Escape From Buggery
===================
I
Sharon and Tracey were two very close friends. They danced to the same
music. They liked the same kinds of films. They both bleached their hair
and dyed it the same outrageous shades. They even dressed much the
same: very tight short skirts; tee-shirts or tank-tops that clung tightly
to their chests; and teetering stilettos that threatened to throw them off
balance. And neither of them ever ever wore knickers.
They weren't the two prettiest you could ever have hoped to meet,
but they may well have been the randiest. Every Friday and Saturday Night
(and other nights besides) was a night to score. And if they didn't score
much more than once, they were terribly disappointed.
What were the girls' attractions to the who came inside them
perhaps once or maybe twice in their acquaintance? Well, they weren't fat.
In fact, they might be considered skinny. This was might have been because
of the exercise the got. Or the cigarettes they always smoked. Or
because they were always on one diet or another. Certainly all the sperm
they swallowed can't have been that fattening. Their skin wasn't tanned at
all: it was very pale. Nearly white. But of course they didn't
necessarily wait until they were out in the sun till they took their
clothes off. And when they did, it would be mostly in the heat of the
action. Their weren't especially large either. Sharon's were the
largest: shaped like apples with rosy pink nipples. Tracey's were more
pointed and she probably had almost as much nipple as to support
them.
However the were pretty much always available. They didn't cost
you anything, though you would probably worry about what illnesses you'd
picked up (not that that ever bothered the girls!)
The best fun Sharon could imagine was having two pricks up her - one in
her and the other up her arse - and another prick in her mouth. She
loved the taste and sensation of a throbbing warm sperm-secreting prick as
she took it from the tip of her lips and eased it towards the back of her
throat. The extra sensation in the other two orifices just added to the
pleasure.
Tracey preferred just one after another. That way, she would say,
you get through more in an evening. And they didn't get worn out so
soon.
In whatever way, they got their hearts' desires most weekends. They
didn't care if it was early in the evening or late. Whether it was in the
night club, at the back of the bar, on a bed or amongst the rubbish down an
alley-way. A good fuck was always welcome, and if you were too fussed
about where you had it, well, then who knows what fun you might have
missed.
They found out about the existence of Sex Holidays in the Sun in Buggery
during an evening back at the home of a who'd just picked the
pair of them up. Buggery, as they were to find out, was a small country
squeezed between the two republics of Sodom and Gomorrah. Their host was
just getting into action. His trousers and underpants were thrown off and
lying somewhere near the scattered parts of a motorcycle. His prick was
fully erect and straining in anticipation of fucking Tracey, who'd
volunteered to go first. Sharon was still shagged out after her earlier
fuck against the cubicle door at the night club they'd just been to.
She still had traces of streaks down her legs from when her drunk
lover had somehow confused the activities of and fucking. Tracey
had eagerly tugged up her tight boob tube and the folds of her throbbed with the same eagerness as the veins of her host's penis. She
wedged her arse on the seat of the ragged armchair and curled her legs on
either side of the armrests.
The room was in a fairly dingy state. The rugs were worn, the ceiling
was yellow with cigarette stains, and the television supported a weight of
magazines and ash trays. Not even the dusty film posters on the wall and
the clutter of cheap china ornaments on the cupboards added any real relief
to the drabness of the place. There was no evidence that the place had
been vacuum cleaned or dusted for at least a year. Not that either Sharon
or Tracey would have thought it at all unusual. They didn't bother
cleaning up their own flat much more often than that themselves.
"Daddy! Daddy!" cried a little in a stained night-gown clutching a
threadbare teddy bear. She was standing by the living room door rubbing
her eyes with the back of her fist. "Where's Mummy?"
"How the fuck should I know!" her replied angrily, his penis
still sticking out and twitching with desire. "Probably out fucking drunk
again."
"I can't get to sleep!" moaned the girl. "Take me to bed, Daddy!"
"What the fuck! What do you fucking take me for?" shouted her father.
Then remembering the two and perhaps wanting to retain some semblance
of gallantry, he said: "OK! OK! Let's go upstairs!" He wandered over to
his with his erection slowly drooping away. "I'll be back in a
second, girls."
"What the fuck!" echoed Tracey. "My twat's as itchy as pepper!" She
lifted herself up on the armchair and pulled her boob tube back down over
her crotch. She gazed around the room in boredom and frustration and
noticed that Sharon was reading a tabloid. "Oi! Sharon! What's with you!
You got all fucking literate or something?"
Sharon looked up. "Ever heard of Buggery?" she asked.
"Fucking hell, Sharon! What are arses for, 'cept for shitting and
fucking?"
"No, you pillock! The country called Buggery. This article here's all
about it. There's great holidays you can have there. Sex holidays. of hunky all ready and waiting. It's true! It's like a fucking
fuckathon. And look at the fucking price. It's cheap! It's fucking
cheap!"
"There must be a catch..."
"It says here that there's cock every-fucking-where! And it's always
gagging!"
"Yeah! But there's cock here! What do we need to go to fucking Buggery
for?"
"Yeh, right! But look at the cock on the hunks in these pictures in
here. Just fucking look at them! You don't get that at the Kaleidoscope
on a Saturday night!"
Tracey lifted herself out of her seat and leaned over Sharon's shoulder
to look at the article. It featured pictures of fairly ordinary like
themselves in the company of some lush naked with great looking cock.
And there were some average looking blokes with the kind of women you
didn't normally see except in calendars.
"Yeah! You're right! It looks fucking great!"
"Well, Tray. What d'you think? Sounds like a fucking laugh!"
"Yeah, Shar. Fucking great!" Tracey smiled. She looked up as their
host returned with a limp dick and a cheesy grin. "Well, here's lover back!"
The subject of Buggery frequently returned to their conversations in the
following days, and the soon found themselves planning a holiday
there in earnest. Their jobs were winding up at the call centre, and they
felt like a good break before looking for the next ones. They took some
glossy brochures out from the travel centre, and with the aid of the travel
centre staff, they started examining all the options.
Buggery was advertised in the many different brochures as variously
'Sperm in the Sun', 'Cunts in the Country' and 'Specialist Tastes Catered
For'. The brochures featured tasteful pictures of hotels, beaches and
fucking. Some of the fucking was fairly standard. Some wasn't even
fucking at all: masturbation, fellatio and voyeurism featured highly. The
brochures made great play of the variety of sexual pleasure widely
available (particularly homosexual) and the constant reminders that
under-age sex was strictly illegal only made it seem that much more
prevalent.
The holidays did seem really cheap, although there didn't seem to be
much that would be free when they got there. The hotels were
equipped with swimming pools, night clubs and bars. And the brochures had
hardly a which didn't feature a naked or woman: and the men!
Tracey felt hot just looking at the pictures. "I want that cock in me!"
she announced, pointing at the attributes of one smooth chested daintily carrying a drinks tray, and wearing a welcoming grin and nothing
else.
'Don't bother to bring any underwear', said the blurb for the 18 to 30
Centimetres Holiday that Sharon and Tracey opted for. This was in
Buggery's most developed resort. Night Clubs, Sex Bars, Hard Core Porn
Theatre and Cinemas on every street. A glorious sun-drenched sandy beach.
Sexual Couriers and Sex Guides promised. The name of the resort was Throb.
This sounded very promising.
The girls' normal fucks in the car parks, toilets and broom cupboards
just lost their lustre. They became humdrum and routine, if not even dull
and characterless. As also did the who did the fucking. They just
couldn't compare with what Buggery promised. And the homes they normally
visited, whose fag-end, beer-stained floors Sharon stared at between her
fore-arms while being fucked from behind, were just no comparison to the
swanky classy hotels of Buggery. Instead of the grime and mess with which
the were mostly acquainted, they offered twin double beds, balconies
facing the sea, and the promise of constant sex. All this with the bonus
of style, grace and massive pricks. Tracey grew increasingly sick of the
sight of stubbled chins, beer- guts and drunken boorishness. She wanted to
be fucked like a lady. And Sharon didn't care if she'd never got the
imprint of a damp brick wall on her arse again.
There wasn't that much severance pay, and the hadn't saved that
much. Night clubs and booze didn't come that cheap. But they had credit
cards and from the sums they did it it all seemed affordable at a pinch.
The didn't bother packing any underwear. Well, they wouldn't have
done so anyway. It was tempting not to bother bringing any clothes at all,
because no one in the brochure pictures ever wore very many of them. But,
of course, they needed clothes just to get to the Airport.
Which was where they joined other people on the morning of their
departure. Sharon was feeling slightly sick from lost sleep and the booze
from their last celebratory night out. Tracey had already puked up noisily
and messily before leaving home. Most of the other holiday-makers were and women somewhat than them and seemed generally rather less wasted;
but in their current state, Sharon or Tracey were really not bothered what
their companions were like. Many of the were quite clearly gay, which
would normally have bothered them. No opportunities for them there. And
some of the women were just as clearly lesbian, which although both Sharon
and Tracey were occasionally game, (even, on particularly bad nights, with
each other), this wasn't really what they were after. It was the local
talent that they were after; or at least that which was like what the
brochures promised.
There were two Couriers: a very and a hunk who the were
most keen on. He was much more like what they were looking for. Both
Couriers were from Buggery and seemed quite game for anything. Big John,
the male Courier, flirted with almost all the women and many of the men.
Tracey and Sharon took every opportunity to get close to him and revel in
his sexual aura.
The other Courier wore a very short skirt from which her buttocks were
perpetually just about to pop out as she moved. Her probably would
have done much the same if she'd been better endowed in that department,
but she didn't have very much on top (or nothing to speak of). She wore
ineptly applied make-up and her hair was tied in a curiously childish pair
of plaits with bright yellow ribbons tied to each. She was very friendly
with many of the and some of the women. One apparently wealthy woman
in her forties indulged in tongue-to-tongue kissing with the for what
seemed liked ages.
In fact, most of the girls' fellow travellers seemed to be wealthier
than either Sharon or Tracey. They hung around aimlessly in the
international lounge feeling out of place amongst the expensive shops and
restaurants. They tottered on their white stilettos, flicking ash from
their ciggies and stroking down their skin-tight skirts as they rode up
their thighs. They knew they had to kill some time, so they headed for one
of the many cafes spread about the concourse. They were not even too sure
what all the types of coffee on sale might be. They plumped for something
that turned out to look like oil dripping out from under a car and tasted
like shit.
When the two got on the plane, just from the appearances of the
airline hostesses, they knew they were on a very different type of holiday.
In fact, half the airline hostesses were men, but neither gender dressed
much differently from each other. All the wore was a little ribbon in
the design of the Buggery National Flag (a very boring tricolour) tied to
their penises. The women, who were similarly naked, had their pubic hairs
cut into the shape of the official national emblem of Buggery: which was a
fairly undistinguished leaf, probably ivy or oak. They did wear make-up
however, not just on their face but on key parts of their anatomy. The
nipples were made more aureate by the use of lipstick, and the vulvas
seemed unnaturally red.
The couriers continued to be very attentive to their guests on the
flight. They both took their clothes off in a very public gesture which
involved them actually physically tearing them to pieces. They then made
love which each other in a very frenzied way. Big John's penis was quite
unnaturally large and it had difficulty entering little Pussy's cunt, but
he persevered and made a lot of noise while doing so. At the climax, Big
John withdrew his penis and showed everyone all the semen shooting out in a
quite beautiful arch. At this stage, one of the male hostesses came along
and licked the remaining stains off his still twitching prick. Another
hostess cleaned off the traces of come off Pussy's face and breasts. She
was a woman with very large who had earlier rubbed them in the face
of several passengers on their request,.
After this entertainment, Big John announced that a film would be shown.
The lights went off and a very explicit sex film was shown. The concerned a who seemed to always succeed in getting raped
whatever he did or wherever he was. He started off going to school in
school clothes, but first his and then his seduced him and he
was persuaded to have sex with both of them. Then on the way to school, a
girl who seemed younger than him (possibly younger than Pussy) started
talking with him. This led to full explicit sex, involving things that
surely such people wouldn't know about. Even if they were as the
credits declared well over legal age. This sexual encounter was joined in
by a passing policeman. The film continued through more scenes of either
rape and seduction at school and elsewhere, and finally ended with quite a
long orgy sequence where most of the characters reappeared (from where and
why it was never explained) and indulged in as explicit action as was
physically possible.
After the on-flight entertainment was over, Sharon and Tracey could only
congratulate themselves for their choice of holiday and steel themselves
for the pleasures to come.
II
When the tour arrived at the King Richard the Sixteenth Airport at
Throb, they were carefully segregated from any local passengers who were
arriving. They saw very little of the Airport, in fact, but felt cheated
by having to pay Entry Taxes they hadn't anticipated. They were then
bundled with all the other tourists onto a coach which drove them from the
Airport to their hotel, the Second Honeymoon. On the journey they could
see through the coach windows what Throb had to offer. This was a tempting
array of long sandy beaches, towering marble hotels, ornamental parks and
billboard advertisements for night clubs and cinemas. The people they
glimpsed had also, like the girls, left their underwear behind. And almost
everything else from what they could tell. It would have been difficult to
determine who was a tourist and who was a resident in most cases, except
that the tourists had the tell-tale sign of white patches of skin which
hadn't got properly sun-tanned yet.
The Second Honeymoon was a grand institution in marble which slightly
intimidated a couple of like Sharon and Tracey who weren't at all
used to luxury. Or anything really approximating to it. Without exception
though, the staff there were naked except for little paper hats pinned to
the women's hair and little tricolour ribbons tied to the men's penises.
They were met by a female receptionist who had very tanned skin and
little rings pierced through her pert little nipples. She asked them if
they wanted two double beds or an extra large double bed - "for foursomes".
Being essentially conventional girls, Sharon and Tracey opted for two
double beds.
"All the staff are at your disposal, including myself," smiled the
receptionist, "and we all swing both ways."
"Thank you" assured Sharon who wasn't sure she wanted to take up the
offer, but was very attracted to the cute little bum of the porter who
carried their bags to their room.
"Let's try him out", suggested Tracey as they walked behind him.
When the porter had put their bags on the shelf, Tracey offered him a
tip. "No thank you", he said. "We're not allowed to accept gratuities.
On the other hand," he smiled, "if you want sex I am fully at your
disposal."
"Well, of course!" giggled Tracey. "But what about Sharon?"
"Oh, I can manage the two of you, but you can always call room-service
if you think you need more."
This was the girls' introduction to free sex on demand in Throb. An
introduction they accepted with no extra prompting. They had never had
such a virile and obliging sex partner in all their previous life. His
prick was rock hard and stayed that way for almost all the love-making,
taking both of them in turn and together, both front and back, only
releasing his semen when both of them were fully satisfied. Sharon
couldn't believe her luck as it penetrated her while she lay back on
the vast bed which she also could hardly believe was to be hers on their
stay there. A sickly grin filled her face and wouldn't leave. Tracey took
his balls into her mouth as he thrust energetically if mechanically back
and forth into her friend. Fuck! They were hard. Like fucking billiard
balls. How come she'd never licked balls like that before. There was no
way she could allow her friend to have all the fun, so on the first
opportunity, she positioned herself so that the porter could easily slide
his prick out of Sharon's and transfer it to her own. Wow! It felt
good. It was only one prick but it filled her like it was two. So this is
what fucking's really about! All the rest of her life had just been
preparing her for that moment. And what a body! Those muscles, the lines
of tension on his chest, and, above all, the cock. It was big and long and
throbbed with warmth and potency.
As they lay on the beds afterwards, pale viscous liquid trickling from
their sore cunts and smiles which betrayed they still couldn't really
believe their luck, he discreetly discharged a final and still monstrous
globule of semen that was distributed evenly on their sweaty white skin and
glistened in the brilliant sharp sunlight that flooded into the bedroom;
followed by two or three relatively smaller spurts. He then carefully
replaced his blue ribbon on his prick, stood up with a polite smile and
left the exhausted on the bed. Their hangovers were now thoroughly
forgotten and the only pain they now felt was as a result of their vigorous
fucking.
Although it was far more luxuriously appointed than any room they had
previously slept in, their bedroom was still not quite as perfect as the
brochure suggested. It faced onto a building site where the could
see some work-men at work, wearing only hard hats and boots, and of course
the ubiquitous ribbon on their pricks. The bedroom balcony looked down
from several onto a wide road along which there were many
restaurants, a night club and a small supermarket.
"It looks like we can buy all the fucking groceries we want," commented
Sharon, "And I fancy the look of those hats. They look fucking top."
However, it was sex, not groceries, for which the two friends had come
so far on holiday. And sex was clearly readily on demand. As the
literature left by the side of the wide screen made clear, if they
wanted it, all they had to do was ask. And since the most attractive
people they saw always turned out to be citizens of Throb under
instructions to be constantly obliging there would never be a problem in
deciding who it was they fancied. There was no doubt in the girls' minds
that this was a holiday where they would be well and truly fucked.
After unpacking their few belongings, they ventured out into the hotel
foyer to see what Throb had to offer them. Quite a few guests were already
congregated around the hotel atrium and the swimming pool who made the
girls seem positively overdressed in their bikinis and sandals. Most of
their fellow guests had taken a tip from the natives and had chosen to wear
no clothes at all. In fact, the hotel was one mass of naked flesh, some
well-tanned and some, like Sharon and Tracey, a kind of unhealthy pale
colour. However, this was a shortcoming they fully intended to correct.
Although normally brazen and unabashed at home, the class difference
between themselves and the other guests made the feel awkward and
uncomfortable. The few other guests they tried talking to were clearly not
that enthusiastic about talking to them. Indeed, it was almost too obvious
that were taking every opportunity to avoid conversation, or to keep what
they felt obliged to acknowledge as short, polite and inconclusive as they
could. However, there was one woman, somewhat than themselves, and
consequently with a rather more heavy frame, who was much more friendly.
"I'm Lil," she told them with an accent that betrayed her working class
origins. "I'm here with my hubby. He's off fucking somewhere, and I'm off
to do the same. You wanna join me?"
"Fucking A!" Sharon agreed. "A fuck's just what's needed."
Although Lil might have been born working class, she was clearly not
poor. Although totally naked, she was nicely tanned, her pubic hair was
neatly shaved off, and the prominent nipples of her heavy round were discreetly pierced with gold rings. There was also a prominent gold
ring through the lips of her labia. She sported an armful of silver
bangles, prominent rings on several of her pudgy fingers and her nails were
manicured and professionally painted.
"We come here every year, my hubby and me. It's the best fucking fun in
the whole fucking world. Buggery's got everything. And the fucking. It
does my fucking head in, and my feels like a fucking motorway it's
been driven so fucking hard."
The three went out together into the eponymously vibrant
atmosphere of the streets of Throb. There were very many other tourists:
many undressed and most of the others in various states of partial dress.
Along the streets and avenues, there were clubs, bars, restaurants and
other hotels, where they could see naked and women advertising their
sexual delights. Lil escorted the down some narrow roads, past
windows where residents sat proffering their naked genitals for show, up
some steps, past a small park and to a large club surrounded by palm trees
and above which flickered an blue neon sign . They walked boldly
through the door, past naked doormen with perpetually erect penises.
Sharon was pleased to see they didn't have to endure the unsubtle
interrogation they would have expected from plush clubs like that back at
home. And inside to an dance hall, illuminated by bright strobing
lights, and where there were countless floor shows.
These were not the tame strip tease floor shows the were
accustomed to at home, although there were the poles and bars which were
the normal accoutrements of such places. There were fucking men.
Women with dildos fucking women. fucking women. And suitably adorned
women fucking men. There was penetration from behind and in front. And
even areas where the participants were and shitting on each other.
Sharon and Tracey were spellbound.
Tourists were also joining in the fun. Fat women, skinny ones with
drooping breasts, with sagging guts and equally flaccid pricks, bald
men and scraggy women were also fucking or being fucked. And even being
peed and shat on.
Lil took no time waiting before she joined in the action. Within
minutes, a prick was up her arse and another was in her mouth. Sharon and
Tracey were more shy. Usually there was a little bit more to do before
their evenings culminated in that kind of action. They sat together at the
bar nursing their cold beers watching with fascination, disgust and a warm
sexual appetite.
"Hey, girls," said a naked whose erect penis had with a ribbon tied across the middle its length. "Do you want some fun?"
"Do we look like we don't?" asked Tracey. "Give us your cock, you
darling."
