A Scene From Rumpleton Manor

Veronica Lavingham's schtick was - spinster "d'un certain age", still hot in the middle.

She sent in her show reel with an introductory profile which said: "Veronica's secret appointments with the camera are treated like dates to be seduced. She bathes and then she powders and perfumes. On top, she is all elegance. But underneath is a show-all exhibitionist. Veronica always wears make-up and jewellery and hats, even when everything else comes off. But inside is an animal and she wants you to watch until she opens her legs to let it loose, like she is longing to do."

Veronica walked like an invitation, every step a declaration of confidence. She was the kind of woman an English judge in a famous case once called "fragrant" -- meaning you'd really like to jump her but she was too posh for you to say it. Hair so blonde and fine it was nearly white, cut so expensively you couldn't be sure she hadn't done it herself. Clothes which stroked each other with a faint hiss when she moved. She stripped like she was unveiling a masterpiece but, with rare restraint for a cam girl audition, she left us guessing. Stopped at her silk French knickers and then, hands on hips, held the camera with a gaze that made you shift in your seat.

The Duchess of Rumpleton blew cheroot smoke out through her nose and said: "I want to see her fuck Farmer George."

I said: "I thought you said no contact."

The Duchess said: "I did, darling. But it's what I want to see. Make it happen for me, there's a good boy."

It was the middle of 2020 and we were working on Rumpleton Manor, an online party house which was cashing in on demand for socially-distanced nookie. The Duchess was a queen of the old scene, cam milf and upmarket escort, who had run short of customers and whistled up the money to start something new.

Elsewhere in the porniverse, some sites were making a virtue out of carrying on regardless, with titles like Biohazard Sluts. But the Duchess was cautious. It was the risk of infection which had created the new demand, she pointed out, and it would be against the mood of the moment to ignore it. As well as tempting Fate.

So far, we were doing fine with solo performers and "bubble couples" and audiences coming in on Zoom.

The restriction was making us creative. But in the end, some of the best ideas involved the old ways.

The Fuck Sisters were normally three on any one who was willing to take them on and the lockdown rules were cramping their style quite a lot. But they were full of ideas and we had them on the war committee.

George The Farmer was one of their discoveries. Six foot four and 22 stone of beast, with just enough brain to qualify as a man, covered in hair, even all along his great truncheon of a cock, and always ready to fuck any hole he could get at.

"So we have him on ropes," explained Lucy Fuck, "and we hold him back until the volunteer signals ready and we can pull him off if she calls for safety ..."

"Or he," said Minnie Fuck.

"Or he," said Lucy, "but the challenge is to see how fast you can bring George off."

"Or how long you can hold him before he's finished," said Fenella Fuck.

"Afterwards, he's sweet as a kitten," said Lucy.

They reckoned we could find plenty of grannies looking for one last big fuck. Might even get George classified as a key worker, Minnie suggested. And a lot of the gay boys would be up for it too, said Fenella. The ones who loved having their assholes tortured.

We all liked it. But so far, couldn't see think of any way of stopping it getting messy.

But included in the Duchess's new team we had Boris The Geek. He ran the party shows from a control panel looked like it was out the Starship Enterprise. Close in on cunt. Cut to nipple. Bring up squelch. Switch to ass camera. Bring in audience roar. He did it all with one hand while the other felt his little todger for reaction. Except when the Duchess was sat beside him, and it got a bit confused.

Anyway, Boris listened to the problem and said no problem.

"VR," he said. "Start real then morph into CGI. I've been waiting to try it."

I nodded as if I fully understood. I did understand this was big-time computing he was talking about. But he wrote games for a living and did magic as a hobby. And if he could do it, we were starting on something could be big.

*

For a week before the big night, we had Veronica up to stay at Rumpleton Manor. She fitted it like she grew up there. It would have been nice to share a cocktail or two, wonder what she looked like when she got her pants off, like normal socialising. But she spent most of the time locked away with Boris and the Fuck Sisters, building a database of all her measurements, looks and movements, and planning scenarios. They told the rest of us to keep our noses out. Wanted us to see the show like an audience: talk tweaks later.

On the big night, a spotlight lit a red velvet couch which hung from chains on a giant frame in the main hall of the manor -- our big production arena. Veronica walked into the light already stripped to a fine but opaque pair of blue silk pantaloons, tied at the knee. Except for her jewellery and hat.

The Duchess was on the microphone ...

"Sometimes," she breathed, "sometimes a girl doesn't want soft music and tender words. Sometimes she just wants a man to look, like what he sees, fuck it and fuck off. Why does a lady ever go dogging? Just for that. And ...

"Blimey."

Two of the Fuck Sisters had come on set, dressed head to toe in black rubber. They undid some lacing at Veronica's crotch and pulled her knickers open and she gasped and laid back and raised her knees and parted them, for the hungry eye of the camera to zoom in. Mainly, she was smooth and pale as fine china. But her secret centre was a cunt a buffalo would want to fuck. A mat of long silky black hair hung between her legs like a beard. But luxuriant though it was, it barely concealed a pussy that glistened like an oyster.

"Oh my," said the Duchess. "Oh my, oh my, oh my."

The Fuck Sisters came back with George all roped up like a captive bear, a barrel on legs, with his prick already rising from the mat of fur that covered him from neck to groin. When he saw Veronica, it grew again until his knob end popped out like a snooker ball and he roared something might have amounted to a chat up in the Stone Age. The sisters allowed him to drag them forward until he reached the couch and Veronica allowed him to reach her feet and drag her down until he could kneel down and touch her pussy with the tip of his tongue, which was almost as long and thick as his waiting prick.

At this point, Boris pulled some trickery with lights and collages of images and noise which were obviously designed to cover a switcheroo. For a few seconds, it was possible for Veronica to get out of there and leave a doll for George to fuck, while Boris made it look real.

It worked a treat. You could barely see the join. George got enough slack on the ropes to lift up the couch and part "Veronica's" petals with his first inch of cock and we saw her open and then clutch around him like a poked pitcher plant. She called for more and the Fuck Sisters let go. And the Duchess gabbled a commentary of pure filth. Only trouble was, from the point of view angle, which is trade talk for close-ups, you could only see the tangle of hair where the two bodies joined, except when George pulled back a few inches for his last push home and Veronica leaked a puddle onto the couch before grabbing his ass and pulling him back up to the hilt. But it was thrilling to watch that delicate woman bucking on that fat muscle with such obvious rapture.

After 30 seconds of pumping, George fell on top of her, spent, and the Fuck Sisters left him there for another half a minute, with the Veronica doll's slim pale hands stroking his furry back, before the girls came forward to lift him up and lead him gently away, calm now and unresisting. The camera zoomed in for its obligatory shot of cream pie and there was a glimpse of leaking pussy before Boris faded the lights quickly. There was a stunned silence then what would have been a roar of clapping and whistling from the audience if it was a live event. In this case, me and the Duchess and the rest of the team did a fair impression of a riot on our own.

When we went to see Veronica in her room, she looked like a well-fucked woman looks. Boris was there, too, looking proud as if he'd done it himself.

I said: "It was amazing. I never even saw the join when you switched in the doll."

Veronica glanced slyly at Boris, then at the Duchess. Then the Duchess got it and laughed. Then I noticed the doll, hanging from a hook, clean and dry and untouched.

"We can use the doll next time," said Boris.

"If Veronica lets us."

ends