I had a pretty normal childhood. The youngest of three brought up on a small farm in what could be called a rural backwater. We didn't have as much as some but I still consider my childhood to have been gifted.

I began masturbating at seven, or should I say I began doing it seriously at seven. A nightly occurrence enjoyed to the point I would often fall asleep whilst doing it, waking in the morning with the pillow still clamped between my thighs, the firm corner of its cotton casing wedged into my immature slit. I wasn't achieving orgasms, didn't even know what an orgasm was, but I loved having 'rude' thoughts and the 'tingly' feeling those thoughts and my rubbing created. My 'rude' thoughts were always about old men. They never did anything to me and I never saw them naked. I simply displayed myself to them, gave them 'rude shows'.

My first orgasm arrived when I was somewhere between nine and ten. I thought I had damaged myself, that something had burst inside me. I was terrified. I would have to go to the doctor and he would know I had been rubbing myself and that I was a rude girl. Oh the shame! I vowed I would never do it again. I would be a good girl from now on just please god don't let me be ill. Don't make me have to tell my parents or go to the doctor.

My resolved lasted for all of two days. Then once more curiosity and a desire to enjoy my rude thoughts and tingly feelings took over once more. Very soon I was addicted.

I knew I was bad. I knew I was wrong. I knew I was a dirty girl. A bad girl. A nasty girl. A wicked girl.

Pretty soon I also knew I was weird.

When some of the other girls at school, giggling stupidly, hinted at masturbation, they were always focusing on pop idols or American TV stars. I was still thinking about old men. Sometimes I liked to think about the creatures from the old Hammer Horror movies I was now allowed to stay up late and watch on Friday nights. Vampires, werewolves, demons, ghouls, even Frankenstein's monster-all of them had their evil way with me when the movie was over and I was sent to bed. I wonder what my parents would have thought? But mostly it was old or at least very mature men I thought about. I was usually a very willing party.

As the years rolled by so my fantasies became more and more extreme and varied. Groups of men. Sold at an Arab slave market. Used in sex shows. Raped. I began to glean every bit of information I could. I listened to adult conversations, absorbed scandals like a little sponge, leafed through news papers in the hope of little snippets. I knew it went on for real and I wanted all the details.

By the time I was seventeen I realised, or at least felt, there was something wrong with me. I had to become a better person, a more normal person, a nicer person. I made a real effort to tone my fantasies down. I began to involve boys I knew, film stars I found attractive, I tried to keep the sex conventional. Bit by bit it began to work. I began to feel easier about myself, like myself a little better. For a period I indulged in real sex frequently, and with several different partners, finding each and every one of them a let down, a disappointment.

I was disillusioned. The reality was nothing compared to my fantasies. I really had to do something about myself. I had to become normal. Whatever that is.

At nineteen I met someone I thought I loved. We married soon after. It was a disaster.

After four years I began to realise I was chasing a dream that wasn't going to happen. My marriage was nothing like I hoped or imagined it would be. I felt trapped, disappointed, let down, disillusioned and frustrated. All in all I was pretty miserable, even more so because my upbringing led me to believe that I had made my own bed so best I lie in it. There was no backing out. This was my life.

My husband was a car fanatic and every Wednesday evening he would go to the club meeting not returning home until late. It was the same most weekends when he would disappear with his mates and fossick around under car bonnets doing heaven knows what, but not fossicking with me.

It was during these times I allowed myself the pleasure of long and often quite involved masturbation sessions, creating little fantasy scenario's but never allowing my thoughts to become as wicked and depraved as I had once enjoyed.

One Wednesday evening when he was out I did my usual when I returned home from work. I put my dinner in the oven, ran a nice oiled bath, lit some candles in the now hot and steamy scented bathroom, and with a glass of wine I relaxed in the hot water until my skin began to pickle. As I bathed I allowed my imagination to wander, masturbating deliciously as I enjoyed developing my current favourite fantasy.

Back downstairs in nightdress and dressing gown I settled down in front of the fire with my dinner and flicked the TV on. It was just after nine, the house was all locked up and my husband wouldn't be home until after eleven. A sip of wine, a bite of food still a touch too hot to eat enjoyably, and I began to flick through the channels to see what was on.

Around an hour later I threw my uneaten dinner into the bin, put my empty wine glass in the sink, switched out the downstairs lights and went up to my bed.

Once beneath the covers I splayed my legs wide, hitched my nightdress high over my belly, and part sickened at my behaviour, my arousal, I began to masturbate for the fourth time that evening.

The programme I had stumbled upon was a documentary about a paedophile ring. The moment I realised what it was about my thumb moved over the channel button on the remote, then stilled. Slowly I moved it to the volume button and reduced the sound to a bare whisper only I could possibly hear as though I were afraid someone might listen in and know what I was watching, as though I already felt guilt.

Within a couple of minutes my dinner was forgotten, left to cool and congeal on the table. My nipples ached and my cunt had opened of its own volition, my sex lips and upper thighs a slippery mess of viscous fluid. Terrified I might miss something I dashed to the kitchen and grabbed a tea towel, folding it and dropping it on the carpet so I could sit on it and lean back against the settee as I watched the documentary. My actions told me the fight was over without any resistance. I gave in. If I was going to do this then I might as well enjoy it. Forget the disgust, forget the self loathing, forget the guilt.

Sitting on the towel I brought my knees up, my thighs wide, one hand between them teasing my already distended clit as the other tweaked and caressed a nipple.