"And I want your little friend !" exclaimed Sharon, taking the also
erect and pleasantly warm prick of a to the side of him who could
hardly have been more than fifteen years old. And all about them throbbed
and thundered the sound of loud electronic dance music accompanied by the
flashing swooping lights which somehow seemed to keep to the exact same
rhythm.
The were guided, arm in arm with the two men, to a darkened room
on the floor of which was an immense futon-like mattress. And, then, with
little ceremony they were horizontal in the midst of it, surrounded by not
only its luxurious softness but also the grunts and groans of other
tourists who were also having sex. It was now that they realised that the
porter whose company they'd only enjoyed a few hours earlier was really not
exceptional in any way. Their two lovers were at least as expert and just
as completely lush. Sharon grinned face to face to her friend: only hers
was upside down and she could see straight into Tracey's nostrils. The pushed and thrust and pummelled at the girls' cunts and then their arses,
and the could only grin (and occasionally grimace). This was sex!
This was what sex was all about!
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" shouted Tracey as her lover continued fucking, not
lessening the power of his thrusts. She let forth a more inarticulate
yell, sure that the entire night club could hear her and was sharing in her
joy and ecstasy. This was highly unlikely, however, as the grinding trance
music thundered and rumbled at a volume many times louder than she could
ever yell. And if it were that anyone had heard her, they would have
assumed it was a sampled extract cross-faded into the music by the
energetic and shadowy disc jockey high above the dance floor.
And from then on, the two enjoyed an almost perpetual orgy of sex
with the constantly tumescent around them. Not just the other at
the night club who they later joined on the mattress, but later that day
and on the days following. There was the waiter at the pizzeria, the
coast-guards on the beach and a trio of attractive they met in a bar.
They soon got used to being fucked wherever and whenever an opportunity
came along. Ad it wasn't just them who took advantage of this cornucopia
of copulation. Indeed, a frequent sight the got accustomed to was
seeing couples and groups of people fucking all over the place.
Sometimes it was an shoving his prick up the backside of a
small boy. Sometimes it would be a group of buggering each other.
Sometimes it would be an woman with her tongue firmly inside the
mouth of a younger woman. Sometimes they would see a beating in
the street with a stick, whilst an assistant held a further choice of
sticks like a caddie carrying golf clubs. Was there no variety of
perversion or predilection not available in Throb?
However, it did seem a little strange that all these encounters featured
a tourist and never did you see citizens of Throb indulging amongst
themselves, except for the entertainment of the tourists.
Sharon and Tracey became frequent visitors of many Night Clubs, not just
the one Lil took them to, but to many others. Their inhibitions dropped
sufficiently for it not to seem at all surprising for Sharon to be kissing
a woman while Tracey wiggled her fingers inside Sharon's whilst
sucking the prick of a they'd just met. When they weren't having
sex, they would be drinking or dancing, but even there sex seemed not too
far away.
The dance floors were scattered with couples and groups people fucking
on the ground while others, mostly residents from Throb, would dance around
them and hardly be drinking at all.
"How come the men's dicks are always erect?" Sharon asked another friend
the two had met.
This was Pru, a skinny woman in her forties who kept her covered
although she always displayed the worn brown hairs of her cunt. She also
always wore her turtle-shell glasses and kept her greying hair tied back in
a bun. "I know the answer to that," she said with a sad voice.
"Why's that?" wondered Tracey.
Pru simpered and stroked the coarse hairs of her vagina. She wasn't the
sort of woman Sharon and Tracey would have got to have known back home.
She seemed quite posh to them, and the suspected that the reason she
came here for her holidays was that back home it would have been really
quite difficult for her to get the sex she quite obviously craved.
"I was talking to this one evening," she explained. "He was a sweet
lad. Really quite innocent, despite all the sex he'd had. We'd had sex in
my room, and afterwards we got talking. You know how most of the time the
people here don't talk about much at all. Just the weather, and nonsense
about how wonderful we are. And that's when they can be persuaded to say
anything. But I like a bit of a talk you know. I don't get a chance to
talk to such good-looking chaps back home, so I like to talk whenever I
can. I like the sex but I also like a talk."
"Well, yeah!" said Sharon, getting bored. "But what about their
stiffies? What makes them so fucking horny all the time?"
"It's drugs, I'm afraid. They take these drugs all the time to keep
them sexually aroused. The women as well as the men. And they get
training as well. There are many more applicants to work her, especially
among the chaps, than there is anyone here. And judging by how many there
are here, that's a jolly large number of chaps who want to be here. And do
you know why they're so keen?"
"It's 'cos they want to fuck, ain't it!"
"Well, Tracey, it's not just that. It's that if they don't make the
grade they're off to fight in the war. I don't know about the women,
although there are as many of them as the chaps, but the chaps, it's
because they don't want to die in the war."
"What war?" wondered Tracey, who got most of her news from watching
television, and then only when by mistake she found herself watching a news
broadcast.
"You must know. Buggery's been at war with Gomorrah since forever. Or
at least when they're not at war with Sodom. It's a pretty vicious one by
all accounts, though Western news crews don't get to film it. Anyway, even
if by coming here they escape it for a while, that's where they all end up
when they get too or they can't keep it up or they break the rules or
whatever."
"What rules?" wondered Sharon. "There don't seem to be any fucking
rules here. You can fuck who you like, how you like, where you want, when
you want, all the fucking time."
"There are rules. This lad told me all about them. There are rules
about saying things to tourists. There are rules about falling ill: they
don't treat them if it's bad, they just kick them out. There are rules
about refusing tourists' requests. Or for not being sufficiently eager in
offering themselves. And there's no question about turning down sex with
someone of the same sex as them. They've just got to do it. Up the arse,
during a period or when they're feeling under the weather. It's really
quite organised here, despite the apparent freedom. And there's another
thing he told me..."
"Yeah," said Tracey, who wasn't really too keen on this conversation.
She didn't want her holiday spoilt by feeling sorry for people. She didn't
come all this way, just to feel sorry for the people of Buggery.
"The way they charge for all of it. None of it's free. After each
encounter, they have to keep a strict tally of what they've done, who with,
where, etc. It all gets added up and put on your bill at the end.
Nothing's free here. It just gets charged at the end. The night clubs
aren't free. The alcohol's not free. And the sex isn't free either,
except when tourists do it with each other. It all seems free because they
never ask for money and they don't expect you to carry any around with you.
But they all seem to know who you are, where you come from, what your hotel
room is, and everything. I don't know how they do it, but they do."
"Fuck! You mean they follow us wherever we go?"
"I don't know if they follow us, Sharon. But nothing passes them by.
And it's a pretty punishable crime if someone pretends that there was more
sex than there was, or, for that matter, less. There must be some kind of
surveillance system. God knows how it works! And it's not as if any of
the people get anything for it. From what this lad told me, they sleep
wherever they can. They don't have their own rooms or beds. That's one
reason why they all want to sleep in our beds at night. And the food they
eat's only as luxurious as we ever give them if we feel like it."
"Oh fuck!" Tracey exclaimed. "This is fucking gloomy! I don't want to
think these people are suffering. I'm no fucking charity."
"Yeah!" agreed Sharon. "Let's change the subject..."
"Or better still," suggested Tracey. "Let's go to the pool. There's
some real gorgeous hunks there I wouldn't mind creaming my cunt, I can tell
you!"
In their hotel room, there was a wide choice of satellite sex channels
but only one television station originating from Buggery. Although it
wasn't explicitly advertised as pornography it might as well have been as
it was more explicit in many ways than pornography at home. One feature of
it that became fairly clear was that none of the presenters or fictional
characters on Buggery Broadcasting Corporation Television wore any clothes
at all. They were never than their mid-thirties. Not only that,
they shaved off all their bodily and pubic hair, wore very little jewelry
and had very long hair if they were white women (or shaved heads if they
were black or oriental). This was only strange insofar as the citizens of
Throb didn't necessarily shave off their body or pubic hair and rather a
lot of them had pierced nipples, vulvas, noses and ears.
The content of the television programs was also bizarre. None of the
films or programs were advertised as containing explicit sex, but they
almost all did. In the children's programs, children would be shown how to
perform fellatio and masturbation. In the interview programs, a remarkable
amount of sex occurred between interviewer and interviewee. The
advertisements all seemed to have a sexual content, although generally the
advertisements were more public announcements for donating money to the
government's war with Gomorrah and instructions for approved codes of
conduct. Sometimes this was quite odd, where an advertisement quite
clearly showing a man's prick up a seven year child's bottom was used
to emphasise that this was proscribed behaviour - like bestiality, genital
abuse and sadism, which was similarly treated.
The news programs were also very bizarre. Sharon and Tracey couldn't
easily compare their content as they didn't watch many news broadcasts at
home, but it did concentrate rather a lot on the comings and goings of the
King. He was almost always featured in very flattering shots and almost no
film was shown of what was supposed to be happening, only the places where
it was happening surrounded by large numbers of other people in the shaven
nudity standard on the station. All other news, especially foreign news,
took a much smaller role and was generally only accompanied by still
photographs of the head and neck of the people involved. Or by a still
photograph of where it was supposed to be happening. Very graphic details
were given of the atrocities perpetrated by the Gomorrans in the war, and
this was the only international news items where there were any moving
pictures of anything other than the newscaster. The pictures featured the
naked citizens of Buggery enduring graphic mutilation, and pictures of what
purported to be Buggery soldiers (although they looked glamorous enough to
be actors and actresses with guns) shooting fairly indiscriminately at
their targets.
One children's program showed the curious standards of Buggery society.
In this program, a was shown getting ready for school but being
persuaded to have sex with his before leaving. This apparently was
not proscribed behaviour. After this, which didn't appear to be that
enjoyable for the child, there was further humiliation when the child
arrived at school late, was diagnosed as having had sex from the marks on
his rear and was further punished by being caned. What moral there seemed
to be to this was not at all clear, except that one had to accept
arbitrary cruelty as an everyday fact of life.
How could the films in the Hard Core Cinemas possibly beat that?
wondered the girls. They had a look at the billings to see what there
might be, but the cinemas all seemed to specialise in specific perversions.
There was one for bestiality, one for male homosexuality, one for female
homosexuality, one for child sex, and so on. They all promised films
interspersed by live acts. Sharon wondered what would be screened in the
cinema specialising in bestiality but she didn't really want to find out.
The only times you saw people from Buggery having sex with each other
were in the live acts at the Night Club and in the hotel bar. And there
were literally no holes barred. The sex seemed to go on and on,
occasionally interspersed by splendid, even artistic, flourishes of
spurting semen. And then with little pause and remarkably prompt recovery,
the participants were back at it again. Arses, mouths, vaginas penetrated
vigorously and expertly. Positions taken which exceeded either girls'
imagination and requiring rather more physical flexibility than either were
capable of. A more impossibly energetic or athletic lot you could barely
imagine!
III
To be able to afford their holiday in Buggery, both Sharon and Tracey
had told several white lies about their financial wealth: lies that they
hoped wouldn't catch up with them while they were on holiday. Perhaps the
lies weren't that small, but the were somewhat naïve as to what they
were likely to get away with. At first these lies didn't worry them while
they were enjoying so much themselves in Throb.
Throb was an aptly named resort they found, as this was exactly what
their cunts did all the time after each day. They soon got used to days of
sex on the beach, in the night clubs, in the hotel and in the bar. They
soon stopped wearing any clothes at all: carrying all they needed in
shoulder bags. There was no theft in Throb, which was good as they often
had to drop their bags wherever they happened to be. Total nudity began to
seem a little too innocent for two such worldly girls, and so it wasn't
long that like many other tourists and many of the residents of Throb they
got their nipples pierced and rings put through them. It didn't stop
there. They also had their vulvas pierced in several places. Soon little
rings dangled from between their legs to go with the rings through their
nipples, the bangles on their arms and the earrings. A pleasing jangle
accompanied every step as they walked around. When they raised their arms,
a cascade of bangles followed in chorus.
Every morning, they'd wake up with at least one sharing their beds,
ready for a quick fuck before breakfast. Then after that, some more sex as
the day progressed, wherever and whenever it took their fancy. Their
vaginas were constantly bruised, they always felt like they were exhausted,
but the sex was so very good, they just couldn't turn down any chance for
more.
One evening, they had two in their bed who'd they'd picked up
on the beach. "This is fucking paradise!" mused Sharon as a penis thrust
in and out of both her arse and her cunt, while Tracey greedily gobbled on
the two adjacent set of balls. "This can't be real! Sex wasn't supposed
to be as good as this!" In fact, it never had been before. This was real
fucking: intense, continuous, not a limp dick in sight. The back home
just had nothing to offer in comparison. They'd never be satisfied like
this again.
The two were expert in sharing the attention of the two voracious
friends. While one thumped away mercilessly at Sharon's arse, the other
was simultaneously fucking Tracey's cunt. And then while the were in
ecstasy, they'd somehow alter positions: the first taking Tracey's arse
while the other transferred his attention to Sharon's cunt. And then as
Tracey gulped in paroxysms of delight, the one took his prick out of Sharon
and pushed it into Sharon's arse, giving her again that full feeling she so
craved where inside her she could feel one prick sliding against the other:
giving her dual stimulation on the skin dividing one orifice to another.
She'd thought that now, after the fucking she'd got at least once every few
hours, that by now the pleasure would be diminished. That in some way,
she'd lose interest from familiarity. But, no, it was like a drug to her.
The more she was fucked, the more she craved it. The soreness of her arse
was lessened by the usage, but the desire for it certainly did not. Nor
did it for Tracey, who took the opportunity to crawl over the mattress and
apply her tongue to the two sets of rock-hard testicles bumping against
each other as they pushed and pushed into Sharon. Before long, it was too
much for her, as she greedily pulled one off her friend, and motioned
his erect prick into her cunt. And somehow, like so many times and so many
lovers before, the knew when they had exhausted the and released
streams of semen which spurted onto the girls' and flowed onto
their bellies.
"I hope we can do this forever!" remarked Tracey as they wandered down
to the foyer, licking traces of semen from their lips. There they saw Lil
dressed for the first time since they'd first met her. At first they
didn't recognise her in her tight- fitting skirt and top, as up to then,
they'd only seen her nude. She wasn't a nudist, as she'd told them many
times, and they were keen to reassure her that they weren't either. It was
just that clothes were such an unnecessary encumbrance in Throb.
Lil seemed quite upset. She was standing by herself holding an invoice
in her hand. "Look at what the bastards have charged me!" she shrieked
when the greeted her. "Every fucking drink, every fucking night club
and every fucking fuck. All on the bill. Nothing's escaped them at all!
How'd they know all this?"
She showed an itemised bill, which went on for several pages. It listed
every drink she'd had, every night club she'd entered and every meal she'd
eaten. In addition, it included an itemised account of every sexual
encounter she'd had. So much for oral sex, so much for vaginal sex, a bit
more for anal sex and a lot more for having someone to spend the night with
her. Group sex and sex were charged at a further premium. Tracey
gasped with shock as she glanced at the total and made a rough estimate at
what it meant converted back to their home currency. Not only was it a
large sum, far more than she'd ever expected, a little extra arithmetic
(not something for which she had a native skill), told her that Sharon and
she had actually been rather more active and indulgent than Lil (despite
her boasts) and that their bill was likely to be several times larger.
"And it's not just what I've been doing, we'll get charged for. My
hubby's been enjoying himself. I don't know the details but from what he's
told me we're gonna have the world's most fucking horrendous headache
paying for all this. We might be well-off, but haulage don't make
millions. I don't think we'll be able to afford another holiday here for a
lo-ong while."
"Are you leaving now then?" asked Sharon.
"Yeah! We are. Another day here and we'd have to re-mortgage the
house. I can't believe the bastards. Every fucking cock and every fucking
cunt!. I'm surprised they didn't charge us by the weight of sperm. And
there weren't no hint of this till we settled up. The fucking smile on
that bastard girl's face." She nodded towards the demure but naked
receptionist, who with a broad imperturbable smile was serving a bill to
another white-faced couple. "I bet she enjoys stinging the fucking
tourists! That's how this country makes it money, I reckon. They get us
in with a promise of dawn-to-dusk sex (and then a bit more!) and nothing
passes them by. Not a single fucking tiny insignificant orgasm. What
fucking cheek!"
"What are you gonna do about it?" wondered Tracey with genuine interest.
"There's fuckall we can do. We'll just have to pay by credit card and
hope the limit's big enough. Hey, here comes hubby!"
Her husband, a large in a suit and tee-shirt wandered towards them
carrying a small case and holding his bill in his hand. His stubbled face
did not look well pleased. "Fucking bastards!" he exclaimed,
mirroring his wife's comments. "That orgy on Friday cost us nearly a
month's income!"
Tracey and Sharon retreated to the beach, the only place they knew where
they wouldn't be charged for going, and spread themselves out, naked as
always except for the jewellery that adorned them . They stared towards
the sea where the waves crashed onto the shore and where several other
tourists were fucking and being fucked on the fine-grained sand.
"What are you thinking about?" asked Sharon, knowing full well why
Tracey was so untypically quiet.
"I don't think we can afford the bill."
"Yeah, but we got plastic. That'll cover it, won't it! What the fuck's
plastic for, anyway?"
"Yeah, we got plastic. But we also got, - whatchayoucallit? - credit
card limits. That's the most you can put on plastic. The absolute tops."
"Yeah, well?"
"Yeah, well. It's not gonna be enough. Not nearly fucking enough!
Those cunts have got us. You saw what Lil's paying. And you saw what
she's paying for. Not even half a dozen fucks a day."
"She always said she'd done more than that."
"Well. She's old, ain't she. She can't do it as much as we can. And
anyway, she ain't had our practice. I always thought she were a bit
light-weight. We've done two, three, four, I dunno, much more fucking than
her."
"She can't take it, can she?"
"Yeah, but least she can pay for it. We can't! We're fucking screwed!
I don't know what the fuck we're gonna do!"
"Yeah, so what! It's on plastic, ain't it?"
"Course it is. But when we come to pay, our plastic's gonna bounce.
It's gonna bounce worse than a fucking beach ball. It's gonna bounce. And
we're gonna be well and truly fucked."
Sharon frowned. She stroked the rings in her labia, the cost of which
she was now bitterly regretting. "So, what they gonna do to us?"
"They're gonna lock us up and throw away the fucking key. We're gonna
spend the rest of our lives in some fucking jail. And the fucking
ambassador's not gonna bail us out. Not a couple of tarts like us."
Sharon's face visibly paled in the sun. She chewed on a fingernail.
"I'm scared, Tray. You think that's what they're gonna do?"
"Well! What do you fucking think? This ain't home, is it? They can do
what they fucking like here. I don't fancy our chances at all."
After further discussion, they decided that the only option open to them
was to try and make a quick get-away from Throb to avoid paying the bill.
It wasn't a thought uppermost in their minds the last week or so, but now
it seemed like the only sensible option. It wouldn't be the first time
they'd absconded without paying, but this looked like being the most risky.
However, before planning an escape, they first had to survey the lie of the
land. One thought they had was that if they left from a different border
from the one they arrived they might get away without the Royal Government
of Buggery demanding the money that would soon be owing. How to get to
this border was the big question.
Throb was not that large a resort. It was perhaps ten miles along the
coast and went two miles inland. Inside the town's perimeters, all was sex
and sun. Hotels, night clubs, bars and beach. However, the two friends
found that if you walked far in any direction you came across a wire fence
guarded by fierce looking or women with curious rubber truncheons and
snarling dogs. Even the furthest reach of the sandy beach was lined with a
row of sharp spikes and barbed wire to keep tourists in. And possibly,
also to keep other people out. Beyond, this was a kind of wilderness with
battered shacks and the odd grazing goat. Although this containment seemed
strange to the girls, it essentially meant that it was nowhere as easy to
leave Throb as it might at first have seemed.
"So, do you know of a way out?" Sharon asked Pru in the bar that
evening, after having explained their dilemma. She seemed extremely
uncomfortable with her knowledge of the girls' circumstances, if not even
rather embarrassed/
"Well, in any normal place, I'd suggest you just come clean," she
answered, "but, here, and don't ever tell anyone I suggested this to you,
have you ever thought of going on a day trip? At least you can get out of
Throb and maybe you can find your way to another border from there."
It had never crossed the two girls' minds to leave the holiday resort.
