportions, but wired like the other toys. He held it towards her and she squeezed out and applied to it some of the contents of the tube clutched in her palm before leading him up to the table. This being what I was now positive was an amateur re-enactment of some past floorshow from a Boys' Safari, he knew what to do and set it down close to the edge.

He took her fingers and held her steady. Sophie was facing away from the men and backed tentatively to the table. With Piggy helping to support her, she bent her legs and began to lower herself. This was a great game for the others, who giggled and yelled instructions.

"Back a bit. Left, no right. Down. Bit more. Stop. Back more."

Agonisingly slowly, her muscular little bum sank towards the tip of the plug and there was cheering when she flinched at the touch of the cold, slippery firmness against the tight ring of her anus. The camera was well-placed, looking down on her expression of total concentration, notwithstanding the grotesque disfigurement of the artificial cock buzzing in her mouth. How her thigh muscles must have been aching with the strain, as she crouched lower, deliberately and with extreme caution impaling herself in nervous stages on the upstanding shaft of the plug.

Her cheeks puffed with relief and the room filled with cheers and clapping and Piggy pulled her upright. He held her against him, hugging her in appreciation and stroking her skin once he had connected the plug to another battery pack. The camcorder revealed the circular base of the plug flat against her backside as she clenched her cheeks and shuffled around to the other side of the table, closer to her drooling audience.

That left ginger Svein, who waved his contribution at her, keeping it still whilst she lubricated it thoroughly with her tube.

"You bring all this stuff back last time, Horst?" he called.

"Ach, no, I had no idea we would find ourselves our own little slut! No, it is mail order from Japan. Had to pay a fortune airfreight!"

This was quite unreal. I had a void in the pit of my stomach, seeing the tiny naked girl with the wires attached to her belt and ugly black gag clinging to her face like a sci-fi alien special effect. Four battery-powered tormentors already tingling away in and on her sweet body and a fifth about to be added. This video was one to be treasured.

"We are all very grateful to you, Horst," guffawed Piggy. "This next one is the bit I liked the most - 'feeding the crab'!"

Awkwardly, Sophie clambered up on the table, careful not to disturb the tapes over her breasts or dislodge the plug in her bottom. She knelt with her hands next to her feet, facing the opposite end of the table, then leaned backwards, sliding her legs across the ceramic tiles and simultaneously lifting her body until she formed her skinny body into a fabulous arch. She pushed up on her arms and legs and raised her body, until she was fully bent backwards, her hands and feet flat to the table, head below her shoulders and her pubic mound forced upwards, becoming the highest part of her body, jutting right out between her hips and forming a delicious arc which flared and strained from between her legs up and round until it sank back to her hard young tummy just beneath her navel. Her outer labia formed this glorious fleshy dome, split by a deep and inviting crevice, with the delicate roll of her clitoral hood forced out from within it and below, just visible as she splayed her legs, a tiny dark slit marked the opening to her tight little cunt.

Svein smiled and got up to play his part. He stood at the other end of the table, the slippery vibrator held lightly between his fingers at waist height, its bell-end angled towards Sophie like a glistening piece of bait.

Goodness, she was supple and I could see her eyes screwed tight with the effort as she slid herself along the surface towards it, one hand, one foot, at a time. Her fingers anxiously felt for the edges of the table, so to prevent her tumbling off. Remarkable. I could actually make out the tortured sinews of her inner thighs flexing each time she propelled herself forward.

Oh, you bastard!

There was slight movement at the edge of the shot but being bright yellow, it just caught my eye. Cradled in Maurice's lap, that wretched glove puppet was waving its paw at the girl, as if to remind her of the price of failure to impress his friends.

I cannot tell if she noticed Sooty. I expect Sophie was already very aware of what would happen if she failed to do everything she had been taught.

She was still inching her way uncomfortably along the table, her pussy thrown out further each time she moved, the prominent labia parting and twisting, the tapes over her taut breasts tugging at her skin, which was stretched tight white across her ribcage. Elegant it was not, nor especially erotic to my mind, but this was all about symbolism: the subjugated young girl, already bearing the torment of the other devices, disfiguring and defiling her delicate little body, subserviently about to offer herself for penetration by yet another, simply for the pleasure of the men who controlled her. No other physical position could have made it any plainer that her body, but in particular her pussy, was available to be used and that she had no choice but to accept her role.