With ears straining to catch every word, eyes narrowed and eagerly absorbing every detail, breathing becoming short and fast, I watched avidly as the sordid story unfolded, frustrated by the usual oblique suggestions and lack of specific detail, my imagination filling in the gaps with fevered enthusiasm.

Five men and one women. Two girls and one boy. It had been going on for six years and began when the youngest girl was only three. Authorities believed there were up to a further twenty five adults involved. Hundreds of images and several films had been seized and were being used as evidence. The authorities were working in conjunction with the Dutch police who believed the children had been taken over there for 'professional' film making and may well have been 'rented out' to high paying clients at the same time. Oh god!

It was believed there were younger children being procured and groomed when the ring had been broken, these to be replacements for those now reaching puberty. Oh Jesus!

It was believed that when the woman hosted parties there may have been up to ten men invited. Dear God. That was five adult cocks for each of the little girls!

I had my first crashing orgasm.

Then a history of paedophile crime in the UK. Events, dates, even the occasional film clip or still photo of some of the guilty. My eyes drank in every detail, every nuance. The way they dressed, walked, spoke, their facial features, body type, bulk, size, power, profession, location. I knew I would use these men later in my fantasies.

And then a history of child pornography, its popularity, its one time legal production and distribution, its demise and the fact that though driven underground it still proliferated. Even a very brief clip of the tons of material seized by authorities. Magazines, polaroids, photographs, films, drawings. Details of how the new age of computers and the internet was enabling purveyors and enthusiasts of this kind of filth to connect with one another rapidly and easily, material transferred between them and increasingly becoming accessible to anyone who chose to seek it.

Then a 'professional enactment' of a young girl, her hand trustingly in that of an adult male's, being led into a derelict looking factory building. A scene of a bed with curtains draping the walls on three sides of it, spotlights highlighting it, the same girl being led towards it, the scene shot from behind so that the outline of her immature body is visible through the semi-transparent material of her nightdress, two men with large camera's on tripods smiling, another much larger man dressed only in a robe so his thick legs are visible from the thighs down, entering from the side and moving to sit on the bed, hands dug into robe pockets, face smiling wickedly as he looks at the approaching girl.

I enjoyed another crashing orgasm.

By the time I had recovered the documentary was over. It was only then I realised I could have taped it, relieved I hadn't thought about that earlier. Evidence. Proof of what I was. I tidied up, switched off, went to bed. Settling my thoughts, calming my overheated mind, sorting the information overload, I decided once more that if I was going to do it I might as well enjoy it.

Did I want to be one of the girls? Or the woman mentioned?

Both! But which first?

The girl.

The girl in the re-enactment? About to be filmed? Or one of the girls from the documentary?

From the documentary.

By myself or with the other children?

By myself.

How many men?

Three, keep it simple, not too many.

And the woman, is she there too?

Yes, she is my pimp.

And what are the men? Working class? Respectable? Wealthy?

They would have to be wealthy. I am being hired out.

Professions?

Something wicked and nasty. Something corrupt and evil. They are all pillars of society, admired and respected, refined and well considered.

Oh yes!?

All of them are in their early fifties. All are heavily built, powerful, weighty, their bodies softening with age and luxury but still heavy and powerfully limbed, hairy.

Oh yes .. and?

A lawyer. A wealthy business man. A member of the church .. a Bishop? That is nasty!

Oh yes! So corrupt! God but we've got a twisted mind!

Yes, I know, delicious isn't it.

And with that thought, that final acceptance, I lie back, eyes closed, fingers working their magic, and allow my imagination free rein.

That same night, even though I was already sexually exhausted, satiated-or believed I was -when my husband returned home and slipped into bed with me I found myself wanting to communicate my arousal to him, to enjoin with him, to share those thoughts. Perhaps I sought acceptance? Perhaps I simply wanted a partner in perversion? I can't say for sure, all I know is that I wanted to share this soaring, heart hammering excitement I felt every time I allowed my mind to flick back to the documentary I had watched that evening.

And so I tried to explain myself, to interest him, to express my almost unbelievable excitement.

He rejected me. Confirmed I was weird, sick, twisted, disgusting.

To this day I believe he was turned on, I could feel it in him, sense it. But he couldn't and wouldn't share. He wouldn't take that step.

A couple of months later I began divorce proceedings.

He didn't want it, I did.

Two years of angst, heartbreak, guilt and regret. Hard on both of us but probably harder on him. I moved out the second year and took a small flat in town where if nothing else I could indulge myself in masturbation sessions without having to lock doors or listen for footfalls on the stairway. When torn and bruised emotions allowed I would now guiltlessly indulge myself in the most obscene fantasies, no longer trying to suppress them but enjoying them for what they were, simple fantasies.

I enjoyed a couple of quick flings but they didn't satisfy, couldn't compare with where my mind could take me. Had I been less naïve at the time I would have turned to the contact magazines available and tried to find a suitable or like minded partner through the private advertisements. It's one of those little regrets I still sometimes take out and berate myself with. I was aware such magazines existed, frequently allowed my eyes to drift over them surreptitiously while pretending to look for something else, all this always in small corner shops miles from where I lived and where my face was not known. How pathetic. How sad.

Even sadder is the fact I didn't have the temerity to even buy them!

The divorce came through and I began a new life. I moved back out to the country where I had always felt most at ease, where I could walk, where I could be alone. I rented a small and rather cold and decrepit old cottage which lay a couple of miles down one of the worst dirt tracks I have ever encountered. I settled in and for a while I was as happy as I'd been for years. There was something missing in my life but I think I had more or less come to the conclusion I would never find the fulfilment I so desired in any conventional relationship and had come to terms with the fact.

How wrong I was!

Ends