After all, everything they wanted was close at hand. Why go anywhere else?
Sharon and Tracey couldn't care less about ruins or museums or anything
cultural. They couldn't think of anything more piss-poor boring. But
reluctantly, and with a little help from Pru, they had a look at what day
trips were available. These were all displayed in a quaint looking Tourist
Information Centre near the beach.
Almost all the day trips were to parts of the country where the main
raison d'être was the sex that was on offer when you got there. One which
seemed suitably remote and seemed comfortably close to Sodom, with which
Buggery was not at war, was a small place called Pederasty. Besides the
promise of "immature love", there was a mediæval castle and a particularly
large monument to King Peter the Fourteenth, the current ruler of Buggery.
The two left almost all they had at the hotel, except money,
jewellery, passports and bikinis for the airport which they tucked into
their bags. They didn't want to arouse suspicion by taking things out of
their room like toothbrushes or clothes. They got on to a bus full of
other tourists heading to Pederasty, which mostly consisted of middle-aged
or men. Many of them were still clothed, but one or two had got into
the spirit of life in Buggery and wore nothing but hats to keep the sun off
their eyes. These were the with the most leathery skin and the most
lined faces.
There were only two other women besides themselves. One was a tourist,
in her late thirties wearing only glasses and skin peeling painfully
from exposure to the sun. She told Sharon and Tracey that she was keen in
getting a one-third her age inside her cunt, as it was a life-time
ambition of hers. "I've got a son that age, and I often wonder what it's
like. What about you?"
Sharon lied that she also thought that little boys' pricks were the
best. "Oooh! I just can't get enough of them!" She exclaimed
unconvincingly, although she'd always preferred her pricks as and
long as possible.
The other woman was a travel courier and barely a woman at all. She was
perhaps thirteen and her were mere bumps with puffy nipples. She
wore nothing but a little flower in her which she encouraged the other
tourists to tweak. She waggled her bum as she passed by and giggled
appreciatively if anyone pinched it. After off a just opposite
them on the bus, Tracey ventured to ask "If we really like it in Pederasty,
can we stay the night?" The girl, who called herself Little Pussy, wiped
the semen from her mouth and looked a little alarmed.
"Are you likely to do that?"
"It sounds like a paradise on earth to us, this Pederasty place, dearie.
We'd just love to stay all night."
Little Pussy, who had been hard selling the underage delights of
Pederasty was put in a difficult position. "Well, it sure is a wonderful
place, but are you sure you won't want to go back to Throb?"
"Can't we just book into a hotel and come back on a bus later, dearie?"
suggested Sharon.
"I'll check with Big Hunk", Little said referring to the driver.
This came back with a reserved affirmative, but both Little and
Big Hunk seemed very uncomfortable with the two from then on. Little
Pussy was very insistent on having sex with the two in the apparent
hope of changing their minds, but although Sharon let her, and had to admit
she was very good at it, that couldn't have been sufficient. In any case,
although she liked the attention of Little Pussy's fingers and tongue on
her vagina, not to mention her nipples and mouth, it was she preferred.
Both she and Tracey had always preferred a good cock: though given the
choice between the pleasant firm body of the little and the flabby,
unpleasant looking bodies of the male tourists they were with, she couldn't
be sure that her interests were really so gynaecological rather than
aesthetic. She took pleasure, as she lay back on her seat next to Tracey,
with the small between them, fingers and tongues sharing their
sunburnt bodies equally, at the stares she was receiving from the other
tourists. Fuck you! She thought with pleasure as she saw one overweight
man uncomfortably stroking his tiny penis, trying to get more life into
what little of it there was.
Certainly, the became aware that although in terms of sexual
activity they had a freedom impossible at home, their freedom was
circumscribed in other ways. As they passed through the town limits of
Throb, the guards were very insistent in looking at passports and at the
things the were carrying. "Why the bikini?" asked one border guard,
a very muscular woman wearing leather boots and shoulder pads but nothing
else but well-built muscles.
"Too much sun", suggested Tracey. The guard sniffed. It was the
couriers, not the tourists, who got most attention from the guards and none
of it very friendly. Little had her legs prised open while one guard
shoved his fingers inside her as if he were looking for something.
She smiled weakly at the rest of the bus during this obvious humiliation,
while the guard licked the come off the fingers of one hand, but continued
probing with his other hand.
It was a relief for the girls, but even more so for Little Pussy, when
the bus finally drove out of Throb and travelled through the countryside of
Buggery. This was the first time the had seen so much of Buggery
outside of Throb, and it was not especially beautiful. The countryside
consisted mostly of parched farmland with pot- holed roads, lined at
intervals of every hundred meters by large posters of King Peter XIV. In
fact, there were rather more reminders of his rule outside Throb than
they'd ever seen inside. Every small village had a statue of him and of
previous monarchs. Every lamp post and every telegraph pole had a portrait
of him attached to it. The impression given from the pictures and statues
was that he was a genial and dignified person. His favourite pose was to
stare into the half-distance, with a grim smile, surrounded at his knees by
a coterie of seated attractive naked women whilst brutal looking stood
just beside him looking towards him with proud admiring gazes.
In the fields were peasants in various degrees and types of undress.
They stopped briefly at one village, which appeared to operate entirely for
the benefit of tourists, where they were allowed to their legs and
buy drinks and snacks from some makeshift stalls. This had an ambience
very similar to the small markets of Throb, but didn't offer nearly enough
other distraction to encourage anyone to stay.
IV
It was after several hours of bumpy roads and undistinguished fields
that the bus eventually arrived at Pederasty. This was no more
prepossessing than anything else they'd seen, being a small walled town
surrounded by dirt and rubble, beyond which stretched interminable miles of
country lanes and fields of naked labouring peasants. Little stood
up and opened the bus door. "Welcome to Pederasty. The little joys and
desires you've always wanted to sample are here for you. The rules which
usually bound behaviour in Buggery are totally removed here: so it doesn't
matter how he is, just go ahead!"
The passengers filed out into a town full of little boys. At first it
looked like there were little there as well, and that the were
just the naked ones who were sitting indolently around. But some of the
apparent in their pretty plaits, ribbons and little dresses pulled up
their dresses to show that not only were there no knickers there but that
they were in fact also as well. The passengers were soon surrounded
by willing crowds of who dragged them willingly away to whatever it is
they wanted to do. The middle-aged woman was one of those who opted for
the attention of one of the dressed as a little girl. She stood by
the road side and enjoyed him stroking her well-worn cunt.
"I'll escort you to the hotel," announced Little to Sharon and
Tracey before they disembarked. "And can you sign this document to say
that you're not coming back today otherwise the police will be very unhappy
to see that the numbers leaving Throb aren't the same as those returning."
They signed the document and then walked with Little towards the
hotel. This was just outside the walls of the town and had the appearance
of a converted monastery. "Aren't there any little here?" asked
Sharon.
"Goodness no!" said Little a little aghast. They passed by one of
the tourists who was buggering a and in turn being buggered from behind
by another boy. "If you wanted little girls, you should have gone to Tight
Rim. There's lots of little there - most of them younger than me!
They'd give you the treat of your life and they don't care what you do! If
that's what you want I can arrange it for you. Or if you don't want to
leave Throb, we can arrange for a little to come to your room at the
time of your choosing!"
Sharon declined the offer. She wasn't too sure she even really wanted
sex with a little boy. She was beginning to think there was something
slightly distasteful about all these running around shoving their
fingers up their bums and wiggling their little willies.
Little left them at the reception desk of the hotel. "I'd love to
stay longer, but I've got to look after the welfare of the others. It
always gets difficult rounding them up at 6 o'clock, so don't be too
surprised if you find that some others decide to stay here." She didn't
really sound like she believed that, but it was clear that the Petit Garçon
Hotel had its fair share of guests. They were mostly elderly men, but
there were a few younger couples sitting in the hotel bar. The staff were
all boys, and a fair proportion were dressed like chambermaids and
waitresses. In fact a chambermaid could be seen with his prick firmly up
the anus of a waitress who was lying on his back with his legs hooked by
his arms. This seemed to be for the entertainment of the people drinking
in the bar.
The receptionist was another dressed to look like a with very
thick lipstick and pendulous earrings. He looked at the girls' passports
and copied the details into his book. "How long are you staying?"
"Tomorrow?" suggested Tracey.
The receptionist nodded and wrote this down. "A each, is it?"
"Sorry, love?"
"You can have a for each of you or one between two. A each?"
"One between two," said Sharon, who wasn't too keen. "And make him,
erm, sixteen."
"I'm afraid fourteen's the oldest we've got. I'm fourteen. Fancy me?
Or do you want to see the selection?" He presented the with brochure
in which there were photographs of many naked, or near-naked, with
details as to their sexual preferences. "We've got a for every taste.
But if you don't see exactly what you want, I'm sure whoever you choose can
be precisely as accommodating as you wish.
Sharon and Tracey absent-mindedly pointed at the glossy photographs of
one little from the selection, and as they'd seen about as much as they
really wanted to see of Pederasty, they went straight to their bedroom.
"We'll leave tomorrow with our passports!" announced Sharon, as soon as
they got there. "That little boy's hardly got a prick at all! What do we
expect him to do? Stick it in our ears?"
In fact, Bum Fluff, as he was called, was quite ingenious with what he
could do. He looked younger than his years, though, partly because the
hair on his groin had been plucked out and partly because he was rather
short. His prick was quite a respectable size after all, but after the
double, and sometimes triple, entries the had got used to in Throb it
was only by keeping the jewellery in place in their vaginas that they
managed to gain anything like the sensation they'd got accustomed to. He
seemed quite relieved when the didn't use the sex tools that were
provided by the hotel to bugger him from behind. It was a bit of a shock
to Sharon, but when he rolled onto his stomach after squirting his sperm
into Tracey's cunt, she could see a little bit of dried blood congealed at
the bottom of his anus just by his little testicles.
"Did you yourself love?" wondered Sharon stroking his buttocks.
"Occupational hazard," smiled Bum Fluff.
"There're some rough sorts here, aren't there love?" confided Tracey,
who was thinking more of the lads back home.
Bum Fluff didn't compromise himself further by commenting, so the didn't pursue the subject. The kissed him gently on the cheek, and
let him lie on the bed beside them. Sharon turned on the television.
There was good Buggery Broadcasting Corporation which was showing a
program on the correct way to shave around the penis. "Remember, use
tweezers - never a razor-blade," came the advice from a very sweet lady who was tugging out hairs from a very tumescent penis.
The other two channels were showing videos: both featuring under-age
sex. "One side's and the other's girls," explained Bum Fluff.
"You mean dressed up as girls."
"No, the real thing! It's the only place we ever see little girls. I'd
like to fuck one." He turned the television channel from the one showing a
boy being fucked by a from behind in turn being fucked from one behind
him, to a program showing a of ten who was sitting on an man's
lap with a prick right up her vagina.
Bum Fluff, Sharon and Tracey watched this film which was the of
little between eight and twelve who made love with each other, were
buggered by or had objects pushed up their orifices. "Sometimes
you see them with dogs and donkeys," explained Bum Fluff a little too
excitedly. "I often wish I was one of those donkeys!"
After the film had finished and Bum Fluff had excused himself, the didn't stay much longer to savour more of the delights of Pederasty. In
fact, when Bum Fluff left the room, Sharon felt somewhat disgusted with
herself. She wasn't used to feelings of moral guilt or regret, but somehow
this was different. The children here were not as good at appearing to
enjoy themselves as the residents of Throb, and, in any case, child sex had
never been one of Sharon's fantasies. Nothing was better than a good long
stiff prick and a real man's body. The other tourists rather disgusted
her. Indeed, they'd probably have disgusted her anyway. and fat
men and patently unprepossessing had never attracted her. She felt
genuinely sorry for the who had to endure their predatory attentions.
"I dunno," said Tracey, when Sharon confessed her feelings. "It's us we
gotta look out for. These kids'll get fucked whether we're here or not,
but it's our own fucking skin we gotta worry about most."
Before the afternoon shadows shortened , Sharon and Tracey sneaked out
with their passports (which they'd pretended they'd left at Throb to avoid
leaving them at reception) and carried their meagre possessions in their
beach bags and uncharacteristically avoided the sexual advances of the
staff.
"I know exactly what you can do tonight," suggested the receptionist as
they strolled past him. "Ever tried four at once! Each! It can be done
you know!"
"We'll be alright dearie," assured Tracey. "We'll find plenty to get on
with."
It wasn't that easy getting out of Pederasty, although there weren't
guards surrounding it as there were in Throb. The entrance to the hotel
was surrounded by idling who were advertising what they had to offer.
"Up my bum!" called out one languorously. "Me and my mates!" called
another, turning his backside to the and pushing his middle finger
right up his arse.
"Bit shagged out love," explained Sharon unconvincingly.
One of the sights available to the more discerning tourist was a small
dilapidated castle, known by its original name of Mons Regis. This was
just outside the town's castellated walls. As they had no better idea,
Sharon and Tracey decided to walk in that direction in the hope of finding
a bus-stop and catching a bus that might be headed towards the Sodom
border. They felt sure they had enough money on them to be able to afford
the bus fare and even a cheap flight home from the Sodom airport (perhaps
on stand-by). This was because whilst at Pederasty, they'd hardly touched
the cash they'd changed at the airport and had been mostly relying on
plastic to settle their accounts.
The walled perimeter of the town of Pederasty and the towers of the
hotel receded behind them as they walked along in their beach sandals along
the parched and uneven dusty road. They wore nothing else, not even the
bikinis they'd packed, as they felt that wearing clothes somehow attracted
attention to them. As everyone else was naked, how could they dress any
different. Even so, their beach bags bulged with even the few possessions
they had: a decidedly miscellaneous collection of cosmetics and
knickknacks.
As they walked, the castle got steadily bigger and the town steadily
smaller until all that could be seen of Pederasty was some ruins in a
field that had once been a thriving township laid waste in an earlier war
with Sodom. A was tethered by a tree and there was a small monument
scattered with flowers and ribbons.
"There must be a fucking bus-stop somewhere!" exclaimed Sharon. "People
here can't walk everywhere."
"Well, they don't seem to use cars or anything. We ain't seen nothing
since we left the hotel. Any my feet are already fucking killing me!"
They came to a cross-roads. One way pointed towards the capital city of
Buggery, Petersville, named after the King. The other pointed towards the
castle and somewhere called innocently Newtown. The decided to take
the third option, away from the city of Petersville on the basis that that
was probably the direction to Sodom.
"If anyone stops us we can say we got lost," Tracey said: not sure why
anyone should stop them. Or judging from the mostly empty landscape, if
there was anyone who could.
The seemed to have been walking for hours. The sun was still high
and the girls' feet were getting increasingly sore. "I've got fucking
blisters on my fucking blisters!" complained Tracey. Not only their feet
were suffering, but the weight of the jangling jewelry from their cunts
chafed against their thighs and they were getting increasingly annoyed at
the clanking sound that followed them around. In Throb, they enjoyed their
presence, as it said to the world that they didn't fucking care about a
fucking thing. And fuck you! There was no way that this was how they felt
now as it became more and more clear that each bed in the road was only
followed by another bend. That the only features in the terrain were the
gently sloping hills which obscured where they were going. That the only
landmarks were either parched trees or piles of rocks, sometimes stacked on
each other and painted crudely in a fading peeling white.
And still, they saw no bus-stops. Not even that: there were no cafes,
no villages and no shops. Where could they get food from? They knew there
must be some food, because they could see the odd peasant working in the
fields and on one occasion a donkey-drawn cart passed them by. The donkey
was a wretched specimen. Flies hovered around and inside its drooping ears
and nasty scabs scarred its back. The woman on the beaten-up wagon dressed
much the same way as the peasants in the field, which was slightly more
modest than Sharon and Tracey were used to. No ribbons on penises, or
flowers in vaginas or the healthy demeanours of the residents of Throb.
She wore a very short slip or jacket which came to less than half-way down
her chest and then nothing till you reached the knees where she wore
battered plastic sandals. Like the other peasants, her hair was rather
short, but she sensibly wore a straw hat to keep the sun off her eyes.
Like the peasants, she seemed intent on ignoring the girls, pretending they
weren't there and then deliberately forced her donkey to trot by faster so
she couldn't be hailed.
It was nearly evening before anyone spoke to the girls. With sweat
pouring down their still pale skin, and dirt and dust on their knees, they
had as good as abandoned hope of ever finding a bus-stop, They weren't used
to walking back home, and normally when they did it was along better road
surfaces and not in such intense heat. Their feet was sore, and their were
scratches and bruises on their legs and knees where they had stumbled onto
the dusty rocky road, exhausted by the heat and the unfamiliar exertion of
so much walking.
They noticed a large tree by the road-side which would give them some
shelter from the early evening sun. This was a rare sight in itself in the
barren rocky landscape, so it took no persuading for them to take advantage
of its shade. In fact, for they didn't know how many miles, this had been
the destination of their plodding, stumbling, aching tread. The only
pleasure they got and the only distraction from their pains was to see the
tree grow steadily larger as they proceeded. Tracey occasionally licked
her sore tongue over her cracked dry lips. This was the worst! She moaned
to herself, barely able to strain her voice into articulation. This was
the fucking worst! She'd never known that walking could be so fucking
tiring. And the country was so fucking horrible. No wonder she'd never
gone for walks in the country back home. What she wouldn't have given to
be back in her bed at the hotel just lying on the bed. She'd just lie
there, soaking up her exhaustion.
The shade of the tree offered none of the luxury they'd got so used to
recently. The bare earth offered none of the bouncy softness of their
mattresses, and there was nothing remotely like the soft cooling breeze of
the air conditioner to blow off the sweat which plastered every inch of
their skin. They sat on the crackling dry grass, pushed aside some of the
sharp rocks, and lay down on their backs. As soon as they did, their legs,
arms and feet throbbed with release after their unaccustomed exercise, and
their skin burnt from the sun from which their factor 8 sun-screen had
offered such poor protection.
"What the fuck do we do now!" gasped Tracey.
Sharon didn't really have the energy to reply. "I dunno," she murmured,
as much to herself as Sharon. "I dunno. I don't fucking know!"
What little energy they had wasn't sufficient to stir them, despite the
discomfort of the ground and the constant attention of the little midges
and flies which congregated around them. Insects crawled into the girls'
hair, into the corners of their eyes, skimmed over their sweat-drenched
skin and crept past the girls' vaginal jewellery onto the lips of their
cunts. The lay flat out, staring at the sky through the leafless
branches of the tree.
"I'm not so sure it was such a great idea doing this," moaned Sharon
repeatedly.
"Just give me food and water," echoed Tracey. "I don't fucking care
what the bastards do to us! I just want something to eat!"
"Are you tourists?" suddenly came a voice. The opened their
cracked eyelids to see that they were being looked down on by three with neat shoulder- length hair, wearing white blouses to just below their
breasts and a naked body down to the knees where they wore little black
shoes and knee-high socks.
"Of course they are!" another insisted. "Only tourists look like that:
look at all the jewelry. And why don't they cut their hair?"
The can't have been much more than fourteen years old, but their
vaginas were cut to a half inch stubble in different shapes. One was in
the shape of a royal crest, another a star and the third a little diamond.
The jewellery they wore consisted of a single small ring pierced over the
entrance to the from which dangled a little chain.
"What do you think of Buggery?" one asked them. "Is it like this
where you come from?"
"Come on girls, what's going on?" came a sudden school-teacherly voice.
A woman in her late twenties loomed into view. Like the she wore
nothing from below her to her knees, but what she did wear were
smart leather boots and a very neat jacket with a silk scarf. Her long
hair was tied back in a long plait to her waist. "Oh I see," she remarked
seeing Sharon and Tracey.
"Please miss, we've found some tourists. Shall we report them to the
police?"
"Don't worry about that. I can look after them now. I'll get the
police if need be. Now you run along." She produced a cane which she
half-heartedly beat against the buttocks of one of the girls.
"Yes, miss. We will, miss" they said as they ran off giggling.
"Well," said the teacher looking at Sharon and Tracey. "You are in a
pickle. Well, don't worry, security's relatively lax round here and no one
really reports things to the police: people don't appreciate being raped or
humiliated for the pain of being a good citizen. However," she smiled
grimly, "I'd better take you along with me if you don't want to die of
exposure or dehydration."
