Confessions from an Escort Agency

Deciding that I must not be a spoilsport I strip down to my panties and put on one of the robes that is remaining. I do not want to strip completely naked in case I catch a chill. These summer nights can be very deceptive.

‘Thirty seconds!!’ A great cheer goes up and I hear bodies jostling for position against the door. The whole proceedings are obviously some kind of hide and seek. I wonder if there is a prize for the last one to be caught? An untouched glass of champagne lies on a silver salver and I knock it back in one impulsive gesture and throw the empty glass over my shoulder. What fun! I have always wanted to do that. Feeling delightfully light-headed, I skip down the steps and into the garden. There is no sign of the other girls and I imagine that they must have found all the best places. Never mind. It is not winning but taking a part that matters as they say on the football specials.

The grass is long and the dew feels cold against my legs. I am heading towards a clump of trees but I catch my foot in a trailing root and sprawl full length. No sooner have I touched the ground than a great shout goes up and I hear what I remember from one of those Alan Whicker programmes as being hunting horns. ‘Tally Ho!’, ‘View Halloo!!’ I raise my head far enough to see men running in all directions. Some moving fast, some barely able to set one foot in front of the other. One man remains draped over the balustrade at the top of the staircase as if hung out to dry.

‘Got you!’

I think that the man must be talking to me but he has fallen to his knees half a dozen paces away. I see a flash of white as he roughly pulls a girl to a sitting position and launches himself onto her lips. His hands start off against her cheeks but then drop down to pull at her robe. As I watch in amazement he hobbles forward on his knees and proceeds to tug open the front of his knee breeches. The girl sinks back so that her shoulders are flat against the ground and – do my eyes deceive me!? Can this be true? Sexual intercourse is being joined! How awful. Fancy taking advantage of an innocent game to behave like that. I cannot lie where I am and watch one of my sisters being so shamefully abused.

‘Leave her alone, you brute!’ I shout, and springing to my feet race to the rescue. An instant after I have formed the resolve I am raining blows on the rapist’s shoulders but he brushes me away as if I am a fly.

‘Hold your horses, wench,’ he cries. ‘I’ll accommodate your overpowering lust in a few minutes.’

‘That’s right, you take your turn,’ says an angry female voice from beneath him. ‘There’s plenty to go round.’

No sooner have I started to puzzle at these words than there is the sound of heavy breathing behind me and two figures loom out of the darkness.

‘Spare mount,’ says one of them cheerfully. ‘Do you want to test the stirrups first, Max?’

‘I’ll watch your form, old lad,’ says his fellow.

‘Look,’ I begin. ‘Are you going to allow—’ Before I can say another word I am swept off my feet and find myself deposited on the ground like a discarded dust sheet. The descent temporarily winds me and when I try to rise I find the manoeuvre thwarted by the weight of the first newcomer.

‘Get off me!’ I shout.

‘Frisky little filly,’ observes the gent in question. ‘I’ll wager this is her first pummelling of the eve.’

‘No doubt of it,’ agrees his companion. ‘See. She still sports her wrapping.’

I imagine that the brute is alluding to my panties which have been revealed in the struggle.

‘She’s a trifle over-excited,’ says my first attacker. ‘Overwhelmed by eagerness, no doubt. Rest your knees on her shoulders so that I can prepare her for the joust.’

‘My pleasure, Rollo.’

That a man bearing the name of one of my favourite sweets could behave in such a despicable fashion is beyond my comprehension. I attempt to call out, but my robe is pulled over my head and serves to muffle my shouts.

‘Peel her, Rollo.’

I wriggle and writhe but to no avail. Powerful hands fall upon my prettily patterned panties and rip them away as if they had been made of paper. In the circumstances I wish that they had been. The cost of lingerie these days makes it difficult to absorb the loss of items destroyed in such wanton fashion.

‘Fine evening for it, Max.’

‘One of the best I can remember, Rollo, old sport.’

‘I thought the champers could have come a little sharper to the tongue.’

