Rosie Dixon - Confessions from an Escort Agency

‘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.