Sharon and Tracey didn't realise how weak they were until they stood up
and then they almost immediately fell down. "Come along girls," the
teacher said cheerfully. "I'll take you to the cottage I live in. I share
it with two other women: both teachers like me. One teaches in a Royal
College and the other teaches in a Police School. Me," she sighed, "I
teach in a normal secondary school."
The teacher escorted the for another mile along some paths through
fields and over some stiles until they got to her cottage. Sharon and
Tracey supported each other and grew more and more annoyed by the chafing
of jewellery on their thighs. Each step was an increasing agony of
bursting blisters, and more cuts on their ankles and knees when they
stumbled and fell onto the unforgiving harsh dry ground.
After what seemed the longest mile of their lives so far, they came to a
tumble- down cottage outside of which rested an bicycle and the
scattered remains of a disused plough. A well stood underneath the shade
of a dead tree, and chickens ran around in the yard. A few small trees
were gathered into an excuse of a copse where a donkey was desultorily
chewing on a carrot.
The teacher took the inside, laid them down on a very hard
straw-filled bed, and with no ceremony removed the girls' shoes and
unthreaded the jewellery from between their legs.
"You just lie here and relax," she advised, as if they were likely to do
anything else. "I've got afternoon classes to attend to. If the other
teachers are back here before me, my name is Primrose."
"That's a nice name," commented Sharon weakly with what remained of her
battered senses.
"We're all named after flowers round here," smiled Primrose as she was
about to leave. "It's the law."
V
"Who the fuck are you?" were the words by which the two were woken
just a few hours later. They raised up their weary heads from the hard
straw pillows which had come to seem so incredibly comfortable, and
blearily focused on the towering figure of a woman dressed only in leather
boots and leather shoulder-pads. This in itself made the woman a
formidable and intimidating sight, but this was reinforced by a body which
was more muscular than either Sharon or Tracey were sure a woman's body
should ever be. But she was clearly a woman, and one who shaved her as well. Although nearly naked, rather a lot of heavy iron and leather
decorated her, dangling from pierced nipples and vagina. She wore a
leather belt around her waist from which dangled a long holster for a
truncheon and a collection of buckled leather bags.
"We're friends of Primrose," explained Sharon wearily.
"They're tourists, Tiger Lilly dearest," added Primrose who entered the
room at that moment. "I found them lying under the baobab, absolutely
exhausted and suffering from heat stroke. I don't know how they'd got
there, but it was obvious they couldn't stay there forever. So I thought
I'd bring them back home to keep them away from trouble."
"By bringing trouble here to our fucking cottage, you mean!"
"Tiger Lilly, what harm does it do? As long as they're on their way
soon we'll be alright."
"It's not for us to harbour foreigners. They might be fucking spies or
something! We should hand them in to the authorities so that they can be
properly processed."
"Like processed meat, you mean, Tiger Lilly. Do you want then to be
raped and humiliated by the police. It's obvious they're not spies.
They're just ignorant tourists. They probably just got lost going to the
beach." Primrose smiled indulgently at the pathetic sight of Sharon and
Tracey's peeling sunburn and raw marks on their upper chest. "I mean,
I know you're police yourself, but if we took them in you don't think your
colleagues won't give you a bit of rough interrogation as well. Once the
police get their hands into anything, they usually leave more battered
bodies and corpses around than there were to start off with. They'd
suspect the heir apparent if he happened to be passing by. No, Tiger Lilly
sweetheart, things'd only get worse if we took them to the authorities.
Leave them to relax. No one'll tell the police, and you know it."
Tiger Lilly snorted reluctantly, and let Primrose escort her out of the
bedroom, leaving the two slumped on the bed. Sharon was feeling ever
so faintly sick and Tracey had a persistent burning sensation on her
shoulders and on the top of her bum which just didn't seem to want to go
away. Within seconds, they collapsed back into a feverish sleep, their
naked bodies intertwined to stop themselves falling off the edges of the
single bed.
It was about an hour later that Primrose returned to the bedroom with a
faint smile. "We'd best get you two tidied up!" she said, handing the
girls sleeveless white cotton blouses which would come down to the base of
their and no further. They had no chance to put them on, as she
then produced a small tin bowl in the warm steamy water of which was
floating a large sponge. Then with no evidence of ceremony, Primrose
started vigorously scrubbing Sharon's face, body and limbs. It was like
scrubbing a floor dry. Every few seconds she would squeeze out the
moisture from the sponge into the bowl, and then began scrubbing other
parts. As soon as she'd judged that Sharon was clean, she started
scrubbing Tracey with just the same vigour. When her attention came to the
area between Tracey's legs where all her rings were dangling from her
reddened and sore stubbled vagina, she paused as if in thought. She then
leant forward and briefly kissed Tracey's pierced clitoris.
"That's a lovely ring!" She said smiling. "That would cost me more than
a month's wages."
"Is it?" wondered Tracey, who had actually thought it remarkably cheap
compared to how much such jewellery would have cost back home. Of course,
she'd not actually paid for it, but, even taking into account the cost of
the piercing, she knew it was substantially cheaper than any of the
countless fucks she'd had in Throb.
"It's beautiful!" Primrose continued, picking up the sponge and
proceeding to scrub the dust and dirt off Tracey's legs. "But you tourists
just don't know the value of things do you? At least that's what we hear.
That you're all stupid and sex-mad, but ridiculously wealthy." She paused
thoughtfully. "Is it true, that? I mean, that you're wealthy?"
"What do you fucking think!" snorted Sharon. "Do we look like we're
rich?"
"I don't know," said Primrose sadly. "I don't know what rich people
look like. I've never seen one in my life."
Primrose finally finished her cleaning and squeezed out the filthy water
into the tin bowl. "You're clearly pretty naïve, aren't you," she
continued. "Things in Buggery are quite different to wherever you come
from, I can see that. I'd better give you a bit of advice on what to wear
here. It's very important you do, otherwise you'll be picked up by the
police, and, believe me, that is the very last thing you want to happen.
In fact, it could well be the last thing that does happen to you.
Fortunately, the police are relatively lax in this district, but you've
still got to be pretty careful about your appearance. If you look too much
out of place, you'll be arrested and then ... Well, I don't know what, but
when the police get hold of you, it'll be lucky if you'll survive their
interrogation. You mustn't wear anything from the knee to the midriff.
The punishment for non-observance is arbitrary and cruel. So, if I were
you, put on these blouses of mine and, if you don't want to attract
attention keep your jewellery down to just one ring about here." She
fingered the ring she had joining the two flaps of her vulva.
"Who decides what people wear?" wondered Sharon as she detached her
earrings and nose-stud, and placed them on the rickety bedside table. She
glanced around the room, having recovered sufficiently after her scrubbing
to comprehend things. Not only was it very small, but it was very bare.
The only decoration was a faded portrait of the king.
Primrose followed Sharon's gaze. "Him, of course. The King. And he
changes his mind all the time! Not long ago, people were allowed to wear
shorts or little skirts as long as they covered less than two inches of
inside leg. But then he decided we all had to have little cunt-rings, and
to make sure we were wearing them we were proscribed from wearing anything
down there."
"What happened to all the shorts and skirts?"
"Oh they were publicly burnt. There was a big festival, which everyone
had to attend. Everyone had to express their love for the King and his
wisdom and burn their clothes. If the police suspected that you were
holding back on any clothes, then you risked having your house burnt down
and your genitals mutilated."
Primrose stroked the tangled hairs of Tracey's cunt. "My gosh! This
has been well used!" she commented looking at a torn inside out after
years of promiscuity. "You'll have to keep this cut short too. They don't
like pubic hair obscuring anything. That's also illegal."
"Should we shave it all off like you and Tiger Lilly?" wondered Sharon
who quite fancied the idea.
"Well, we're teachers and we're expected to shave our pubes. Different
classes and statuses have different rules, you know. Most peasants in this
country are never allowed to shave their pubic hair, and no way could you
pass off as a peasant. You're too well-fed for a start, and there are no
calluses on your fingers. And you obviously wear shoes most of the time,
judging from your tender soles."
After the had put on the blouses, which were slightly too tight,
Primrose took them down to the small dining room where they met Tiger Lilly
again, and Chrysanthemum. She was the other teacher who lived in the
cottage. The two teachers were watching the flickering black and white
pictures on a small television. It was, of course, screening Buggery
Broadcasting Television.
Chrysanthemum was stunningly beautiful, but she wore no clothes, her
straight hair reached to her bottom and like the others she had
shaved her pubic hair, but also everywhere else as well. When she stood
up, she revealed that she was quite tall and sported an unbelievably
perfect set of teeth. "Welcome to our humble home," she smiled broadly and
reassuringly.
Tiger Lilly was holding Chrysanthemum's hand, but looked rather less
beautiful than her lover. She had a broken nose and long crooked scar
across her stomach. She smiled with rather less warmth than either of the
other two. "What do you think of Buggery?" she asked.
"The television's funny," commented Sharon.
"That's almost entirely for the benefit of the Royal Academy," laughed
Chrysanthemum. "The moral centre of our society, if you like. It's only
at the Royal Academies and their grounds that anyone is ever really like
the people on television in the way they dress. And nowhere in the Kingdom
is real life like what they show."
"It's all a fantasy world," added Primrose, who was aware of the girls'
confusion. "It's just to tell us what the ideals of our society are
supposed to be. Nobody's really like that!"
"But what about the people who appear on it?"
"What about the people who service tourists at Pederasty and all the
other tourist centres in this country?" retorted Primrose. "There are a
lot of different trades and professions. Some of those like acting, or
serving at the Royal Palace, or working for the police force, or
entertaining tourists, are so specialised that they have different schools,
different ethics, different places to live, different expectations and so
on."
"Like teachers," suggested Tracey.
"Well, almost," conceded Primrose. "I can only teach in the kind of
school I was taught in, though I do have the unusual freedom to mix with
people who teach in different schools, and who were themselves taught in
those kind of schools."
"Most of the people round here in this borough are what you might call
ordinary people," smiled Chrysanthemum. She was always smiling. Tracey
felt a curiously warm feeling and was wondering whether she was already
falling in love with the woman. "This is a very ordinary area."
"80% peasant, of which 50% are given the opportunity to progress at
school to the extent that they will always be dissatisfied with their lot.
20% middle-class, of which 50% will be automatically demoted to peasant if
they aren't seen to conform sufficiently. Within each group, slightly
different standards of dress and behaviour so you know exactly what you're
standing is in society."
"That's all fucking well, Primrose," sniffed Tiger Lilly. "What are we
going to do with these tourists? Chain them down and rape them? Tether
them to fucking stakes?"
"Don't be so vulgar, Tiger Lilly dearest," exclaimed Chrysanthemum, but
with an indulgent smile. "I'm sure the will be quite happy to have
sex with you without being forced to."
"We'll just give them a night's sleep and set them off to Gomorrah,"
explained Primrose.
"Gomorrah!" gasped Sharon. "Isn't Buggery at war with Gomorrah?"
"Who fucking isn't!" expostulated Tiger Lilly.
"If you go back to Throb, you risk being arrested, raped and mutilated
for straying out of the tourist areas. If you stay here, you'll eventually
be found, arrested, raped and mutilated for being terrorists. If you try
to get to the Embassy districts, you'll be arrested, raped and mutilated as
spies. You're probably going to get killed whatever you do! Buggery's not
a very good place for foreigners. The Royal Government doesn't want the
rest of the world to know what the country is like, except where its
attracts tourism, and then almost exclusively to sell sex. They'll kill
you to prevent you telling anyone what it's like here. They would prefer
to continue to be criticised for the questionable nature of the sex on
offer, than for how most people live here. If you get to Gomorrah, you
might at least be protected as a propaganda weapon by the Gomorrans."
Sharon shivered. This was worse than she'd feared. "Is it really that
bad?"
Tiger Lilly smiled grimly. "I don't know what you thought Buggery would
be, but Paradise it fucking well isn't!"
The teachers prepared a dinner for the five of them which consisted
mostly of vegetables and rice. "All local produce!" announced
Chrysanthemum proudly.
"Well, actually local produce is all we can buy," qualified Primrose.
The television was left on with the sound turned down. It was screening
a scene of a masturbating into a cup: an exercise somehow associated
with a cookery programme.
"I teach at the local Secondary School," Primrose went on, "so I get the
best selection of local produce from my pupils. They seem to think that if
they give me things, they might do better in their exams; but since they
all bring me things, none of them could possibly have an advantage over
another."
"What's the school like?" wondered Tracey, who hadn't really attended
school very much when she was a schoolgirl. She'd spent most days playing
truant with the boys, with whom she'd wander the streets or go somewhere to
indulge in drink, drugs, cigarettes and sex.
"It's a fairly ordinary school, by Buggery standards. But I imagine
it's quite different from where you come from. The central doctrine of
Buggery society is that all the people of Buggery be in a state of
humiliation imposed on them by the King. It is an expression of the
people's utter obedience and servility to the Crown and is instilled from
the earliest age. Part of the humiliation of course is that it is
progressive, so before the children come to Secondary School they have
never known sexual humiliation or indeed cruelty of any kind.
"Primary schools in Buggery are kept quite separate from the rest of
society, and no adults (except teachers) are ever allowed there. Most of
us can only ever remember them distantly, and as we start secondary school
education at eight our memories of them become disjointed. All I know, is
that children who leave Primary School are totally unprepared for Secondary
School. Not everyone joins Secondary School, but those who do are well and
fit. When they leave Primary School they are allocated to 'parents'
according to eugenic principles. Nobody really knows who their real
parents are, as breeding centres, like Primary schools, are away
somewhere out of sight.
"The 'parents' send them to Secondary School and are obliged by law to
give the children as much care and attention as they can. The 'parents'
are officially only allowed a certain degree of parental abuse (but that's
one of the few things that isn't very well enforced) and these must only
take place at certain festivals. The children stay at school until they
are in a position to either graduate, in which case they leave the
district, or to be turned to work. Most (perhaps 80% of them) will become
peasants in this area and in turn become assigned 'parents'. If they
become pregnant, they will be sent to the breeding centres, and as often as
not they never return.
"School children must dress according to strict dress conventions, which
must reflect the general dress code of the district and their position in
class (which is often different to those of their parents). The main
criteria of distinction are clothes, hair- length, pubic hair and
jewellery. and are dressed and treated identically. No
allowances are made for their different sexuality, even during sex classes.
In my school, and I'm sure there are similar rules elsewhere, the higher
grading a child has then the longer the hair, the shorter the pubic hair,
the more clothes and jewellery. The top pupil then has very long hair, no
pubic hair, plenty of jewellery and the maximum amount of clothes permitted
within the rules of this district. The lowest grade pupils, of which there
are several, have their heads shaved, an untidy bush of pubic hair, no
clothes and only a large steel cunt-ring.
"The pupils are evaluated according to a number of factors which include
physical appearance, physical fitness, academic brightness, good behaviour
and sexual performance. The top pupils are granted special privileges such
as a more generous food allowance, exemption from certain of the daily
humilities such as arse-licking and orgy practice. The lowest pupils would
almost consider such humilities as privileges. They can be, and are,
treated badly by all pupils with the teachers leading by example. They are
to be shat on, pissed on, buggered, beaten up, whipped, etc. The
justification is that this is to encourage these pupils to pull themselves
together. Instead most leave the school altogether and some kill
themselves. This is not considered to be a cause for much regret or
sorrow.
"As teachers we are obliged to conduct the daily humiliations, which
include random buggery, cold showers and the ritual tearing up of pupils'
clothes. Any excuse for punishing the pupils must be taken
enthusiastically, and punishment will only stop after the requisite amount
of blood has been shed. Pupils try to avoid punishment because if their
physical beauty is impaired in any way they may drop a grade and begin the
long slide towards the bottom.
"The reason for all this humility is to show respect towards the King.
This is best illustrated during the festivals on national and local
holidays, which can be quite frequent when the country is deemed to be
doing particularly well at the war. Otherwise, they mostly mark birthdays
and anniversaries associated with the Royal Family. For each festival,
there is usually a specific ceremony or rite which must be performed. In
many cases these are just species of orgy. In some cases, pupils have to
demonstrate their sexual skills to other pupils, which may include being
buggered by fellow pupils or giving blow jobs to members of staff. One not
very pleasant ceremony to mark a victory over the Sodomites in the last
Sodomite War involved pupils eating each others' turds and drinking their
piss. There was a lot of illness the following day; and inevitably some of
it was fatal.
"The King is praised during formal ceremonies at five intervals during
the day. On arrival at school, the pupils must close their eyes and
masturbate the pupil nearest to them to show their desire for the King.
The next occasion is when the pupils listen to a Television Broadcast given
by a representative of the King which outlines any new duties and
responsibilities. They must meditate on this. The third occasion is the
arse-licking ceremony where after cleaning their bottoms, they must lick
clean the arse of another pupil. This demonstrates the need for thorough
arse-cleaning. Some pupils are not popular for the state of their arses.
The fourth occasion is the school orgy, where selected pupils have sex with
each other and the rest of the school observe. This is important for the
pupils, as their grading depends on their sexual performance. The fifth
observation at the end of the school day is to kiss the penis of the statue
of the King outside the school as they leave. Some to show their greater
love, will, of course, insert their anuses or vaginas over the penis.
"The academic classes are much like those in the schools in your country
I imagine, though the pupils are obliged to take their clothes off in Regal
Studies, Physical Education, Sex Education, Games and Biology. Regal
Studies is where they learn about the events in the King's life, the
history of the Royal and are taught about his great wisdom and
sayings. During this class, the students have chains attached to their
cunt-rings which are attached at the other end to the teacher's cunt- ring.
I can tell you this is a very uncomfortable lesson for me to have to
teach."
"The contrast with the Royal Academy where I teach couldn't be greater,"
smiled Chrysanthemum. "The girls, (and they are all girls) are taught to
worship the King, but are not taught humiliation. Merely obedience. The
world the Academy are told about is one like that of the Buggery
Broadcasting Corporation programmes. In fact, the only place that I
know of where life at all resembles that shown on television is at the
Academy. All the at the Royal Academy are groomed for future work at
the Royal Court and consequently they are amongst the few people in this
country who stand much likelihood of ever seeing His Majesty in the flesh.
As opposed to on the many billboards and in the form of officially approved
statues and portraits.
"According to the strict Eugenic practices of Buggery society, enforced
rigidly from birth, only the best are ever likely to go to the Royal
Academies. Even the primary schools they attend are segregated from the
rest of the country. The in the Royal Academy know nothing about the
rest of Buggery, beyond what they see on television. I don't think they'd
like it if they did see it, but it's unlikely they would ever miss it. The
school grounds where they live are very large and very beautiful. Most
people in Buggery never get to see such beautiful woodland, fields, lakes
and gardens as those surrounding the Academy. And although the are
prohibited from passing through the Academy's perimeters, very few of them
are ever likely to be tempted to do so.
"School at the Royal Academy is made as pleasant as possible. The are kept innocent of many things that might seem bizarre to you foreigners.
They know nothing about clothes, and as you can see from watching
television they wouldn't know about clothes from there either. They all
have very long hair and they all shave their pubic hairs. Only the very
few pupils of black or oriental origin shave their heads (and this is
mandatory) but they are not discriminated against and are treated very
kindly. If not indulgently.
"The are taught academic subjects, physical education and Regal
studies just like at other schools in Buggery, but Sex Education is always
only conducted between themselves. That is, the are expected and
very much encouraged to make love with each other. The incentive for this
is a certain competitiveness to gain prestige and a good reputation, but
this is not reflected by any difference in how the are treated.
Certainly not in the brutal way they are at Primrose's school. The black
and oriental are particularly popular for sex games because of their
curiosity value.
"As a teacher I am expected to make love to the girls. This I have to
do several times a day: usually outside in the gardens and always with
other watching. I also have to make love with the male members of
staff. These are the only the ever meet. The are not
permitted to have sex with the and are solely there to demonstrate
heterosexual sex, without which the would really have no idea what to
do when they attend the Royal Courts. I have sex with a man, in a variety
of different positions, at least twice a day, with the watching and
clapping. Unlike Primrose's school, there's not much anal intercourse but
I do have to provide the occasional special performance. Although the are not permitted to have sex with the girls, they are expected to have sex
with each other as well as the women teachers. I can't complain about the
men. They are all very attractive and they are all very good at making
love. They are not allowed to do anything else, and they sleep well away
from the girls. The reason for this is that the must be technically
virgins: at least in the sense that their maidenheads must remain intact
when they leave the school and go to the Royal Court.