It was almost sacrificial.

Her feet had reached the far end of the table, where the tall man was ready for her. The vibrator was now so close, quivering in anticipation in line with her knees, aimed squarely at its target. Svein mimed unfastening his trousers to replace it with his cock, which brought a ripple of amusement.

One final rolling waddle and her inverted little body reached its destination.

Sophie ceased her shuffling: Svein had let the dildo kiss her proffered lips and that was her cue to relax a tad, though it must have been quite unpleasant, bent half upside down and struggling to keep her body supported whilst coping with the two plastic vibrators already invading her. She pushed her knees wider apart, to invite the tip to locate her vagina.

I wished that one of them had taken the camcorder off its mount to get a closer look.

I can only describe it as nibbling. Like a tropical fish nuzzling at a pellet of food at the top of its tank. Svein held the dildo at its base and the small girl eased herself forward, so that the tip slipped just inside her, then she let herself back a shade. No wonder Piggy had referred to it as 'feeding the crab'. Strange, unsettling, yet it was mesmeric.

And an astonishing feat of balance and body control.

Her limbs strained and her upper arms were visibly shaking, even with the camera so far away. The seated men were transfixed. At full stretch, the curve of her impossibly thin little body seemed again and again to swell, thrusting the split of her pussy an extra few millimetres and taking just a fraction more of the shiny knob into her each time. The effect was an illusion but it gave the impression that she was enticing it inside her, trying to tug it from Svein's fingers.

And then she did. Enough of the artificial cock had penetrated her for the walls of her vagina to seize the head and she seemed to pluck it from his fingers!

The crowd roared its appreciation and Svein was clapping. He pressed the blunt base of the vibrator with his finger and helped it sink in deeper and again she held it in place. Then he collected up the curly lead and put the jackplug into the remaining unused box attached to her waist ribbon, showing the others that it was working by placing his ear to her pussy and giving a thumbs up.

Horst shook hands with both Maurice and Sooty and all glasses were drained.

Having given such a bravura performance, Sophie slumped, exhausted, on her back on the table top, her legs folded beneath her back and knees wide so as not to put any outside pressure on either of the objects inserted between her legs. Her gagged head, resting on the hard tiles of the table top, faced away from the men and her chest rose and fell rapidly.

With drinks replenished, the men gathered around her, stroking her skin appreciatively and squatting down to examine and jiggle the vibrators. Piggy kissed her forehead. I think it was he who detached the camera and filmed in close up the astonishing shots of her quivering body, glistening with sweat, and its five motorised accessories.

As for me, too gobsmacked to sleep, I had found my second wind and paused the tape to have a smoke and pour myself a large nightcap - the one which my aching head now regrets.

A little time had passed, for the tape faded and the scene which reopened had completely changed - all had moved into a spacious bedroom, and the guys were either naked or in boxers. And Sophie's reward for her display was I was sure, to spend the rest of the night with four cocks determined to enjoy her young body for themselves. The lighting was worse, the sound better, and the camcorder was in a slightly shaky hand.

Svein, chooser of the longest breadstick, was in charge it seemed, for the others stood back and he was next to Sophie on the pale blue sheet of the king-sized. He was removing the last of the toys from inside her body and placed it with the others in a nest of tissues. Maurice supported her head as she suckled a bottle of water.

The tape again went off and on, Sophie filling the screen, head on, red-faced and eyes tightly closed as her head bucked about. Her pigtails slapped the sides of her face as she shook. She froze every few seconds with her mouth alternating between clenched teeth and boggle-eyed panting. The camera pulled back, showing her on her knees with her bottom raised high and her arms folded and crushed beneath her chest. She had a pair of hairy legs behind her and a man's body squatted above her, pumping down hard. As the shot panned to show her in profile and then from behind, her whole tiny body was revealed, reeling and writhing from the relentless pounding Svein was delivering into her bottom.

Above the background murmur of ribald comments and the creaking of the bed, the higher pitch of her breathless squealing was quite distinct and becoming increasingly distressed.