‘Quantity rather than quality.’

‘’Tis the same with everything, these days – and now, my little game cock!’

Quite which game cock he is referring to I do not know. My own feeling is that it is not his own organ because this, though game, is anything but little. His knees press against my shuddering thighs and I receive a monstrous injection of love truncheon that makes me suck in a mouthful of muslin and near choke myself. Regrettably, my coughing spasm is construed as a sign of enthusiasm for the sordid attack that is being made upon my person and my ravisher attempts to harness his thrusts to the tremors that run through my body. He must be a big brute because the thwack of his gonads against my posterior is like the blow from an open hand.

After what seems an eternity, my attacker releases a low shuddering moan and collapses on top of me. Regrettably, this is not the first time that I have found myself in the miserable situation that currently confronts me and I know that the beast between my thighs has discharged his responsibility to his gender.

‘Well rode, sir!’ exults his friend. ‘I take it you now wish to relinquish the saddle?’

‘Hold hard, Max,’ gasps my attacker.

‘Exactly what I find myself in the position of doing,’ says the second villain cheerily. ‘Step aside, I beg you.’

No sooner has the pressure on my shoulders slackened than a new force invades my thighs. I hardly have time to flex my aching limbs before they are forced to withstand a second buffeting. How differently this evening has turned out from what I had imagined. I had entertained the possibility of a chaste kiss beside the buttery but nothing like this orgy. It might be a Young Conservative’s dance but for the champagne. Just when I feel that I can take no more, my second ravisher imitates his fellow’s cry and lies panting by my side. For the first time in twenty minutes there is no restraining force holding me down. I wait no longer but pluck away the robe that covers my face and scramble to my knees.

‘Off to find new prey so soon?’ says the man who is standing up and stuffing his shirt into his breeches. ‘Damn me but you’re a sporty little minx!’

‘Indeed,’ says his fellow. ‘For me, it’s a bottle of champers that beckons.’

I listen to no more but take to my heels and flee into the darkness. Whatever I do I must get away from these sex maniacs. I never dreamed that such things could go on in the centre of Oxford. There must be someone I can turn to for help.

‘Ah, there you are. What kept you so long from my side?’ My arm is seized and I am plucked into the shadows. ‘I said the south wall, did I not?’ The voice is as familiar as the hand that is shooting up the inside of my robe. It is the handsome man who received me at the head of the staircase.

‘I was detained – eek!’ I say. ‘Please don’t do that. And help me get out of here! I have been attacked twice.’

‘And how else can you expect to be elected Queen of the Made? Come measure your length on the sward with me. I pine for you …’

I pine for him, too. Though in my case it may be elm. Either way I hit him over the head with a branch and he slumps to the ground. Violence is very much against my nature but sometimes a girl has to say no firmly.

I leave the twitching body and run along the gravel path which winds through the long grass. From all sides come screams and occasional bouts of coarse laughter but I keep running. My last attempt at rescue is still a sore point with me – or possibly, with someone else. The college building looms up in front of me and I see the lights blazing in the room at the top of the staircase. No chance of escape there. Maybe if I strike off to the right there will be a gate leading to the street outside? I leave the path and run along a giant yew hedge which stretches parallel to the college building. Dark shapes loom on all sides and my heart seems to be pumping fear round my body rather than blood. Ahead of me lies the wall and—

‘Got you!!’

If it were possible to jump out of my skin I would be coming to earth half a dozen paces away. As it is, I tear my arm free from my latest attacker and run towards the college. The man must be drunk because I hear him curse as he stumbles when lunging at me. There is a door in front of me and I hurl myself at it. It is locked. I dart to one side and my pursuer bounces off the woodwork and blunders after me. Another door with a large metal handle. This time the handle turns. I push. The door opens. I fall inside and slam the door shut behind me. There is a bolt and I thrust it home like a dagger and listen to my breathing orchestrating the sound of the shoulder that thumps against the door.