"It's a very pleasant life for the at the Royal Academy. I really
cannot complain about the privilege I have of working there. It's also of
course the kind of school I went to. I don't know what happens to the
girls when they get to the Royal Court, but they are certainly well-groomed
for the status they are expected to maintain."
"It's not so nice at the fucking Police School," commented Tiger Lilly.
"Not at all so fucking nice. Not even as nice as Primrose's nancy
school. The pupils, or boys, come straight from primary school and
then we make them. We give them a body they're going to be fucking proud
of," she flexed her own muscles, "we teach them respect for the King and
how to get others to respect the King.
"When I'm in the classroom, the pupils have to do what the fuck I tell
them. If that means a few bones get broken or your skin gets torn, well
fuck it! The pupils have to accept I'll fuck them whenever I went,
wherever I want, whether they're or girls." Tiger Lilly waved her
plastic truncheon which Sharon could now see was in actual fact a
double-ended dildo. "I expect a good fuck from each of my pupils. There
are no fucking grades at Police School. You're either in or you're fucking
out and fuck you!
"We show them how to be good police. The ways to fuck people and fuck
them up if they're any fucking trouble. We show them torture and we teach
them the law."
"It's by having a brutal police force," Primrose explained reassuringly,
"that people in Buggery learn how to support the Royal Government. You put
a toe out of line and you're tortured, mutilated and, if you're lucky,
killed."
"Fucking right we're brutal," agreed Tiger Lilly proudly. "No fucking
bastard can say no to me. I'll fucking tear out his or her genitals and
eat them in front of them. I've done that before now. I'll shove this
thing so high up their rear end it pops out their fucking mouth. I'll kick
them and beat them so fucking hard and then get them pleading for more.
You can't keep people down without a bit of brutality."
"Don't worry about Tiger Lilly," smiled Chrysanthemum. "She's not going
to torture you two, but, on the other hand, if she wants sex with you I
wouldn't argue."
"Too fucking right you won't!" Tiger Lilly agreed.
"There are other kinds of schools," elaborated Primrose. "There are
schools for actors, which are much more like Chrysanthemum's school than
mine. There are schools for tourism. In fact, there's one not far from
Pederasty where you were, which teaches all the there how to do their
trade."
"What happens," wondered Sharon, "to these if they didn't feel like
having sex with a tourist? You know because they feel a bit off or
something?"
"I'd be surprised," said Primrose a little grimly, "if there are many
occasions they actually do want sex with a tourist. It's just what they're
trained to do and if they don't do it well then they're out."
"What happens to them then?"
"Nobody knows. I don't know what'd happen to me if it was decided I
couldn't teach anymore. All we know is that people eventually vanish.
They get arrested by police, they go to the breeding centres, they get
called up to fight in whatever war there is, they go to hospital. And then
they never come back. We don't know what happens, but all the rumours are
fairly unpleasant."
Sharon didn't like the sound of any of these accounts of life in
Buggery, She glanced at Tracey, who was nervously clasping and unclasping
her fingers, and looking rather depressed. Her head was down and her eyes
seemed to be focused on the ragged edges of the rug on the cottage floor.
Sharon faced Primrose, who she thought was the most sympathetic to the
girls' plight. "What are we going to do?" she pleaded.
"You're not fucking staying here," said Tiger Lilly bluntly.
"I'm afraid that's true," agreed Primrose. "You're going to have to get
moving. And soon! It'll be dangerous though. If you get caught by the
police you'll almost certainly be as good as dead so you'll have to avoid
being seen by them at all costs."
"Should we go disguised as something?" Tracey asked. "Are there people
who can wander anywhere in this country?"
"Well, yes," considered Primrose. "The Sodomite Pilgrims can wander
anywhere in this country and they're never troubled."
"So, should we dress as Sodomite pilgrims?"
"What a fucking joke!" chortled Tiger Lilly.
"I wouldn't," shuddered Chrysanthemum. "Sodomite Pilgrims come from
Sodom. They come here to visit the sites in this country which are
considered significant in the history of Sodomy. This is usually as a
result of their various wars with Buggery over the centuries. I don't know
much about Sodom. And I don't think anyone in Buggery does. Sodom doesn't
even have the tourism you find in this country. But if the Sodomite
Pilgrims are anything to go by, Sodom is probably an even more unattractive
country than this.
"Sodomite priests are almost all women but some are men. They wear no
clothes but chains which are threaded into their noses, genitals and other
places. Their heads are shaved and they have tattoos on their faces which
seem to indicate their status. They travel from town to town, village to
village begging for food as they go. When they arrive at a place of
worship they lie face down to the ground with their bottoms to the air.
They then invite passing people to bugger them or to insert things into
their anuses.
"Sodom must be a very brutal country. The women have their vaginas sewn
together so that nothing can enter them, and when they it squirts
uncontrollably down their legs. Many of their rituals seem to involve
drinking each other's and eating their faeces which they mostly do
when people are watching. No one has ever heard them speak because they
all have their tongues torn out, and in certain cases they have their hands
removed so that they only have stumps at the end of their arms. It's
thought that this is done so they can't tell anyone what they've seen in
Buggery (and if they can write, not to write it down), but of course it
also means they can't tell anyone in Buggery or elsewhere about Sodom.
"They seem to have a cult of violence. They always seem to be beating
and whipping each other. If it wasn't for the baldness, tattoos, nudity
and chains, a Sodomite pilgrim would be identified by the broken nose,
broken teeth, missing fingers and toes, and all the horrible scars. Many
of the scars seem to be on the buttocks which they seem to be very
enthusiastic about beating with whips and sticks. They often seem
distressed when people from Buggery don't bugger them when they are covered
in blood, and shit.
"So, I wouldn't recommend you cut out your tongue and so on to pretend
to be a Sodomite Pilgrim. Nor, for that matter, would I suggest visiting
Sodom. Not many people cross the border except Sodomite Pilgrims and I
think they do because however awful Buggery might be, Sodom must be much
worse."
"You'll have to dress as an ordinary citizen from Buggery," recommended
Primrose. "This means we'll have to do something about your hair and I'm
afraid you won't be able to wear any jewellery except a single ring."
"What'll happen to all our bangles and rings?" wondered Tracey, who
despite the pain they'd given her today had grown rather fond of them.
"We'll keep them," announced Tiger Lilly brusquely.
"I'm afraid we will. They're no use to you. And you don't want anyone
finding them on you." Primrose concurred.
After dinner, Sharon and Tracey sadly discarded their jewellery, leaving
a row of small holes in their nipples and labia. Primrose let the keep the blouses she had lent them, but she still insisted that they take
not put them on yet. These had been left to her by school pupils who had
been demoted and therefore had no further use for them. Chrysanthemum
brushed their hair to a less wild state and attached a little chain to a
small plain ring she threaded into the vulva. The two were given
cloth bags to carry their few possessions in, which Primrose said would be
much was less conspicuous than their beach bags.
The reason neither was allowed to put on their clothes was because
Tiger Lilly was insistent that she had sex with the two of them.
Chrysanthemum and Primrose agreed to watch, but said that they'd had too
much sex already that day to feel inclined to participate themselves.
"I'm so sore!" complained Chrysanthemum, "otherwise I'd fuck you like a
real expert."
"I am a fucking expert," snorted Tiger Lilly proudly.
"But a bit rough, dearest!" complained Primrose. And Tiger Lilly was
indeed rough. Far more so than the at home. She slapped them about
the face and buttocks. Pushed her fist right up their cunts. Pummelled
their anuses with thrusts of her muscular middle finger. Bit the nipples
on their so hard that the wondered whether they might be
bitten off. All the while, Tiger Lilly grinned and occasionally plunged
her fingers into her own moist and cavernous cunt. Except for the odd
grunt and the occasional barked command, she said nothing to the girls:
especially nothing that could be construed as comforting. Then she tied
the dildo around her waist and buggered the two so hard that they
were pleading for her to stop.
"Fuck no!" Tiger Lilly retorted. "I've only fucking started." And
indeed she had. When she had finished, Sharon's nose was bleeding and one
eye was swollen with the start of a bruise. Tracey's bottom felt so and sore, that she wasn't sure how she could ever sit on it. The were then tied to a tree outside the cottage, just by the well, near the
goat who was desultorily chewing on some hay. Their hands were tied
together behind them and their arms pulled up to a branch. One end of a
flexible rubber dildo was pushed unceremoniously into each girl's and
their feet were tied together. It was cold outside, but the had to
stay in this uncomfortable position for an hour or so. They were told to
keep their tongues deep inside each others' mouth on pain of being hit. By
this time, they were so bruised and battered that they gladly engaged in
tiring tongue kissing just to avoid the physical penalties which Tiger
Lilly was so keen on.
Eventually, Primrose came out of the cottage. She smiled weakly while
she untied them and then brought the two into the house. She nursed
their wounds and kissed the tenderly. "Don't worry about Tiger
Lilly. She's used to being a bit rougher than that, but if she hadn't liked
you I don't think you'd be alive now."
Sharon fingered her bruise. "Won't this mean we'll be noticed even more
now?"
"Nonsense," Primrose laughed. "We've got you up as fairly ordinary if
relatively privileged natives, and a few bruises and scratches are
hopefully going to make you look rather less remarkable. After all,
tourists don't normally get beaten up in this country so no one's going to
think that's what you are."
"How far is it to Gomorrah?" wondered Tracey who was wishing this day
had never began.
"Not near enough for you, I'm afraid" smiled Primrose sadly. She left
the two naked on the bed where they were left to feel the warm ache
of their bruises and pains and the warm moistness of their tears as they
gathered in damp patches on the pillow by their slumped and battered faces.
VI
Sharon and Tracey left the teachers the following day, although they had
hardly began to recover from either their trudge through Buggery or from
their beatings by Tiger Lilly. A dark blue (nearly black) bruise had
swollen up around Sharon's eye, and both girls' legs were criss-crossed
with scratches and discoloured by more bruises. They could barely stand up
as they tottered by the door to the cottage, in the unfamiliar flat plastic
sandals they'd been given in exchange for the shoes they'd worn the day
before. Despite their looks, the two were showered with affectionate
kisses from Primrose and Chrysanthemum. Somehow this in no way fully
compensated for their treatment from Tiger Lilly. Tracey was almost sure
that she would never want sex with anyone ever again, and Sharon certainly
didn't feel like it today.
They took with them a cheap printed map of Buggery that Primrose lent
them. It was one which she had in stock for her Geography lessons and was
an official map of the country. It showed roads, woods, rivers, lakes,
towns and villages; but large patches of the map were left suspiciously
blank: lacking all colour or contour. No clues were given by the map as to
what they were, but nearly one quarter of the map was left like this.
Chrysanthemum explained that although it was impossible to be sure, most of
these blanked out areas would represent the private lands of the monarchy
and the rest of the aristocracy. Though it was possible that they also
included areas of military significance and the mysterious breeding
centres. Of the parts of the map that was clearly outlined, the most
distinct were the capital city and the Tourist spots. However, there
weren't many of the latter on the road to Gomorrah.
"Although the boundary line signifying the border with Gomorrah is very
clearly marked on the map, I wouldn't really trust it," warned Primrose.
"During a war the border is bound to shift as one side makes advances and
the other retreats. After all, territorial advantage is what it's all
about. However, I don't know for sure, but I believe the border might
actually be significantly nearer than the map says. Of course all the
official news we get from the front says that Buggery's really doing well,
and making significant gains which bring closer the promise of final
victory and the settling of the nation's grievances. However, from what
few signs we get, and this is only speculation, I don't think things are
going that well. The good news is generally unsubstantiated and
implausible. There's rather a lot more about Gomorran atrocities than
about Buggerian advances. And you may have noticed that there aren't many
men about."
"Indeed," corroborated Chrysanthemum with a broad grin. "Almost all
them are out on the front, fighting for King and Country; leaving us poor
helpless to fend for ourselves and to make do with whatever we can."
"I think that your walk to the front will be rather less than the one
hundred kilometres on the map," continued Primrose, "but before you get
there you'll have to cross a war zone and that'll include some sort of
no-man's land where you could very easily get killed. But put it into
perspective. Although you might get killed crossing the front, the longer
you stay in Buggery the more chance that you'd get killed anyway."
This was scarcely comforting news, but it was this news that the took as they walked away from the teachers' cottage. Their advice was to
avoid walking along the roads where they could be easily picked off by the
police. In fact, the road to Gomorrah took them away from the dry barren
plains of the district where the teachers lived to a more hilly landscape
where there would be more than enough woodland for the to walk out of
sight of the main road. Or at least to dodge into if they saw them. It
was unlikely, Primrose reasoned, that the disappearance of two tourists
from Pederasty would have gone unnoticed for very long. Already everyone
who'd seen them would have been interrogated, and possibly tortured, by the
police. Tracey shivered slightly thinking of the courier, Little
Pussy, and the they'd had come to their room. However, although
the police were brutal, Primrose explained, making sure that Tiger Lilly
wasn't within earshot, they were remarkably inefficient at actually doing
anything other than intimidate people. As an investigative police agency,
they were absolutely hopeless. They had had no impact at all on the
smuggling of hard drugs and guns that happened around the country's border.
And they had had no capacity to deal with the many deserters that kept away
from the towns and villages. The semblance of law and order was only held
by the fact that no one who was caught was ever likely to re-offend.
Their breakfast of fruit and orange juice was really not enough to
sustain Sharon and Tracey on their long walk. In fact, being fairly
exhausted before they'd even started walking, they were certainly no better
after an hour or more of trudge along the featureless dry roads. If they'd
seen any police there was nowhere to hide as there were no trees nor even
bushes to retreat to. After a while, however, their walk took them up a
steep incline and soon they were in the very welcome shade of some woods.
The goal which comforted on their despairing walk was the small town of
Butterfly Grove which they could see marked on the map, and finally to the
delight of their sore feet, they could see in reality.
It was not a very picturesque town, despite its name. Although
surrounded by a forest of trees, it was a dry unprepossessing place
composed mostly of small hut- like houses with a small market in the
middle. They walked towards it with the hope of something to eat, or at the
least something to drink. They soon found that the Buggery Dinar went
considerably further in Buggery than it would have done in Throb, and much
further again than it would have done at home. In fact, they found that
they were carrying a relative fortune around with them.
It wasn't that easy to find anything edible to buy though. Both of them
had mostly subsisted on take-aways and microwaveable dishes at home here,
and the only thing on sale they knew what to do with was the battered and
unappealing fruit they could see. But they managed to buy some apples,
oranges, a packet of tasteless biscuits and a couple of bottles of
distilled water on which the King's face was prominently displayed. There
was no Coke. Or even Pepsi or Dr Pepper's. There were no hamburgers,
pizzas, hot dogs or doner kebabs. Not even a pasty or a bag of chips. But
what they had was undeniably food and it certainly filled some of the they could feel in their stomachs.
What was even worse, as they discovered to their cost, was that there
was nowhere selling any ciggies. Not only were they no decent ciggies like
5th Avenue or Edinboro's, but not even rollies like Gold Cup or cheap tabs
like Street Plain. They had half a packet of Windsor & Maidenhead's
Silk Tip between them, but it was clearly not going to last them very long.
The days were definitely going to ahead now they had to cope with
withdrawal symptoms as well as hunger.
The townspeople of Butterfly Grove dressed much the same as all the
people they'd seen in Buggery. What few clothes they wore were fairly
skimpy and did not cover the crotch at all. Despite having got so
accustomed to the sight of genitalia in Throb, it still seemed strange to
see all these naked crotches and even the occasional dangling penis. It
was clear that the and women generally dressed in exactly the same
clothes with very similar hairstyles: but there were so few adult men, it
took the a while to be sure of this.
"How come there are so few blokes?" Sharon asked the woman at the stall
who served them the distilled water.
"Do you have more in the district where you come from?" wondered the
woman, as she gave the their change. "I thought it was the same
everywhere. It's the war. It's so difficult to find a that you have
to share those you can find."
This didn't sound much fun to Sharon or Tracey, who were already missing
the cock they'd got so used to in Throb. This did not sound like a good
place to be man-hungry. However, they had a long walk ahead of them, so
despite their weariness, they shouldered their bags and returned to the
road which thanks to the shade of the forestry made their walk
somewhat less arduous than when they were exposed to the sun. Nonetheless,
they weren't used to any kind of walking, and soon they were stopping to
rest for longer than the time they spent walking.
Fortunately every few miles there was another town or village they could
stop at to replenish themselves. None of them were any better than
Butterfly Grove. Indeed, they were generally rather worse. There seemed
to be a pattern that the more picturesque the name, the worse the places
were. Leafy Vale was bare of any vegetation at all. Paradise Hill was
pretty filthy and was distinguished by the foul smell coming out of the
chimneys of an ugly factory. Bluebell Dell was the most miserable tangle
of derelict houses they'd ever seen.
Nowhere were there shops as the understood them from home: just
market stalls. The homes were constructed as square shaped concrete flats
or were thrown together from corrugated iron, mud and cardboard. Very few
roads were paved, and then only for a few hundred metres at a time.
Sharon and Tracey soon got to recognise the police from a distance. It
seemed that the police were everywhere. In every village, in every town
and between each of them. Fortunately, however, they didn't seem to pay
much notice to the girls, so Primrose's advice as to what to wear had
seemed to bear fruit. However, to be on the safe side Sharon and Tracey
kept as respectable distance between themselves and any police-woman (or
occasionally police-man) as they could. Primrose's warnings had frightened
the wits out of them. Although the police wore no more clothes than anyone
else, what they wore was aggressive and in leather. They made no attempt
to hide their dildo-shaped truncheons, and some of them even carried
submachine guns.
They soon became aware that they weren't the only ones avoiding them.
Almost everyone kept apart from them. People crossed the road, or even
turned around and walked the other way whenever the police came into sight.
It was early evening, when the were even more exhausted and even now
wondering where they would sleep the night, they saw two or three
police-women marching through the market where they were buying some more
snacky groceries. All the other people cleared out of the police's way as
they wandered into their midst. As they walked, the police took things
from market stalls without bothering to say anything or acknowledge the
stall-holders, let alone offer to pay for what they'd taken.
Then one stall-holder must have said or gestured something to which the
police-women took exception. From their vantage point several stalls away,
they saw the police pile onto the stall-holder. She was punched, kicked
and then, when she'd fallen onto the ground, they took turns to bugger her.
Her cries were loud and agonised as they roughly forced the dildos which
they'd tied around their crotches into her arse and pushed her against the
piles of clothes and sandals she'd been selling. Neither Sharon nor Tracey
felt like staying around too long to see what ultimately happened to the
stall-holder or whether they'd focus their attention onto some other
unfortunate.
The two took Primrose's advice not to sleep in any of the towns.
But as the evening descended, and they got more and more tired, it was
difficult to see anywhere that they could sleep. They were looking for a
barn or a deserted home outside the towns and villages to sleep in, but
although they'd seen a few like that during the day, when they actually
needed it, there didn't seem to be any around. They were getting
progressively more exhausted and were actually resting more often than they
were walking. The night was in, and it was obvious that they
needed to stop somewhere. They eventually settled on a broken-down some ten metres from the road, and settled on the ragged-looking straw.
This was not a pleasant night. They found straw creeping up their bare
vaginas and were frightened when some sniffed inquisitively outside,
but they were so exhausted that they were asleep within minutes, after
sharing every small grain of their last W&M's Silk Tip.
Unusually for them, the two awoke on the first rays of light, and
more from the discomfort of all the straw, they got walking again almost
immediately, following the route which led on their map towards Gomorrah.
For who never went anywhere at home without a taxi or bus, it was not
easy getting used to walking quite long distances every day following the
winding roads on the map. Their walks gave them an appetite which was not
at all satisfied by the fairly basic food provided by the next market they
got to. No coffee, no chips, no chicken fritters. Only boiled eggs, fruit
and bottles of distilled water.
Their route took them through woods which skirted near an area which was
marked as forbidden, but all they could see of it were high brick walls
crowned with broken glass and barbed wire. Sharon couldn't help wondering
what was on the other side, but the height of the walls, let alone its
unwelcoming ornamentation put her off any inclination she might have had of
clambering over to investigate. The forbidding walls betrayed no clues as
to what there was behind them that put them out of bounds. However, Tracey
noted that where there were forbidden areas, there would almost certainly
be police nearby, so the kept as reasonable a distance between
themselves and the walls as they could, while keeping them in sight.