"Man, this is tight," panted Svein, "Hey Morry you need to fuck this a bit more often!"

Sophie gasped. The big Norwegian had stopped and though still impressively erect, tugged himself from her, playfully slapping her upturned cheeks as he climbed off the bed.

"Shit, Man, if the girls in the villa are this good, it's going to be a Hell of a trip this year!"

The guys murmured agreement.

"Threes up?" added Svein.

Maurice elected to lie on the bed on his back, hauling Sophie to one side.

"Got any poppers?" I heard Svein ask. As Maurice was guiding the compliant Sophie to straddle him, Horst approached the girl with a handkerchief and held it to her face. She made a muffled sound and a long, quaking moan when he took it away and Maurice simultaneously guided her body down on to his cock. She knew to ride him without further bidding, ignoring his fingers pinching at her tiny, hard nipples. Poor kid.

Svein resumed his position behind the girl's back and Maurice placed his hand on her back and pulled her down against his chest and holding her firmly.

She squeaked loudly as if she had just realised what the men were about to do. Not refusal or a plea, more of a sad wail of dread and resignation.

To my shame, I found it music to my ears.

Such multiple activities were clearly not new to these lucky buggers - they no doubt practised enthusiastically each year in Thai or Laotian brothels. With the minimum of fuss and a deft application of more lubricant, Svein re-entered the girl's still-stretched anus and Piggy obligingly homed in with the camera. The tiny girl's body was almost lost between the hair and wrinkles and other unsightly parts of male anatomy. Making no allowances for her tender years and size, Svein worked his way steadily into her bottom, whilst Maurice remained relatively still, only pushing himself into her further when Svein paused. This was a serious fuck - the banter had ceased and the soundtrack was creaks and grunts of satisfaction.

Sophie was silent too, unable to make much of a sound with Horst twisting her head aside and his own cock sliding in and out of her captive mouth.

Piggy circled the bed, artfully using the controls to record the full extent of her use as a tool for their enjoyment and receptacle for their cum. Horst called to him. In time for the lens to focus on the girl's face, mouth open as instructed, her head clamped by his strong fingers whilst he held his cock, engorged and pulsating and delivering a string of thick spunk across her lips, nose and cheeks.

Arms pinned to her sides by Maurice's own firm grip, her skinny frame jerked rapidly. Svein moaned and clambered off the bed, spent and softening, and she remained gripped tight as her uncle now thrashed forcefully up into her until he too climaxed.

And Piggy ordered her to be still, filming her lying motionless, partly on her side, legs quickly hauled apart by an unidentified hand so that the mess of lubricant and semen surrounding the gaping, ravaged holes between her legs was recorded for posterity. Her sticky face stared blankly at the camera and then her eyes closed in shame and exhaustion.

Whether Piggy himself made use of her later that night is not evident for the recording faded and when it reopened, there was a few seconds of Sophie, on her back with her legs wide apart, but the picture broke up and I caught the sound of Maurice's voice saying '..king battery's flat' before it went black. If only they had had lithium-ion and digital recording back then, I had thought, though as daylight was already beginning to show through my curtains, I was grateful for the opportunity finally to get a few hours' kip.

Day 2 - Case Solved?

My recollections of the video were interrupted. Dave and Mick had turned up with the van.

I had decided to stay and supervise, for although I had already stashed the remaining booty from the hidden room under a cover in the back of my car, I wanted to be on hand just in case anything else turned up. I locked the files in the motor and we emptied the house, the lads having to make two trips.

Whilst they were gone, I walked around the garden, trying to imagine the little girl playing there when she first arrived, unaware of what her uncle had planned for her. I scoured the study and her blocked-off bedroom, lest I had missed any more evidence and even ventured up into the mucky loft for a final nose around.

Nope. Anything of interest was now safely in my possession. I was now the sole guardian of Maurice Getsch's little secret. So what to make of it?

When I waved the lads off at the end of the afternoon, I retrieved the scrapbooks and files from under my driver's seat and had one last flick through before locking up. The last items before the 'appendices' were from January 1996, and in deference to Maurice, I spread them squarely and tidily on the kitchen worktop alongside the new diary, opened to corresponding dates.