‘Spoilsport!’ shouts a high-pitched upper-class voice. ‘That’s the last invite you’ll ever get.’

‘Piss off!!’ I shout. I know it is a terribly unladylike thing to say but I am at the end of my tether. Having been attacked four times and raped twice I hardly know which way to turn – and in those kinds of situations it is absolutely vital to know which way to turn.

‘What ails you, my dear?’

I spin round, terrified. I had imagined myself alone, but this is clearly not the case. The room in which I find myself is high-ceilinged with wood-panelled walls and a fireplace like a low bridge. Before the empty grate is a high-backed chair and on one arm I see a withered hand – I mean on one arm of the chair, of course. I step into the centre of the room and find myself looking down into the kindly eyes of an elderly white-haired man wearing a purple smoking jacket and embroidered slippers. It is a minute before I pick up the courage to speak.

‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘But do you know that your jacket is smoking?’

‘My goodness! So it is,’ he says, jumping to his feet. ‘Mrs Widdly has long told me that this pipe will be the death of me. Your intervention might well have saved my life.’

‘Your presence here may well have saved me from a fate some say is worse than death,’ I say, marvelling to myself at how soon you can get into the habit of speaking in a far more posher way than you are entitled to by your station in life – in my case, Highams Park.

‘The Deer Park?’ says the nice old man, shaking his head sadly. ‘Those young bucks still up to their knavish tricks, are they?’ I see him staring intently at my bosom and look down to see that my left breast has escaped from my torn gown. I hitch it over my shoulder – my gown, I mean – and nod demurely.

‘They’re like animals,’ I say.

‘It’s a bad business,’ says the old man. ‘A damned bad business.’ He must be genuinely disturbed because I can see that his hands are shaking. ‘I think you had best take a glass of Founder’s port to calm your nerves.’

How very thoughtful, I think to myself. This is more like the gracious Oxford I had imagined. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say. ‘Just a small one.’

It is strange how quickly I am recovering from my ordeal. In this quiet temple of learning I feel a thousand miles away from the ravening brutes wandering around the deer park. I cross to the window and look out across the cobbled court. Before me the chapel is now completely festooned with toilet paper. It looks beautiful. Like a freshly decorated Christmas cake.

‘I wonder what they used before toilet paper,’ I say, almost to myself.

‘I think they used a conveniently shaped stone,’ says the old man appearing at my elbow with a glass in his hand. ‘What a funny little thing you are, to be thinking about a thing like that.’

Once more, I find myself blushing to the roots of my hair. ‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘I was referring to the decoration of the chapel.’

I sip eagerly at my drink in order to cover up my embarrassment and am relieved to find that its rich texture has an effect that soothes almost immediately – not so much soothes as deadens. I hear the old man saying something about the chapel being burnt down three times in the eighteen-fifties and then he is leading me across the room by the elbow – at least, I think he means to take my elbow. He is obviously very short-sighted.

‘Adjust your limbs on the chaise-longue,’ he says.

‘I think this settee would be a better idea,’ I say, sinking down gratefully. ‘I don’t know what’s come over me.’ It occurs to me at the time that this is an unfortunate choice of words but I think it best not to draw attention to it. I take another sip of port and find my head drawn back irresistibly to the surface of the settee. How sleepy I feel.

‘Poor child,’ says the old man. ‘You have been through much.’

‘And vice versa,’ I say, swallowing a yawn. ‘I wonder if I ought to report what has happened to the college authorities.’

‘And who did you have in mind?’ says the nice old man. I can feel his gentle hands running over my body – no doubt looking for pieces of evidence that can be brought against people. It is quite nice, really.

‘I think I ought to go to the very top,’ I say.

‘Capital suggestion.’ The old man’s enthusiasm carries over to the speed with which he scrambles on top of me. How strange. I could have sworn – but no, it can’t be.

‘The Master,’ I say.

‘Speak, child. I am listening.’

‘You mean—!?’ I say as the settee takes off and starts to jerk across the room.