Otherwise, they would get totally lost. The paths through the woods were
quite narrow and winding, probably marked out by wild (of which
they only saw the odd deer or rabbit). At times it was hard-going, but
they kept on going despite their increasing discomfort, weariness and pain.
There were not many people to be seen wandering about the woods or along
the road when they rejoined it. The woods were empty of any sign of
continued habitation, although they saw the odd derelict cottage or
out-building. Even along the road, they passed very few other people.
Most of these seemed to be going to work in the fields or going to school.
The only real travellers they passed that day were what they judged from
Primrose's account to be Sodomite Pilgrims. They were travelling in a
group of less than a dozen individuals, and the found them to be a
very distressing sight. It was possible that underneath the scars, bondage
and tattoos, some of the Sodomite Pilgrims might have been quite pretty.
As Sharon and Tracey approached, the Pilgrims stopped walking, and stood by
so the two friends had more than enough opportunity to appraise them. Some
of the Sodomites turned round and bowed to the with their bottoms
facing upward. It was an extremely disturbing sight. The female sodomites
had their vaginas threaded together very crudely with leather or metal
stitches. The had their genitals removed and wore them strung around
their necks. It might have been true that all the Sodomite Pilgrims had
had their tongues torn out (although there was no way of being sure without
a closer look) but quite a few had had their hands amputated. Sharon
winced at the sight of these stumps.
When later, they passed some other Sodomite Pilgrims in the next
village, they found that even the native people from Buggery found them a
disturbing sight. They were making diversions around these pilgrims rather
than experience the discomfort of having to see them more clearly. At this
village, there was a shrine which the Sodomite Pilgrims were prostrating
themselves in front of. This was marked only by some very crude scratches
on some scattered rocks.
After this, they soon spotted other similar shrines which seemed to be
scattered fairly randomly about the Buggery countryside. After their small
unappetising snack in the village, they passed another shrine in the wood,
where they also found two Sodomite Pilgrims whipping each other with barbed
wire whips which was raising blood on their welted backs. This annoyed
them because the shrine was by a deserted cottage that Sharon and Tracey
had spotted from a distance and had been so hoping to rest at. The sight
of these two Sodomites, definitely persuaded them to change their mind. It
would not be at all pleasant to sleep or rest near as deformed as
these. One Pilgrim's leg was missing from the thigh and there was a in the eye-socket where the eye should have been.
Another shrine they saw surrounded by Sodomite Pilgrims prostrated or
beating each other was probably of significance to the citizens of Buggery.
This commemorated a battle fought against the Sodomites in a war some two
or three centuries earlier. There was an extremely partisan inscription on
the plinth which described in detail the atrocities the Sodomites had
committed. On top of this was the statue at the top was of a naked with long hair buggering a bald whilst also taking the opportunity to
slice off his genitals with a sword. The sculptor had seen fit to sculpt
very realistic globules of blood in the marble.
Most of the many monuments in Buggery the saw, however, were of a
generally more contemporary nature and by far the majority featured the
King. He was a grand, moustachioed, undeniably handsome, with the most
gorgeous raiments and long hair flowing over his shoulders; always in a
classic heroic pose. His features could be seen on billboards, statues or
just portraits in prominent positions in shops or above the doorways of the
homes. There was often text associated with such images which praised the
King for his heroism in fighting the Gomorran barbarians, his sagacity in
his dealings with the outside world, his generosity and kindness towards
his citizens, his love of justice, his lust for knowledge and, in one
peculiar place, his sexual prowess.
Later in the afternoon, Sharon and Tracey were in a larger town. This
was the largest town they'd seen since Throb, but in comparison it was
relatively small. While shopping in the market for more food (which was of
a greater variety than they'd seen for a while), they couldn't help
noticing a slightly nervous air in the village market. At first, they
thought it was to do with themselves, but it soon became that they were not
the only visitor to the town. A dignitary was also passing through the
village. This was announced by a shrill scream of sirens and then, through
a cloud of dust, the sudden emergence of a thundercloud of motorbikes
driven by police, who showed no concern that anyone might be in the way.
In the middle of this cavalcade was a limousine with darkened
windows. And then, as soon as it had arrived, the visitor was gone without
a pause or any evidence of noticing the village and its banners and flags
which had been put up to welcome the dignitary's visit. There was, in
fact, an air of relief from the townspeople as they now started to remove
these spurned items from around the town.
The two wandered back into the woods just beyond the town which
according to their map promised to be the shortest route to Gomorrah. The
map was rather unhelpful at this stage, showing wood but also large areas
which were left totally blank. At first Sharon thought it was some
reservoir or lake, but, no, the area was coloured by purple rather than
blue. More forbidden territory.
They found this wood somewhat harder to get through than the woodland
they had been through earlier, because the clearly marked path was
obstructed by trees that had recently fallen and had been left to rot. So
they decided to make a slight detour into the of the wood. It was
after only a few hundred metres of walking as parallel to what they judged
to be the right route when they heard a low moaning sound.
"Ignore it," said Sharon nervously. "It's probably some Buggery animal.
A bird or something."
"Fucking funny bird," commented Tracey. "I'm sure I heard it say
something. A word of some kind."
"What word?"
"I don't fucking know!" Tracey said walking towards it.
"It's probably some Sodomite praying or something," commented Sharon.
She nervously paused by a large elm, but seeing her friend's determination
she then reluctantly followed Tracey, who had clearly found someone or
something in a clearing in the wood ahead of them.
The they found sobbing softly in the shade of the trees wasn't a
Sodomite, but she was still in a wretched state. She wore no clothes. Her
hair was totally shaved. Her face was covered in bruises, and there was a
nasty cut on her forehead above the eye. There was a large bruise on her
thigh and another one just under her breast. A thin trail of blood was
dripping from a badly lip, and a few of her teeth were missing.
Judging from the blood on her cheek, this may well have happened quite
recently. There was also a slight smell about her which Sharon and Tracey
guessed from the slight gleam on her skin was because she'd been pissed on,
and by probably quite a few people. There was a patch on her buttock which
might have been mud: but on such a dry day was more probably shit. She sat
with her head down and her legs open pulling at her pubic hair and they
could see that amongst the hair was rather brown stuff and dried blood
which must have resulted from some quite brutal penetration.
"Are you all right, love?" asked Tracey sympathetically, bending down
and placing a hand on the girl's bare shoulder.
The looked up at them with the frightened gaze of a wild animal.
She was about fourteen or fifteen years old, with perky and a
very slender, ill- fed body. Her slim legs were just a little too bony to
be attractive. Nor did her broken nose enhance her looks in any way. She
shrunk back at the sight of the girls. "Are you going to beat me, too?"
she asked in a resigned voice.
"No, of course not love," Sharon commented, feeling a curious sense of
mutual sympathy and even warmth towards this victim of abuse. "Why should
we do that?"
"Everyone else does."
"And why do they do that?"
"Because I'm Z grade," sobbed the girl. "They're always picking on me.
Buggering me. Shitting on me. Kicking me. on me. Pulling out my
teeth. Sticking things into the back of my throat and long things up my
arse. Punching me. All the time."
"Who do?" wondered Tracey.
"All the at school. All the A grades and B grades and C grades
and all the other grades. And not just them, but lots of other people.
It's to punish me for not being good at school. Because I don't do well at
sports. Because I don't do well at lessons. It's not fair. I don't get
the chance. The teachers only give me jobs like licking the messy girls'
arses clean, or drinking their piss, or carrying shit in my hands to the
fields for fertiliser. I'm always the one who gets given the whip during
the festivals. I've had two of my teeth torn out by pliers by the
headmaster on one of those. And I get buggered at least three or four
times a day. And if there's a speck of shit on their pricks, I have to do
duty in licking it off. God! I hate the taste of shit. Dry or wet, it's
all disgusting. But sometimes it's all I get to eat all day."
"How did you get to be Z grade?" wondered Sharon, who like Tracey had
never been remotely near the top of their classes when they were children.
They may even have been at the bottom of their class for all they knew, but
they never really bothered to attend school to find out for sure. School
was just a place for meeting and something to do on wet days.
"I haven't always been Z grade! Once I was C grade. OK. Not A or B,
but C's pretty good. I had long hair halfway down my back, I wore these
wonderful trousers with really nice seams and I had a little plastic
bracelet (that was really expensive). I didn't have a broken nose, and I'd
hardly ever tasted shit." She sniffed sadly at these memories. "And then,
I don't know, things seemed to slip. It wasn't that one day, I was C and
the next I was Z. No. Things weren't like that. I'd even thought I stood
a chance of graduating to B! I had quite a good body and a lot of teachers
said my oral was really good. It still is ..." She looked up at Sharon
with a sad smile. "Do you want some oral?"
Sharon shook her head firmly and sadly.
"Anyway, I didn't do too well on this test on ancient history. I
thought I'd answered it well enough, but I always confuse our past kings,
and apparently I'd said that one king was a good king when he had really
been a bad king. And also I'd mixed up Our Blessed and Magnificent King's
mother with his disgraced Aunt: the of the past deposed Most
Despicable and Damned King. Then it all started a decline. My hair was
cut shorter and shorter. I wasn't allowed to shave my pubic hair. My
bracelet was taken from me and given to another girl: a grade A (and I bet
she's never tasted any shit in all her life!) When I got down to Q grade,
my blouse was removed and I was forbidden to wear clothes ever again. When
I got down to W grade, I was told never to appear in public without having
all my hair shaved off. And now I'm in the lowest grade of all. And I
don't think I'll be allowed to stay there long."
"How long have you been Z grade?" wondered Tracey.
"Two weeks. Maybe three. It's been so horrible, I just can't say. I'm
not even allowed to do sex rota for even M grades, let alone A grades. I
have to stand in all my lessons. I'm not allowed to sit. And I have to do
stocks on Friday, where you get things thrown at you."
"Stocks?"
"Well, someone's got to do it. That's how my nose got broken last week.
It's not just shit and semen that gets thrown at you. Someone, probably an
X grade or a W (they're the worst), threw something heavy at me. But they
didn't take me down even with all the blood gushing out and the pain. It
was horrible. And I got beaten up this evening too."
"We can see," said Sharon sympathetically.
"It was four or five H grades. Two of them boys. It was horrible. I
can't even remember what they shoved up me. I just know it really hurt.
And all the shit and piss! I couldn't see through my eyes. They were so
caked up for so long! And I bet they did me permanent damage. Hell! I
wish I was dead!"
"It sounds horrible."
"And I'm going to get beaten up and buggered and shat on when I get home
to punish me for having got into this state. And when I get to school
tomorrow, I'll be beaten up for the bruises and having lost another tooth.
And I'll fail shit inspection because there'll be blood in my stools."
"This can't really be happening to you," said Sharon sadly.
The stood up beside Sharon and Tracey, revealing a scar along the
side of one and gazed at the two through the black and blue
swelling around her left eye. This contrasted badly with her other eye
which was merely with tears. "It is," she said philosophically. "I
won't see my sixteenth birthday at this rate. Either I'll be sent to the
Gomorran front with the mine clearance corps where I'll be dead in a week
or I'll be dead like the X grade who was found impaled on a pole
through her arse with a dead rabbit stuck in her mouth. She'd been accused
of trimming her pubic hair." She looked at the two girls, gulped slowly.
"You've been very kind to me. I promise I won't report you for not beating
me up and for listening to me. I must go, or I'll be beaten up for
lateness."
She then turned away and hobbled away on her bruised legs with a limp
that had probably been caused by her beatings. Her back was covered with
scars which covered her to her skinny buttocks which themselves were also
latticed with fine scars. Sharon and Tracey watched with a certain degree
of disgusted fascination as she disappeared out of sight amongst the
darkening shadows of the trees.
"If I'd been born in this fucking country, I'd have fucking given
everything to avoid an education in it!" commented Tracey.
VII
The woods seemed to go on and on, broken only by the odd deserted
cottage and broken stonework which must have represented some temple or
other. The two friends found very little to eat, but resourcefulness was a
new skill they'd learnt: they'd actually prepared for this long walk by
buying more food with them than they could eat in a single sitting. And
fucking heavy it was too. As they plodded along, they wondered whether
there might not be some wild in the wood, but the fiercest they saw were feral dogs who seemed as frightened of them as the were
of the dogs.
Their route ran parallel to a tall wall, some twenty feet high, which
delineated the purple area on the map. They walked close by the wall for a
few hours, as it was a sure way of ensuring they didn't lose where they
were on the map; but then they caught sight of some police marching along
the edge of the wall in the distance. They were striding aggressively
forward in leathers, carrying sub-machine guns and wearing dildos strapped
around their waists. They were making no effort to avoid being seen, but
even so Sharon and Tracey thought it would be unwise to encounter them.
They'd learnt enough from Tiger Lilly what police attention might entail.
So, while the police were still several hundred metres away and loudly
talking to each other, the two took the diversion of a lesser path
through the woods that was clearly enough marked, and from which could
still be seen the shadow of the wall. They hid behind a tree as the police
marched by, trembling slightly at the thought of being discovered. It was
only when they were sure the police had gone, they emerged and continued
their scrambling, stumbling walk through the shadows of the forest; all the
while being able to glimpse the unwelcoming grey and granite brickwork of
the wall through the snatches of light through the trees.
The two continued their walk through the forest for all the rest
of the day, often regretting the comfort of the ciggies they'd finished and
missing the familiar taste of chips and burgers. It was a dispiriting
day's walk. The woods went on and on, with only the occasional gap in the
trees where they could rest in the sun on the slightly damp moss, amongst
weeds and the occasional small flower. Their legs attracted stings and
scratches which left unhealthy bluish colours amongst a lattice of small
reddish lines and the occasional reddish or even yellowish blemish. At
least it wasn't so hot, but they still didn't risk putting on any more
clothes than the small blouses Primrose had lent them. They worried about
the midges and other small insects that nestled in the growing hair of
their vaginas, but the odd sting between the thighs was as nothing compared
to the constant ache of their legs and the far more unpleasant stings that
their bare ankles seemed to especially attract.
As they walked, the only evidence of their not being lost was the wall,
and the only recognisable land-mark on their map; so whatever they did they
didn't stray too far from it. But the penalty of walking through the woods
were even more scratches from the odd brambles, bruises, stings; and now
they were getting awful marks on their shoulders as a result of the
weight of the food pulling down on the shoulder straps of their bags.
Sharon had a nasty scratch from a tree that trailed across one of her
breasts. Tracey had a bruise just above her eye where she had hit a branch
which was beginning to swell up and was starting to challenge the
prominence of the one Tiger Lilly had bestowed on Sharon's eye.
They had an uncomfortable night's sleep in the shadow of the trees,
heartily tired of the food they had brought to eat, gasping for ciggies, as
nicotine withdrawal began to really kick in, and finding it impossible to
find a patch of ground where there were no insects, mulch or brambles.
They had seen no one during the day except the brief sight of the police,
and no evidence that anyone lived anywhere near where they were. On the
map, the purple patch delineated by the wall stretched on for dozens of
kilometres, whilst in the other direction, the green which marked the
forest they were in seemed to even further in all directions. But
eventually, the map showed both forest and purple enclosure coming to an
abrupt end by an area of light blue, which must be a lake or reservoir or
something.
The following day was no less dispiriting, as Tracey and Sharon
continued their bare-arsed walk through the woods. They were no less
tired, and irritable, and found even the smallest conversation more and
more difficult. Sharon comforted herself by swearing constantly, while
Tracey found that she was somehow unable to stop herself from a miserable
kind of sobbing. Whenever it was necessary to talk to each other, it was
in monosyllabic grunts relating to practical things that had to be done.
Both of them feared the consequences of vocalising the increasing
desperation they were feeling. They were lonely, hungry, tired, aching and
anxious.
Despair was steadily growing at the sight of yet more imposing trees and
the monotony of green, with no human company. And then they came to a
clearing in the woods lit by a golden beam from the sun which burst through
the shadows of the trees and illuminated some blue and yellow flowers that
flourished in the glow. And there, like a dream or an illustration in a
fairy tale, was probably the most beautiful that either Sharon or
Tracey had ever seen.
She was walking about uncertainly, and seemed as glad as Sharon and
Tracey to be in such a relatively beautiful part of the forest. She had
golden hair which cascaded to her waist. She had a beautiful slender
figure. Her reflected in the sun with contours normally only seen
in classical sculptures. She wore no clothes at all; and the lightly
tanned flesh of her skin radiated a faintly golden glow. Neither Sharon
nor Tracey had spoken to anyone for nearly two days, but they were both
struck by a sudden shyness. Was it reluctance in meeting a stranger. Or
perhaps it was the feeling of being utterly outclassed by a stranger.
The looked in their direction with no fear and no similar shyness.
"Hello there," announced the girl, smiling broadly and welcomingly. Her
teeth shone in the dappled sunlight with a whiteness the had only
ever seen before on toothpaste commercials. "My name's Buttercup. What
are yours?"
"Tracey," announced Tracey, dropping her bag and feeling a strange
burning warmth creep up from her to her forehead.
"And I'm Sharon," said her friend, approached the and taking note
of just how different from all the people in Buggery they'd seen since
they'd left Throb. Just like the people they'd seen on Buggery television,
she was totally naked with no hint of any tan-lines or clothing. Similarly
like everyone on television, all her pubic and other bodily hair was shaved
off, although a trace of stubble betrayed a couple of days of neglect. And
there was the ubiquitous small ring dangling from the lips of her vagina.
"Where am I? Am I near a town?" Buttercup asked innocently.
"No fucking way," said Sharon. She pulled the map out of her bag and
opened it up on the ground. Buttercup knelt down and looked at it with a
quizzical air. She frowned as if trying to comprehend what she was looking
at. "It's a long fucking way to the nearest town, I'm afraid," Sharon
continued circling a finger over the approximate area that they were. "How
come you don't know? Don't you live round here?"
Buttercup looked at Tracey and Sharon with a frown, as if she were only
just beginning to realise that the were not themselves local. She
examined their faces and smiled broadly at Tracey, who still stood several
metres back, perhaps aware of the curious affect she was having on the
girl. "Can't you guess?" she asked. "Isn't it obvious? Don't you know
who, or what, I am."
"No," Sharon answered bluntly, looking up from the map. After showing
the map, she was more concerned by the fact that although she knew that on
the map they were in the green bit around the purple bit, they had no idea
how much of the green bit they still had to walk through. She hoped it
wasn't too much more.
"We don't come from this country," offered Tracey as a sort of
explanation. "We're tourists."
"Really! I can't believe it! Are you really?" asked Buttercup, looking
at Tracey's friend for confirmation. Sharon nodded. "I suppose it must be
true if you say so. But what you doing so far from the tourist resorts?
At least, I didn't think there were any tourist resorts near here."
Tracey spoke and was surprised by how cracked her voice was and how
thick it was with an emotion she didn't really understand. "We were on
holiday in Throb. And we couldn't pay our bill. So we done a bunk. And
we've been walking to Gomorrah."
"Even though there's a war?"
"Apparently, we stand a much better chance than by going via the normal
channels. And anyway there's only the sea or Sodom to choose between
otherwise."
"No choice at all," admitted Buttercup. "Unless you're very good
swimmers."
"We've had a fucking awful time since we left Throb," Sharon elaborated.
"It's been so fucking hard. We got beat up by a fucking teacher. And
we've had nothing decent to eat. And we ain't even had any fucking
ciggies. Buggery's a fucking awful country. No fucking disrespect meant.
It being your fucking country and all. But it's one fucking shitty,
pissing awful place. There's been fucking nothing to recommend it to
fucking anyone."
"So you're fugitives," smiled Buttercup warmly as Tracey nervously
walked towards her. "I'm a fugitive too, you know. From the Royal Court.
Well, not quite the Royal Court: but from behind the Big Wall. I've just
escaped."
"How did you manage that?"
"It wasn't easy. But I used to make love with one of the guards quite
often and I managed to steal her keys. I had to kill her, though. It
wasn't pleasant and it certainly wasn't easy, but when you've been behind
the wall that's not so difficult. There was so much blood though. She
took so long to die! But she'd have been killed anyway when they'd found
I'd escaped. And I've been free for two days now. No food. No people.