Two communications from Germany, beginning and end of the month, sent from Horst. The stubs from some plane tickets, a fan of blank picture postcards: Berlin and Leipzig.

Thin pickings, but apart from the wad of polaroids I had found yesterday and those increasingly angry scribblings in the previous diary, there had not been much put to paper after the visit to Germany. The wait for news had almost silenced Maurice. Even over Christmas, there had been little of note and I wondered with some sadness what it had been like for Sophie at that time, locked up for weeks on end with her increasingly livid and unpredictable uncle. I spread the photos out again, looking for the one with the threadbare artificial tree behind her. Even allowing for the low quality, her skin was a lot paler and there were grey patches below her big, damp, soulless eyes, as they stared up unsmilingly at the camera.

I studied it in detail - not exactly a happy memory of an eleven-year-old's first Christmas as an orphan. She was knelt beside the tree in the living room, naked, with a thick leather collar and ropes around her wrists and ankles. On the carpet in front of her, a large stainless steel dog bowl containing her dinner. Turkey, potato, vegetables, Christmas pudding, and gravy.

I shook my head.

1996. A New Year. And new technology I suddenly realised, for the document from Horst was a printed email, not a letter. And sure enough the very first entry in the new diary celebrates Maurice's new dial-up connection to the internet. The man was an enigma for I would not have seen him as the most likely candidate to pioneer such radical breakthroughs. Looks like I would have to see if I could get his old Viglen to work and check out those big floppies - it had refused to boot when I tried it yesterday but I had loaded it in the car anyway and perhaps it just needed a new battery? But like the DVD collection, that was another project for the weekend; I still had some reading to do here.

Maurice would have been absolutely ecstatic to receive this via his new modem, I was in no doubt. Horst's email was dated 2 January and referred to their phone conversation on New Year's Eve:

'... the line was so bad for sure but this is what I was trying to tell you. DB wants her by the middle of the month. He has better plan now. You know those big yachts you see at places like Monaco? The biggest are owned by Gulf States royals and they move them around the world and occasionally fly to use them. He says is a new craze (?) to have girls and boys on them for entertainment of guests. Money talks, eh my friend? These are usually Asian or African kids but a Western girl, specially English, is ultimate oneupmanship (that is the word, yes?). He has client ready to lease her for all of the year...'

That left little doubt now about what happened to Sophie.

And the evening before he flew with her to Germany, according to the airline tickets, he had almost bounced back into his old ways, the diary recording:

'Cannot believe nearly all over. End of purgatory!! Packed and ready for early start to Heathrow. S still thinks this a birthday treat. Have eased up on her since good news but had her many times today all over house and I will miss to some extent having her holes at my beck and call. Have to make up for that on next Safari!! Initial payment from DB arrived (Account #4, DM2.18 to £). Note to self on return - set up monthly tfr mandate to Account #2.'

The next two days were blank.

For that was when the deed was done and Sophie was passed to 'Dieter Bauer' to begin her new life as an onboard fucktoy for wealthy Arabs. Jesus! Maurice, you utter cunt!

I had nothing but contempt for him now and closed the diary crossly even before finishing his last note of the day:

'Such a joy to be home to a quiet empty house. Tomorrow begins the big task to rebuild the business and get back to normal. Some mixed emotions but all is for the best. Glad Horst handled the transfer. Admit am a coward for not telling her so can imagine S much surprised at being put in a stranger's car instead of the promised bday present! H says...'

I glanced at the second email from Horst:

'DB is most pleased. And he agrees is best no direct contact from now and I will do this as your agent. I have received the lawyer's Trust information you sent and it is on deposit in my bank with instructions to send it to me for her 18 Birthday. DB also promises to make 1% of what she earns in a sort of fund for her as well? Not bad to retire after only 6 years with so much money we should all be so lucky, yes!!'

Had I expected anything different? I suppose not, but that did not make me feel any more comfortable.

I had in my mind an image of Sophie's last betrayal. Picturing her thrill at a unique chance to be in the outside world without her uncle for the first time in months and her excitement at the prospect of being bought something for her twelfth birthday. Especially after such a miserable Christmas. Normal clothes to wear and exotic foreign shops to see. And then puzzlement when instead she was led to a waiting car. No words being spoken. Blind panic as she was propelled into the back and then whisked away without any explanation. Never to see her uncle or that Horst again?