‘Yes, my dear. I am The Master.’

CHAPTER 3

‘You’re back early,’ says Dad.

‘A fleeting visit,’ I say.

‘Did you have a nice time?’

‘Lovely, thank you.’

‘Nice house?’

‘Smashing.’

‘Was your friend all right?’

‘Fine.’

‘You’re lying!!’ Dad bangs his fist down on the table and the Bemax leaps into the air. ‘She rang up at midnight last night to ask where you were!’

Oh dear. I might have guessed that Dad was up to something. He doesn’t usually ask me if I have had a good time.

‘I missed the train,’ I say.

‘There’s other trains.’

‘Yes – well, Geoffrey gave me a lift.’

‘Geoffrey!?’ Dad’s face contorts like a breakdown in an elastic band factory. ‘Is that the long streak of rubbish who practically wrote off my car?’ I nod weakly. ‘I’m not surprised he drives around in a hearse. He’s going to end up in one if I ever get my hands on him.’

‘Where did you spend the night?’ says Mum. This is the sixty-four thousand dollar question and I gulp nervously. How can I tell them the truth? I can hardly believe it myself. And to think I used to support Oxford in the boat race.

‘With that swine Geoffrey, I suppose?’ says Dad threateningly. I am about to deny this ridiculous accusation when I think again. Perhaps he would be the lesser of many evils. Geoffrey has always said that he would do anything for me and Mum has a soft spot for him.

‘The car broke down,’ I say.

‘Humph!’ snorts Dad. ‘That’s what they always say.’

‘We had separate rooms,’ I say. ‘I insisted.’

‘Why didn’t you tell the truth in the first place?’ says Mum.

I begin to snivel. ‘Because I knew you’d never believe me. You always think the worst of me!’

‘Stop that snivelling!’ barks Dad.

‘Don’t be harsh on the girl, Harry. You are inclined to find fault if you can.’

‘Those are tears of guilt!’ storms Dad, sounding like Billy Graham. ‘Oh, if I could just lay my hands on that swine!’ Just at that moment there is a ring at the front door bell.

‘Must be Natalie,’ says Mum.

‘If she’s lost her key again, I’ll tan her hide,’ snarls Dad. When I hear him talk like that about Nat, I realise how worked up he must be. Normally he can never find a bad word to say about my beloved sister.

‘It’s always better to tell the truth in the first place,’ says Mum, once he has left us. ‘It avoids so many misunderstandings.’ I am just beginning to agree with her when I hear an angry shout from the front doorstep and a scream of pain.

‘Oh my lord,’ says Mum. ‘What’s happened now?’

We run to the front of the house and I nearly cry out in horror at what I see. Dad is chasing Geoffrey round the front garden. Geoffrey is waving a cardigan which I recognise as mine and shouting something like, ‘She left it in the car, I tell you!’ His face is horribly bruised and I don’t think that all the bruises can have been caused by Dad. In fact, the way Dad is shaping up I doubt if he can have caused any of them. He takes a wild swing with his garden rake and the cherub’s head goes flying again. Oh dear, I know he took the whole of one evening trying to replace it.

‘You swine!’ shouts Dad. ‘Defiler of young girls! Don’t let me ever see you round here again. And if anything happens, you marry her. Is that understood?’

The neighbours’ windows are going up faster than the cost of living and I feel absolutely humiliated. As if I have not been through enough recently.

‘Dad, please!’ I shout. ‘Geoffrey hasn’t done anything.’

‘Get out of my garden!’ Dad does another swing with his rake, the top comes off the handle and lands about three gardens away. ‘Out!!’

Geoffrey looks as if he is about to say something and then shrugs his shoulders and drops my cardy on the hedge. I can see that he is making a big effort to keep himself under control. Say what you like about Geoffrey but he has been a good friend to me over the years. He climbs into his car and, with a slightly embarrassed little wave in my direction puts the mighty machine in gear and reverses powerfully into Dad’s car. It is as if the first time had been a practice run.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.