Nothing. But free!"
"Was it so fucking awful behind the wall?" wondered Sharon. "It's been
so shitty on this side of the wall, we just couldn't imagine it being worse
on the other side."
"It is hell! You just can't believe! And you foreigners probably can't
believe it anyway. I'd never believed it possible. Like all my classmates
I'd been brought up to believe in a much more pleasant world than this.
Like all the other in my school, we'd been prepared as sacrificial
virgins. We were taught how to love, and never even knew that clothes ever
existed. We watched Buggery television: and as far as we knew that's what
real life was really like."
Buttercup sat down cross-legged, and the two other sat down beside
her: Tracey stretched out on the ragged grass and Sharon with her knees
pulled up to her chin. "I enjoyed school. I was good at lessons and was
always amongst the best in the sex lessons. We all looked forward to
the day when we'd go to the Royal Court and meet His Royal Highness. Our
only dreams were to be fucked by the King and maybe his Queen. We
masturbated every day in Regal Studies over his image and believed that he
would be the greatest lover in the world.
"When we were fifteen, just two years ago, our school years were over.
Most (the ones we didn't think were so lucky) were taken out of
school to become teachers, actresses or sex hostesses for the tourist
industry. We thought we were the blessed ones as we were packed together
in luxury carriages in such a frenzy of excitement to head to the world
behind the wall."
Buttercup sighed, and then smiled broadly at Tracey. "Oh! It's so good
to meet some friendly faces. I've not met anyone since I escaped. I
thought I'd never meet anyone. How long have you been in the woods?"
"Too fucking long!" grunted Sharon.
"What was it like behind the wall?" asked Tracey, somehow too shy too
use perjoratives as freely as her friend.
"We'd been told what to expect. It would be such a glorious place to be
and above all we would have the privilege of serving at the Royal Court.
We'd lose our virginity, and then we'd live in a world of luxury several
times greater than that we'd been used to.
"At first when we'd arrived behind the wall, it seemed that it was true.
The degree of luxury the nobility enjoy is incredible. As we were driven
along we saw palaces, gardens, swimming pools, gold statues
everywhere. It seemed like we'd died and gone to heaven. The carriage
stopped and we were escorted out of the carriage by women wearing clothes.
It was the first time in our lives any of us had ever seen clothes. And it
was a shock. The entire concept of clothing had just never occurred to us.
The idea was so totally foreign. In actual fact, these women weren't
wearing that many clothes and what they were was all made of rubber. They
certainly didn't cover their groin or breasts, but they were skin-tight.
They also wore make-up (which we'd seen on television) but not applied so
thickly and unnaturally. Each of us were chaperoned by a single woman who
took us away from our friends. I've never seen any of my friends from
school ever again.
"The woman who took me was quite rough. She took me into a chamber and
started making love to me in a loveless way I'd never had love made to me
before. When she'd finished, she washed me with soap and cream in the most
solicitous way. Then she announced that I was officially classified as a
Beta Plus. 'What does that mean?' I asked. 'It means, my love, that you
won't have your virginity taken by the Royal Family. And certainly not by
His Magnificent Royal Highness (May He Live Forever)!' At that time there
was a different King. He certainly didn't live forever. 'Only Alpha Plus
girls get that privilege.' She said. 'But you're still very lucky. You're
assigned to the Minister of Agriculture and Forestry, His Grandiloquence,
The Baron of White Flower.' And indeed that's where I did go. And nobody
ever told me that sex could be so horrible!"
Buttercup paused and smiled again. Tracey was sure she was smiling at
her, and she felt herself blushing. What was happening to her? She smiled
back at Buttercup, feeling her face crack in a newly unaccustomed way.
When did she last smile? "What do you mean: he was horrible?"
"He was with me for about two hours with two other who'd also just
graduated. I was slapped, beaten, buggered, and had my maidenhead taken.
And in the most brutal and careless way. Nothing like the pampered
sensitive way I'd been told it would be. Afterwards I was covered with
bruises! I had raw marks down my back where he'd beaten me with a
stick. But at least I hadn't had a chair broken on my head like one who was knocked unconscious and had her nose broken. And I didn't have one
of my hands sliced off with a carving knife like the other girl. There was
blood everywhere! And while this was all happening, we were watched by an
audience of the Baron's court and friends. And they all applauded his most
gross actions. The most foul and disgusting, the more they were cheering
him. I was so humiliated and bewildered. No one had told me it would be
like this!"
Buttercup sighed deeply as she remembered these painful hours. Despite
herself, Tracey found a small tear drip out of the corner of her eye. Who
could ever treat such a beautiful so badly?
"Perhaps it was because I was so violently sick. My vomit was
everywhere. And I'd even shat from fright. Would I be the next one to
lose an arm? Or worse? Maybe it was because the Baron had had his fill
with the other two that I came off relatively lightly.
"When I went to bed after my first night, I just cried and cried. I was
assigned a pleasant enough chamber which I shared with the other two who'd been with me and the Baron. The with the broken nose just lay
there with her eyes closed and shivered. I wondered if she'd ever wake up.
The other just sat on a chair with her eyes wide open staring at her
bandaged bloody stump, shaking backwards and forwards. And backwards and
forwards. And from that moment, I swore I'd do whatever possible to escape
from that world."
"Do you want to come to Gomorrah with us, then?" Tracey asked.
Buttercup looked deep into Tracey's eyes with a directness and a love
which melted her away to her core. Was she falling in love with a woman?
She coughed nervously. No woman, however beautiful, could be better than
cock. "Can I, please?" Buttercup asked. "I don't want to be a burden."
Tracey could hardly answer. She nodded her head under Buttercup's
spell. It was left to Sharon to answer. "The more's the merrier," she said
supporting Tracey around the waist. "Of course you fucking can!"
Buttercup knelt in front of the two and stretched an arm out onto
Tracey's knee. The hand was warm and firm, and Tracey shuddered. "I'd be
so grateful!" Buttercup pleaded, her hand stroking up and down Tracey's
thigh which burned from the feel of it (or was it from all the scratches
and bruises she had?) And then, sensing a lack of resistance, Buttercup
leaned further forward and with her other stroked Tracey's arm, while her
first hand slid towards the battered and bruised and itching vagina. And
then, Tracey didn't know how, Buttercup's fingers were firmly grasping her
cunt, while Sharon's arm was around her back, and Buttercup's lips parted
slowly and sensuously. And then they were on her mouth, and a warm melting
liquid kiss melded itself on her own passionate kisses.
Sharon sniffed as she watched Buttercup make love to her friend, taking
her arm off Tracey, as the two sank onto the grass. Three, or was it
four, days since they'd had sex, suddenly here was Tracey getting all
fucking soppy with a they'd only just met. It was by no means the
first time she'd watched her friend having sex with someone else, even a
woman, but she couldn't recall her being so weirdly soppy and awkward about
it. But there was no way she could deny how beautiful Buttercup was. She
felt strangely hot herself, but she reminded herself it was cock she
preferred. She wasn't a fucking dyke. Even when Buttercup's other hand
somehow found its way to her own cunt, and she too, despite her tiredness
and exhaustion, melted into a sensuous pleasure that no one had given her
before. No one at home. No one in Throb. Not even the on the beach
with the ten inch prick with the slight kink in it. Nor the two at the
club who'd fucked her for well over two hours. And none of the women she'd
had, even Tracey (in fact especially not Tracey) had made her feel like
this before. She gasped and panted as the three stroked and licked
and grappled with each other in the dappled light of the forest clearing,
her burning with a heat that was only matched by the fury of her
orgasm as it erupted unprompted from inside her. She choked and coughed
and then collapsed onto the ground, watching through her slightly opened
eyes as Tracey and Buttercup dry humped each other amongst the bluebells
and mossy dew.
Eventually, after the most blissful rest either of the friends had had
since Throb, intertwined amongst each other, it was necessary to start
walking. Which they did silently and somehow overwhelmed by the change of
circumstances. Tracey and Sharon led, following the route indicated so
indistinctly on the map, with glimpses of the wall visible in the distance.
It was Buttercup who broke the uneasy silence and asked the two all sorts of questions about the holiday experience that they had enjoyed
before absconding. "It was fucking magic!" exclaimed Sharon, reminiscing
of the who'd fucked her and their days of luxurious depravity.
"It's a bit like that behind the wall in a way," Buttercup explained,
pushing aside a low hanging branch that threatened to scratch her face.
"Only there, it's done wholly for the benefit of the aristocracy and
favoured ministers. And by all accounts, their tastes are somewhat more
depraved than you ever saw on your holiday. It's all very sadomasochistic
and violent. The are the ones who get the roughest treatment, I
think. There's a kind of bias amongst the inner court. The
lifespan for a servant is not very long. And almost everyone who's not
related to royalty is a servant. All you've got to do is attract someone's
attention by being too attractive, growing old, having an injury, or just
being there, and then you'll just somehow disappear. It might be after
some sex game or other. Or you might just get sent off to the front. It's
the who get the worst of this, and so there aren't many behind the
wall."
"Are these Barons and Lords and so on really rich?" wondered Sharon who
had always been fascinated by the lives of the rich and famous. At home
she'd often read magazine articles about the eccentricities and depravities
of millionaires and rock stars.
"I got to know a little about them while I was there, from talking to
people. And although luxury's all I've ever known really, I'd say that
they must be very rich. The nobility have gardens, mansions, palaces and
so forth which are truly astonishing. There's so much of it. It's quite
easy to get lost in the grounds and never get found. There are rumours of
whole communities that do that. They just hide under the very noses of
royalty in the depths of their estates. And the luxuries of private
cinemas, swimming pools, monstrous cars, private armies, private
helicopters and yachts. It's too much!"
Tracey might have been poor at sums at school, but she had a vague idea
what the value of money was. "Where'd they get their fucking wealth from?
I mean, this is a poor country!"
"Yeah!" agreed Sharon. "In comparison to most people we've seen here
we're like fucking millionaires. I mean this country's got nothing. It
doesn't make cars. It doesn't sell much food. I've never seen anything
back home with 'Made In Buggery' written on it."
Buttercup smiled at the idea of something being labelled 'Made In
Buggery'. "Buggery makes its money from sex," she answered.
"Sex?" wondered Tracey, frowning quizzically.
"Yes," agreed Buttercup. "I've only heard about this. But what I've
heard is, that Sex Tourism is really big business. That's why there's so
much of it in a country where most of it is out of bounds to foreigners and
where everything behind the wall is out of bounds to even people from
Buggery. Of my friends at school, a lot ended up in Sex Tourism. I don't
know what they're doing now, of course. And there are even schools and
colleges which specialise in teaching it. The art of sex tourism, I'm
told, is to exercise no discretion at all in what sexual relations you
have."
"Like prostitution?" suggested Sharon, who'd once seriously considered
this as a career option. After all she was always just giving it away.
Why not get a bit back from it?
"What's 'prostitution'?" wondered Buttercup. "I don't think I've ever
heard that word before."
"Is it just sex tourism that makes money?" wondered Tracey, who decided
to rescue her friend from having to provide a complex explanation.
"No," said Buttercup pushing a strand of golden hair out of her face and
directing her sparkling eyes at Tracey in a direct way that still unsettled
her, even after their last couple of hours of walking together. "It's
substantial but not crucial. Buggery is the leading supplier of
pornography and sex related entertainment in the world. Apparently (and
Buggery is proud of this) it is the premier supplier in terms of quality
and explicitness as well as quantity. I don't know the exact statistics,
but over 95% of all the world's snuff come from Buggery. The film
industry produces some 40% of the world's sex films, and some of the
biggest porn stars are from Buggery. The country also supplies a
substantial proportion of hard core pornographic books and magazines, and
so much pornographic television that the country's national television
station is just a pornographic propaganda machine."
"Is sex really enough for these people to get so rich?"
"I'm sure there's reinvestment as well. But it's not just the royalty
that has to be financed, there's also the war with Gomorrah. It's an
expensive war. And it's only sustainable because Buggery tolerates a very
high death rate."
"A high death rate?" asked Tracey.
"I don't know more than that," Buttercup admitted. "But behind the
wall, it's the main reason why there aren't too many there. They just
go to the front to fight against Gomorrah and never return. Mind you!
They're maybe the lucky ones. The ones that got out. At least they're no
longer going to be mutilated by the nobility just for their perverted
pleasure."
"Like your friends you were telling us about?"
"Yes, that's right," sighed Buttercup. "I was soon the only one left in
that room, although other joined me later. The who'd had her
hand cut off had one more session with the baron, who apparently likes
amputated stumps stuck up his anus and other places. She didn't survive.
The with the broken nose was reclassified as an Epsilon, and either
left for the sex industry or the war. She would never have appeared on
national television with a broken nose. That sort of thing's never
allowed, but she might've appeared in a violent sex perhaps, where
apparently there's a preference for beautiful with small defects.
"And I was a survivor. And that's what I've been ever since. I've
avoided having sex with the baron, which probably explains some of it.
I've been fucked by the baroness a few times and one of their children took
a fancy to me when he was just eleven. On the whole, though, I've just
been one of many on the Baron's estate who're supposed to have regular sex
with each other. It's an ambience he apparently enjoys.
"My instructress explained my duties to me. I wasn't just to stay there
in luxury, I was told. Besides unquestioning sex with whoever would so
chose, which was fairly frequent, (but I'd been trained for that) I was to
work in the garden. My school results showed that I had an inclination
towards biology and horticulture. This was true, but I'd never had the
ambition of tending flowers and grass all day and every day. But at least
I was out in the open air, and in a position much less exposed to the
attention of nobility or whoever. I was never to wear clothes. Only
certain privileged people like the instructresses and nobility and police
have that privilege. I was to remove all bodily hair, and, as a gardener,
to look as natural as possible. Not all have such favourable
conditions. Some had to shave their heads. Some had extensive body
piercing. Some had very peculiar things done to their body. All according
to their rôles in the Baron's estate.
"My instructress had a very limited part in my life from then on. Her
task was to prepare new for the Baron's pleasures and then tell them
what to do next. I was just a gardener who worked with other and one
or two and a couple of eunuchs."
"Eunuchs?" wondered Sharon, thinking about what a waste of cock this
would be.
"Yes," sighed Buttercup. "This was another taste of the Baron's. In
fact, he liked to conduct the actual castration. Apparently that was a
sport he particularly enjoyed." Buttercup glanced towards a patch of wall
which could be seen in the distance, and then said with a touch of
bitterness: "In comparison to most people, I've spent most of the last two
years in relative comfort in amongst the Baron's herbaceous borders."
VIII
Buttercup's skills extended far beyond the sensual as Sharon and Tracey
became increasingly aware as they continued their tramp through the woods.
It was she who told them how to orientate their progress on the map by
reference to the position of the Sun and its height in the sky. This meant
that they were able to get further away from the wall, which, as Buttercup
reminded them, was probably not very safe when there was almost certainly a
hunt being organises for her. "They wouldn't like to encourage others to
escape, if they knew they could get away with it," she commented. Despite
their desperation, Buttercup's presence somehow lifted both the girls'
spirits, although it was clear that she responded positively to Tracey's
more unambiguous attraction to her. She took Tracey's hand in hers
(something no or woman had ever done in her all her years of
love-making) and squeezed it occasionally in a reassuring way as they
walked under the overhanging branches and avoided nettles and bracken.
Sharon accepted this reluctantly, but as she reminded herself as she
watched her best friend and her new lover gaily swinging their arms from
clasped hands, it was cock not she relished. Even when she responded
with a faint tingle when Buttercup occasionally touched her arm or kissed
her encouragingly on the cheek.
The trek through the woods seemed to go on longer than either Sharon or
Tracey had anticipated, but then neither of them had had much experience
of, or previous inclination towards, either map-reading or walking. In
fact, it was clear that they were actually making faster progress with
Buttercup than they were before. They were having fewer rests and they
seemed to have gained new energy to stride forward faster and further than
previously. As the night drew in, they actually found a deserted cottage
which seemed suitable for them to rest the night. This would be luxury
compared to where they'd been sleeping the last few nights, even though it
was in a very dilapidated state. Half the cottage was totally collapsed
and less than half of its roof was in any sense intact. However, it kept
the night chill away from the girls' bare flesh: especially Buttercup who
didn't even have as much as a blouse to keep her warm. They made space for
themselves in the weeds and rubble of what were once rooms and watched the
shadows lengthen as day came rather abruptly to a close.
It was now that Buttercup's skills as a gardener came to the fore as she
somehow managed to locate some potatoes, carrots, turnips and other
vegetables that were still growing in the abandoned ruins of what had once
been a vegetable garden. Many of these were vegetables neither Sharon nor
Tracey would ever have considered eating before. They looked so bland and
not usually found on pizzas or inside burgers, but now they seemed like the
most perfect food in the world. Soon all three were resting together
in the shadows of the trees cast by the half moon, sitting down in front of
a fire of twigs and small branches started by Tracey's cigarette lighter in
which roasted the vegetables that Buttercup had tugged out of the ground
and had prepared with some sharp stones. Sharon sat slightly to one side
enjoying the warmth given off by the flames, while Tracey and Buttercup lay
together.
When the food was ready, it tasted better to the than the most
delicious fried chicken or doner kebab had ever done before. Better even
than a chicken chow mein with sweet and sour sauce, or a chicken vindaloo.
It was also probably the plainest food they'd ever eaten. No ketchup,
vinegar, mayonnaise or even salt. But after such a poor diet to which
they'd become accustomed, Sharon and Tracey felt somehow invigorated and
energised. And it was clear from the bright sparkle in Tracey's eyes that
this new vigour and energy was to be directed towards one particular
object.
Buttercup, as always, needed no prompting. After allowing sufficient
time for the food to sink into their system, she crawled on her hands and
knees towards Tracey, who was grinning in a curiously stupid fashion, and
gently pinched the folds of her with the forefingers of her right
hand. Tracey moaned in a strangely full- throated way, and gracefully
parted her legs so that Buttercup could swivel round and engage more
fingers and her tongue on the scarred and embattled terrain of her cunt.
She sank back onto her elbows, her head back, staring up at the half moon
through the tangled shadows of the overhanging trees, while Buttercup
expertly massaged, licked and caressed her sensitive and, oh so tender!,
erogenous zones towards further gasps of unrestrainable pleasure and near
ecstasy.
Sharon sat cross-legged watching her best friend make love to someone
else. Not for the first time, of course, but usually it had been some
hairy-arsed, winnets- blessed man, with saliva dripping from his lower lip
and a prick that usually either came to soon or never got really stiff
enough. Sharon was aware that she was beginning to get jealous of the
growing friendship between her closest friend and this beautiful naked
girl, but there was no denying that Buttercup's presence was undoubtedly a
good thing. She was helping the two friends navigate through the woods,
keeping up their otherwise dejected spirits and was decidedly more
practical- minded than either of them were.
Sharon watched as Tracey responded to Buttercup's advances and returned
them by crawling underneath her body and taking the lips of Buttercup's
vagina in her teeth. Tracey had never experimented with this sexual
position of mutual oral sex before. Blow jobs usually just led to fucking.
No blokes, until she'd come to Buggery, had ever shown any interest in
putting their tongues to her cunt. Perhaps it was the smell of fish and
piss that put them off, she wondered. But now this wonderful woman with a
supermodel body was tonguing her liked she'd never been tongued before, and
as she climaxed urgently, passionately, and loudly, she knew that her own
reciprocation had really been clumsy and awkward. She definitely needed
more practise. She collapsed in exhaustion. All the passion had exhausted
her small reservoir of energy, and she huddled in Buttercup's comforting
sun-tanned arms.
Sharon smiled at the two of them, too tired and disorientated to resent
Tracey's sexual selfishness. And anyway Tracey had been gagging for it all
day. Sharon was still a little uneasy about making love to a woman. Where
was the cock in that? Buttercup smiled back at Sharon and ran her tongue
over her lips, clearly advertising her continued availability. Sharon was
just not interested, which was unusual for her.
Somehow or other, conversation began about Tracey and Sharon's life
before they'd come to Buggery. Buttercup listened to their account of life
back home, and seemed to find it tremendously exotic and even bizarre. The
very concept of night- clubs and pubs took some explaining. The girls'
accounts of their sexual exploits didn't impress her at all, however.
