A mad and sexy Hertfordshire girl in the attic...

Vincent had a house in the country. He had told me about his ‘special’ place and how he only ever invited cheap Hertfordshire escorts, dancing girls and actresses from the adult industry there. It turned him on that the place was his sex haven, a retreat where he could enact his deepest fantasies and keep a separation between his ‘real’ life and the fantasy existence that he had put so much time and effort into cultivating. I suspected that in truth it was the other way around and that Vincent played at being an ordinary family man and that in fact his retreat was his reality, far more reflective of his true personality. I had known all along that he was married of course, probably to some hot Hertfordshire girl who had a career in the city, a high flyer who devoted as much time and effort to her career as Vincent did to his. This would explain how he was able to lead such a double life and why she had never suspected that his primary goal in life, his raison d’être was the pursuit of physical pleasure.

It turned me on to think I was part of his secret world and when we pulled up outside his house I almost exclaimed aloud “oh shit, look at the size of that pile...” It was the type of home you saw on television programmes about the rich and famous. I remarked to Vincent that he had clearly done very well in business but he replied in a monotone that it had been his parents’ house and they had left it to him in their will. He had decided to keep it his secret, a place where he could be the sexual animal that he wanted to be, enjoying lusty, uninhibited sex with like minded sexy Hertfordshire girls who enjoyed the touch of mystery, the air of danger, the attraction of the dark and the unknown.

I wondered how many hot Hertfordshire girls he had entertained at this place. As I stood on the gravel drive, a chill in the air and a light breeze blowing across my face I looked up at the imposing mansion and a shiver ran across my spine as I saw a curtain move. I turned to Vincent, who was pulling the bags out of the back of the Audi A5 and gestured to the window, asking who was home. “Do you have some hot Hertfordshire girls waiting for us Vincent?” I asked but he replied no, it must have been a draft that had moved the curtain. I had been certain that something animate had been standing there, in the shadows, watching us but I shrugged and told myself this wasn’t Daphne Du Maurier’s  ‘Rebecca’ or Charlotte Bronte’s ‘Jane Eyre’ – there was no mad woman in the attic...

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