That was just evil.

Stuffing the documents into my case, I felt deflated.

Despite the rush of finding her things, despite the guilty enjoyment I had from seeing her abused, and despite now understanding how she came to be in this house for less than seven months and having solved the mystery, I was still uneasy. I'll admit that the titillation of watching her with the men almost had me surfing the Web for holidays in certain countries where such things are apparently still available if you know where to look - unlike the Safari Boys, my own fantasies have never been indulged in the real world - but I still wished for a less unsettling conclusion to my investigation.

For a brief moment, I considered pursuing the case: I had Horst's contact details after all, though 17 years out of date. Worth a bit of Googling perhaps?

No. Stupid idea. None of my business.

But I would still have felt so much better if I knew that Sophie had survived her ordeal. In my guts, I felt that the very fact that I was here at all did not bode well, for I was clearing this house precisely because Maurice's solicitor knew of no living relative.

Day 3 - Serendipity

I did not touch any of the Getsch stuff last night. I tried to sleep but that vision of the poor little girl staring helplessly through the car window haunted me.

This morning, I went to drop off her birth certificate at the solicitors, though I was determined to keep schtum about everything else. If she could be traced, and if that led to Sophie's inheriting from her uncle, then that would be just a little consolation.

"Let it go", my brain yelled. It was a long time ago.

You're being a prat. Fun while it lasted but just go through the rest of the material then bin it, I resolved.

Except I couldn't leave it. On the way to town, I was compelled to have one last look in the house, as if to exorcise Sophie's ghost. So I took a detour. Stood in her room for ten minutes, as if in some way I could connect with her.

Weird? Pervy? I'm not denying it was but so what - you've read this far and don't tell me you haven't had some of your own thoughts about Sophie! She had really got under my skin.

I was about to set the house alarm to leave when a shadow fell across the frosted glass of the front door and I pulled it open. The postman had a single envelope and we exchanged a few words and I told him that I would chase up the solicitor about arranging the redirection of any future mail. When he had left, I tore it open. It was postmarked Dresden.

A birthday card. Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag.

Signed with a single kiss by Sophie!

Inside, a short message in English: 'Hope you are feeling better Uncle M and you have will have a nice day. I bet you go down to the pub for beers haha! We are all here doing fine and Katerina is looking forward to starting at big school.'

And loose inside the card, a 7x5 glossy snapshot captioned by hand on the back, 'Herrentag mit Opa Mai 2012'. The photo was of a small family group seated together behind a low table strewn with beer bottles. Sophie was unmistakeable, with her big brown eyes and black hair, and she had become quite a stunning young woman. Smiling broadly, with a small girl perched proudly on her lap and flanked by two men, she still had the same gap between her front teeth and I was genuinely delighted that thanks to the lucky coincidence of this delivery, the mystery seemed to have had a happy ending. Fate or what? I surmised that at some stage she had been permitted to escape from prostitution and she had then remained in Germany and eventually found a proper family life there.

Fucking great! God, I was actually smiling to myself! A stupid sloppy freaking great grin.

Presumably the cute kid was her daughter Katerina, who was about to begin school, and the blond guy on the left was her husband but I held the photo closer.

No way!

The old guy on the other side. Whose hand rested casually above the child's bare knee. And whose smile was a bit too smug for my liking.

White-haired, and a carrying considerably more weight, but there could be no question.

Horst.

Well, well. Still at it, are you? I looked at the child, the whiteness of her tight pants peeking out from under her short dress, and Horst's fingers, splayed just a bit too high up her thigh.

My demons had been stirred and aroused over the past 48 hours. But seeing that picture suddenly brought them screaming into the open, circling my head and turning my thoughts dark and depraved. I imagined my own fingers there, touching that soft, tender young skin, creeping inexorably closer to that tiny innocent pussy, the prelude to realising my own secret desires.

I was fired up; inspired.

OK, maybe you might like a new buddy from England, then, Herr Weber? One who definitely shares your current interests?

Now, where did I put that email address...?