Rosie Dixon - Confessions from a Package Tour

‘Do you mind!’ I say. ‘I use that on my face.’

At first, I think that the man has understood what I have said because he puts down my flannel and turns towards me. ‘Very good,’ he says, moving to my side. ‘I like.’ He waits expectantly and I suddenly realise that there has been a terrible mistake. ‘I mean, I use the flannel on my face!’ I say, blushing furiously.

Oh dear, it is embarrassing, isn’t it? The great marrow arrow is nodding in front of me like some dumb creature trying to show that it understands and in my confused desire to stop the room spinning round I reach out and steady it. It is not that I want to touch it, it is just that I can’t bear the way it moves up and down. Totally misunderstanding my gesture, the man presses me down on the bed and stations himself between my legs. Once again I find myself on the horns of a dilemma – or, more exactly, nearly on the horn of a dilemma. If I give vent to the screams of horrified disgust that are welling up inside me, then the groping matelots will probably burst through the door. On my limited experience of their company can I honestly say that I am likely to fare better at their hands – and other things – than I am with the licentious Latin now attempting to give me a free nibble of his love lolly? The answer must be no. Terrifying as the prospect is, it seems better that I give this pussy bandit his way rather than raise the alarm and run the risk of sparking off a situation that could get out of hand. At least, I comfort myself, my principles will not be compromised.

Cheered by this thought I seize the flesh microphone and guide it away from my menaced molars. How strange the ways of the heart. Were the situation different I might be almost tempted to – no! The thought is too naughty even to be considered. What might take place behind the drawn curtains of the nuptial couch is not a fitting subject for conjecture in my present position – lying naked on the edge of the bed with my feet placed uneasily on the threadbare carpet.

An expression of disappointment hovers around the features of the proud possessor of the peerless pussy pummeller and is then replaced by one redolent of a new sense of purpose. Drawing away from the bed, he replaces himself between my thighs and strokes the head of his sceptre against my nether lips. Of course, it is all thoroughly underhand but I must confess to a feeling not totally disassociated with pleasure. I suppose that it is something to do with having a clear conscience. A few more gentle wriggles and I suddenly feel like a goldfinch’s nest that has had an ostrich egg laid in it. The provocative pelvis pounder pauses at the portals of my pleasure palace and then – eeek! Great jumping sausage skins! The king-size pork banger races into my interior like Stanley exploring Africa.

‘No!’ I squeal. ‘You mustn’t! Oh! Oh! OH!’

I would like to say more but the furious battering I am being subjected to drives all words from my lips. All I can do is try and retain some sense of decorum as I cling to my molester. He, for his part, starts to utter high-pitched grunting noises as he shunts me up the bed. This is obviously the last thing that I want to happen because the sounds may be heard by the desperadoes lurking outside the door. Weighing up the situation in a trice, I pull the man’s head down and silence his mouth with mine. It is a rough and ready remedy but it seems to be effective. The man’s snorts subside to gurgles and then die away completely as he slackens his impetuous motion and guides his hands down to frolic round the entrance to my love cave. Once again I experience the strangest sensation. In other circumstances, what is happening to me could be almost pleasurable. I close my eyes as the giant seed steed withdraws to the last point of contact with my body and then surges forward like a thoroughbred bursting from the starting gate. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAA –!’

‘Rosie! There you are!’

I open my eyes and turn my head. Penny is standing in the doorway, framed by a grinning mass of male faces. ‘You sly old fox,’ she says, coming into the room and starting to unbutton her blouse. ‘It didn’t take you long to get started, did it?’ I watch in horror as about fourteen men tumble into the room. Penny unzips her skirt and starts to pull down her tights. The wash basin comes away from the wall as there is an untidy fight for the soap.

‘OK, boys,’ says Penny. ‘Come and get it!’

‘How many Belgian francs are there to the pound?’ asks Penny.

‘I think it’s about eighty,’ I say.

Penny puts down the roll of banknotes and starts counting her fingers. ‘So … eighty into six thousand four hundred goes eighty … so that makes eighty quid. That works out at about two pounds a head, doesn’t it? – if you bothered to count their heads.’

‘Don’t!’ I shudder. ‘I can’t bear to think about it.’

‘I know what you mean,’ agrees Penny, thoughtfully. ‘I think we were done – in more ways than one. Look at the charge for the room – and what’s that TVR? It’s some kind of VAT, isn’t it? This is scandalous! I’ve a good mind to go to the British Consul about it.’

It is the morning after the most degrading night of my life. I don’t think that I have ever felt more exhausted. How the professionals keep it up I do not know. What started off with Penny’s idea of a light-hearted romp got completely out of hand. Torrents of the most unspeakable men of every shape, colour and creed poured through the door and did the most unspeakable things to us. There was even the Chief Stoker of the SS Foreskeen and a couple of Manchester United supporters left over from a pre-season friendly.

‘Is the money all you can think about?’ I say, reproachfully.

‘I suppose you’re right,’ says Penny, brightening. ‘It was a bonus, really, wasn’t it? We never thought we were going to get paid when we started out.’

‘What are you talking about: started out!’ I scream. ‘All I wanted was a hot bath, a square meal and a good night’s sleep. Instead of that I get gang-raped!’

‘You also get two thousand francs, darling,’ says Penny, peeling off some notes.