Buttercup didn't find anything very adventurous or exciting in their tales
about making love to several at the same time, having both anal and
vaginal intercourse simultaneously, losing your knickers on the train or
being found by your with a boy's prick in your mouth.
Indeed, some of her comments rather shocked the girls, like: "Didn't you
ask your to join in?" or "Why didn't you make love with more
often?" or "Is it true that you're not supposed to show your in
public?"
"Don't you ever get to find out about anything in the world outside of
Buggery?" wondered Sharon getting a little exasperated by Buttercup's show
of ignorance.
"You've seen our television stations, haven't you?" Buttercup responded
sweetly. "When I was at school I genuinely believed that the real world
was like that."
"But since then... When you were behind the wall... Didn't you find
out more?"
"A little more. But not much. They've got another television station
which is relayed by cable behind the wall, which is a bit different to what
you can see at the tourist resorts. But it's no better for finding out
what's beyond Buggery's borders."
"What's that station like?" wondered Sharon. "Does it have sex in it?
Or is it a normal television station?"
"It's more normal than what you've seen, in that people wear clothes (or
some clothes) on it. But it's no better for information. And it's
horribly cruel and violent. And that's because it suits the depraved
tastes of the Buggery aristocracy."
"What could be more depraved than what we've already seen!" snorted
Sharon. "This whole country is just one bunch of pervie bastards. There's
nothing sane or normal here!"
"Well! There's a lot of violence. And a lot of sex. There's a lot of
sports and game shows: and they're not the nice sports like you told me you
see on tourist television. There are a lot of gladiatorial sports.
There's one sport which is basically where two armed with knives have
to fight to castrate the other. The winner is the one who (by whatever
means) manages to slice off his opponent's testicles and to hold them
aloft. That's pretty disgusting. And often, of course, one or both of them
die. There are others which are just fights to the death, where the loser
survives at least long enough to see that he or she has lost. And when it
involves disembowelling and live organ removal, just how they lost in
gruesome detail.
"There is wrestling: but the only kind of wrestling you see is where the
aim of the exercise is to anally fuck the opponent. It looks really odd as
two who have to keep their penises as erect as they can (so they're
always masturbating themselves as they fight) have to try and get their
opponent into a position that they can force their prick into the other's
arsehole. There are team sports too: but many of those also involve death,
castration and sodomy.
"Another game is where a person has to run away from others, including
dogs, whose task is to rape him or her. This might take place in a maze,
where the victim has no idea who or what might be around the next bend or
corner. In this case the victim has to be able to both run quite fast and
to be able to fight off the attackers. The victim is considered to have
won when he or she has reached wherever the end point is and to have
escaped anal intercourse. And, for a woman, vaginal intercourse as well.
It's quite possible for a victim to win because she's only been fucked but
not been buggered."
"It can't all be sport on television?" wondered Tracey who'd never
really followed sport much at home, although she liked watching wrestling
for the pleasure of watching the men's bodies.
"There are films as well. These must be made for export in most cases
and some are very well-made. But they're very violent too. And I'm sure
the violence is real. When characters are slowly mutilated to death, or
repeatedly beaten, or have parts of their body removed then you can be sure
it's the real thing. And there's usually some rape involved in it. It
seems that it's impossible to kill or harm someone without having sex with
them. Often the victims are restrained by ropes or manacles. Sometimes
they are just beaten into compliance."
"The actors can't have a long career can they?" wondered Tracey.
"Not if they are deemed to be villains or if they are one of those to be
attacked early in the films. But even those who are considered the heroes
or heroines are not that nice. They seem not to care if they gouge out the
eyes of their victims, or castrate them, or slice off their limbs, or
disembowel them. Even if they are supposed to be acting on behalf of
goodness and decency. And they are just as likely to rape their victims.
The main difference is that the good characters will always survive.
However, there was one character whose descent towards her final death
started off with her being considered a heroine. But in the process of
that film she had both of her arms severed just below the shoulders. Her
suffering was grotesque and genuine, as near the start of the film her arms
were cut off with a knife while being raped. She spent the rest of the
film having to adapt to her new physical deficiency. Something which was
treated relatively sympathetically. She was a very beautiful girl.
Somehow or other she managed with the assistance of others in bringing her
attackers to their own gross and disturbing deaths, inevitably including
their own mutilation. Then I saw her in another film where this time she
had her legs cut off with an axe just below the hips and spent the rest of
the film hobbling about as just a torso. Not surprising the last film I
saw her in she was repeatedly gang-raped and then tortured until her death.
This film had very little pretence of a plot. And I can't imagine she
could have enjoyed even the smallest part of it."
Sharon didn't enjoy the idea of Buggery television very much. "Can't we
change the subject," she suggested. "Look at the sky!"
She pointed up at the half moon through the lattice of branches in the
wood. Overhead there was a faint roar of an aeroplane going by. The two
friends watched the aeroplane's tail lights sadly.
"That's where we ought to be!" Tracey said.
"I'd do anything to be watching a normal game show on television,"
Sharon mused. "To go in a pub and get a pint of lager. Get really pissed,
and get fucked by some fat greasy slob with spew down his tee-shirt."
Buttercup sighed. "I'm sure we'll get there. I see on your map that we
can't be too far from the front with Buggery."
"It's still fucking thirty miles. And it's not all fucking woods,"
Sharon elaborated.
"Two days!" mused Tracey leaning her head wearily on Buttercup's
shoulder, long hair brushing against her face. "At fifteen miles a day,
we'll do it in two days!"
IX
The had been in woods for many days now and had become rather
accustomed to their remoteness from the civilised world. Sharon commented
that at home they'd have been bound to meet someone walking in the woods,
but as Buttercup pointed out from the map there were just no places near
them where people would be likely to be coming from. As she elaborated,
people in Buggery didn't have the leisure time to be walking in the woods
for no purpose.
However, they did at last come across someone else, as they emerged out
of wood into a clearing. It was a woman gathering dried wood.
Typically for this country, she was naked with a shaved head. As they had
seen no one for so many days, it seemed sensible just to stay quiet
and still in the hope that they wouldn't be noticed while she was working.
"You don't have to hide you know," the woman called out to them. "I
know you're there." She picked up her bundle of twigs and branches and
walked towards where they were.
Sharon, Tracey and Buttercup emerged nervously from the shadows and
stood in the speckled sunlight. The woman stared at them with a quizzical
expression, passing her eyes from one to another and back again. She
had probably been very attractive once, and she was probably not much than thirty. Most of her teeth were missing. Her nose was broken and
slightly twisted. A jagged scar disfigured one of her breasts. "My!
You're a funny crowd! Are you on the run?"
Tracey nodded her head. "We're on our way to Gomorrah."
"Gomorrah!" exclaimed the woman with an amused smile. "Well, you've got
to have somewhere to run to if you're running away I suppose." She dropped
her bundle to her feet and hobbled towards them with the faltering step of
a much person. "You'll be pleased to know that it's not far to go
now. The war zone's really close to here. It used to be a lot further
away. Many kilometres away. But it's been getting steadily closer as the
war's gone on. Bit like the tide coming in, I guess."
The felt strangely awe-struck by the disfigured woman. She was so
skinny, with the outline of her ribs and hips showing clearly through her
tanned bare skin. Her feet were flattened and rough. Her toe- and
finger-nails were crooked and broken. Many of her teeth were missing,
particularly at the front. Back home, Sharon and Tracey had never seen
anyone in such a bad way, except after a good scrap in the pub car park.
And then it'd be mostly patched up when the hospital had got them to them.
"You're a strange lot. I've never seen anyone like you before. We get
a lot of runaways round here. Mostly to seek a better life in Gomorrah.
Or anywhere really. But you're the strangest yet. I suppose you're
worried about being caught and sent back. And that's why you're wandering
in the woods."
"There's a lot of police about!" Sharon said.
"Well, that may be so. But there's no reason here why they'd be
bothered about you lot in particular. Law and order sort of starts to
disintegrate round here. No one can be bothered to enforce His Majesty's
Justice when you spend all your time dodging bullets and things. And
that's why I live here."
"Why? Because there's no law and order?" wondered Buttercup.
The woman didn't really answer. She looked at Buttercup's beautiful
naked figure with a horrible lascivious leer. "My! You're a pretty one!"
she exclaimed. "You're the prettiest one I've ever seen! I'd love to have
you suck my cunt!" The woman scratched her chin contemplatively with a hand
from which two fingers were missing.
The woman walked right up to Buttercup and stood right in front of her.
Tracey had become sufficiently sensitive to her new lover to notice her
flinch ever so slightly as the woman approached. She answered Buttercup's
question. "No, sweetheart. Where there's no law and order, then you can
survive. It's the law which kills people. In most of Buggery you can't
live at all when you lose your looks. Or like me get brutally and
violently raped by the police. You don't stand a chance in most of
Buggery. You last as long as you can, and that's only so long as the police
don't take an interest in you for one reason or another. Or you don't get
called up for fighting against the Gomorrans. Round here no one gives a
fuck. There's no eugenic policy - official or otherwise."
The woman raised her other hand, which still had a full set of fingers,
and without ceremony or introduction stroked Buttercup's breasts. "You'll
want some food, won't you? Something to eat. You can't buy it round here.
You can only grow it, steal it or sell your body for it."
"Can't you buy anything at the villages?" wondered Tracey.
"Villages!" sniffed the woman. "You're only five kilometres from the
front. Villages can't survive here. They get bombed to pieces. You have
to live in a bunker to survive round here. There are no villages anywhere
around her! The nearest you have to a village must be Tranquillity.
That's a real hovel which supplies sex to the soldiers before they head off
to fight in the war. And probably die. You could buy sex there, but not
any food. You can buy sex here if you want. And you can sell it too.
It's a lot less precious than food, I can tell you! If you want food
you're going to have to follow me. And you're going to have to pay for it!
But not with money! What could I do with money round here?"
The woman looked at the girls. "Well! Are you coming with me or you
going to stay in the fucking woods forever? And is any one of you going to
help me carry these fucking twigs?"
Sharon nodded and reluctantly stepped forward. "Yeah! We'll come. At
least you're not police!"
The woman smiled grimly. "And you can call me Joy by the way. That's
what I'm called, but that doesn't necessarily describe me."
She picked up the bundle that lay on the ground, which was tied together
by more flexible branches, and lunged it over to Sharon. She gasped as she
took the weight off Joy. Fuck! They were heavy! She swang them over her
shoulder, feeling the rough branches against her skin through the blouse,
and followed Joy as she hobbled ahead of them through the woods.
Fortunately, Tracey and Buttercup took turns in helping her carry the
bundle, so it wasn't so bad. But even five minutes at a time was more
weight than she'd ever carried before. They walked in single line through
a tortuous route that seemed to follow no obvious paths, stepping over
fallen logs and ducking under tangled bracken. Now that Tracey was
carrying the bundle and cursing every fucking twig while she did so, Sharon
now noticed for the first time that Joy had a bit of a limp, and that half
of one of her buttocks was missing.
Also for the first time, as they stumbled along, the began to
appreciate just how close they must be to the war zone. They passed the
rotting hull of a crashed aeroplane, parts of which were still hanging from
the branches of the trees. And they passed a few holes that Tracey at
first thought had been dug, but which Buttercup pointed out were more
likely to be craters caused by falling bombs.
And then, for the first time in days, they were out of the woods and
found themselves on a road which stretched away from the wood across open
fields into the distance. The three paused in the unfamiliar, open
space. They could see more than several yards ahead. And the bright rays
of the sun in the open air was overwhelming after the speckled light and
dark shadows they'd become accustomed to.
Joy did not appreciate their pause. "Fuck's sake!" She yelled. "It's
fucking dangerous here. You don't want to get shot, do you? And don't
wander around randomly. There are mines, unexploded bombs and all things
round here. So just follow where I go and don't even think of making a
fucking detour." She turned round with a grimace, and hobbled on as the
unforgiving sun beat down on her and on the girls. Sharon's skin burnt in
the bright light and the sharp pain of the heat became indistinguishable
form the sharp pain of the branches she was carrying. But, from the advice
she had been given, she was able to see the landscape in a new light. The
many holes which dotted the uncultivated fields had definitely not been
dug. They were too shallow and too strangely smooth. And the rusted hulks
she could see in the distance were almost certainly not the tractors and
cars like you'd expect to see in the country back home. They almost
certainly served some military purpose.
After a mile or so of trudging through the desolate fields, Joy led them
to what looked like some kind of a settlement. It was in fact the bombed
remains of a tinned fruit factory, with a large commercial sign pointing to
the foreman's office and industrial machinery scattered about.
As they approached, they were able to see the other inhabitants of this
place. Like Joy, they were all naked with shaved heads. Some were even
young children: which was something Tracey and Sharon hadn't seen before in
Buggery. But the vast majority of the people were other women. Very few
were men. Nobody seemed to pay them any attention as they approached.
Everyone seemed busy in their own affairs amongst the ruins of the factory,
which still had inappropriate signs scattered about the place, pointing
towards places like Reception, Head Office and Exit.
Joy stopped by a sign reading Technical Services. "This used to be the
main agricultural district of Buggery," she commented. "During the war
with Sodom, this area was very prosperous, as all trade that didn't go by
sea had to go via Gomorrah. So, a lot of people came to live round here.
Nowadays nobody lives here except people like me or people with more to
fear from Law and Order than from living off all this shit."
"What sort of people?" wondered Sharon.
"Men, for instance," Joy continued. "Not many in Buggery. They all
get sent off to the war if they can't be used in the sex and tourism
industry. People with physical disabilities - like that there." She
pointed at a very pretty of about sixteen who certainly didn't appear
disabled. "She's deaf. She'd be dead as well anywhere but here. Deafness
isn't tolerated. It's a wonder she didn't have her womb torn out like I
did. But she's had a couple of little children. And they're not deaf."
Joy led the three down what had once been a corridor, but now
without a roof over their heads seemed like just the gap between two
buildings. She arrived at a hatch on the floor which she crouched over,
lifted up with some effort with both hands and revealed a flight of metal
steps descending into the dark. "Down here. But be careful! A lot of
rungs are missing."
This was true, and Buttercup complained at the sharpness of the edges of
the rungs on her bare feet. It was also very dark, so the three were
quite frightened as they descended. Before they got to the bottom,
however, the shaft was lit up by a light from below as Joy lit a candle
with some matches. They now got a view of where they were. It was in fact
a room that had once been a food store. All about the place was scattered
an untidy miscellany of rugs and rubbish, which betrayed no sense of order,
even to Tracey and Sharon who were used to relative disorder. In the
corner of the room, there was a ragged mattress on which lay another woman,
whose appearance was not nearly as decrepit as the first woman.
"This is Sweetness, my lover," announced Joy. "Sweetness is blind, so
the only use she has to the world is to make love. Isn't that so,
darling."
"I fuck all the time. To whoever's willing to pay us food for it,"
Sweetness explained. "Are you going to give us food for sex? I'm about
ready for a fuck." Sweetness was a slim, in fact emaciated girl, perhaps
only fourteen years old, with long, terribly matted, black hair which
reached to her waist. Like everyone else though she was totally naked.
"Not tonight, Sweetness," Joy explained. "It's these who are
going to give me pleasure today."
In fact it was more Buttercup than Sharon or Tracey who provided that
honour. The two were deeply depressed by their environment,
horrified by the physical appearance of their host, but nonetheless
ravenously hungry. Buttercup, however, seemed to have no discriminatory
faculties and more than satisfied Joy's lust, while Sweetness sat silently
and disconsolately to one side. Tracey felt a mixture of disgust and
jealousy as she watched Buttercup indulge in wild and passionate love of
the kind with apparently just as much pleasure as she'd ever shown to her.
But although Buttercup might have the energy, she reflected, somehow all
the energy seemed to have sapped out of her. The relative calm and peace
that had fallen upon her these last couple of days since they'd met
Buttercup was being angrily consumed with the heat and rush of jealousy and
hatred, as she watched Buttercup lick Joy's half-buttock and allowed Joy's
tongue to push through the gaps in her teeth into the beauty of her vagina.
Tracey could imagine every caress and every thrust and every nibble as if
it was happening to her. As, of course, it had not so long before.
And Joy's appetite for sex was ravenous and ugly. She probed every
orifice in Buttercup's body: her nostrils, her ears, her mouth and arse.
She demanded that Buttercup push her tongue down her throat, into her anus,
and to pay particular attention to the ripped and jagged edges of her torn
labia. Every scar had to be licked, every wound and every part of her had
to be treated as if it were a source of pleasure.
Only after Joy was fully satisfied, after several hours of fumbling,
groping, penetration and nibbling in the candle-light, was the food at last
prepared. And it really was not very pleasant. It was just a tasteless
meat and vegetable stew on white rice. But nevertheless the friends
launched into it with an appetite. As they ate greedily and voraciously,
Sharon began to see more the advantages of having Buttercup in their
company. Unlike Tracey, she had been able to watch Buttercup and Joy
without too much jealousy. And, even, after having watched Tracey and
Buttercup together, with a guilty feeling of having gained a kind of
revenge. Sharon wouldn't have chosen to make love to such a disgusting
(and smelly!) wreck of an individual like Joy. Nor was she too excited by
the sullen, skeletal appearance of Sweetness. And now that Tracey had seen
what a promiscuous slut Buttercup was, despite her obvious physical beauty,
maybe she would lose her so obvious dykish obsession with the girl.
However, when the candle was about to be extinguished, Sharon found that
there was actually a shortage of mattresses and that the two mattresses
there were both in a filthy and sordid state. Tracey and Sharon shared the
mattress with Sweetness who clung to them with a tenacity that had nothing
do with any sexual passion and more to do with a desperation for their
bodies' warmth. Sweetness occasionally stroked and caressed the two girls'
bodies seemingly unconcerned by their unresponsiveness. This was almost
comforting in the discomfort and bleakness of their sleeping arrangements.
Sharon had never slept so tightly against Tracey's body before, and she was
dreading not only Sweetness' intentions, but those that her best
friend might be developing. Joy and Buttercup slept on the other mattress
where they very soon resumed making love together as the night hours
stretched ahead in the total blackness of the abandoned store-room.
X
Sharon eventually got to sleep after tossing and turning in the dark
fetid heat, crammed between Sweetness' and Tracey's own hot bodies, and
long after the moaning and gasping ceased from the mattress where Buttercup
was sleeping with Joy. When she awoke it was on a lumpy mattress sodden
with sweat and the strange sensations of a slobbery tactile probing in her
vagina. As she blinked in the dark, her legs were wide open and she was
enjoying the sensation despite herself. What was the feeling? It wasn't a
prick. Not unless it was a peculiarly small and versatile one. And it
wasn't fingers - the feeling was quite unlike that. As the sensation
spread up her labia to her stomach, she established that it must be a
tongue. No had ever her there before, and it was a pleasure she
felt peculiar about enjoying. But who was it? There was no light at all
in the dark store-room; no silhouetted figures, nothing but a frightening
absence of sight.
"Tracey. Is that you?" Sharon wondered, thinking that her friend had
perhaps mistaken her for Buttercup.
"You what?" answered Tracey in a sleepy voice. "What you want?"
"Are you fucking licking me?"
"What the fuck do you think? I'm your mate, not your fucking whatsit."
Sharon leaned up and groped at the head of whoever's head it was between
her legs, secretly hoping that it was Buttercup (though why she wasn't
sure).
"Ooh! That hurt! That's my eye!" shrieked Sweetness.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Don't you like it?"
"Don't fucking ask! Just get the fuck off me!" Sharon yelled into the
dark.
A match was struck, and a candle lit. Joy stood up in front of them,
with a strange leer. "Don't you like my darling Sweetness?" She asked with
amusement.
"I'm no fucking dyke!"
"In this world, you get what you fucking get and you've got no fucking
choice!" Joy said. "However, it's time me and Sweetness went to work."
Buttercup was still asleep on the mattress, but Joy rudely shook her
awake. "Come on, my darling. We need to get some daylight!" After some
very minor preparation, Joy led the way up the store-room rungs to the
world outside. Actually, it was Sweetness who really led the way, bounding
up the rungs, knowing exactly where to place her bare feet. She pushed up
the hatch, Joy extinguished the candle she was carrying, and the were
exposed to the harsh bright light of the morning sun through the slats of
the bombed roof.
In the light, Sharon was at last able to see Sweetness more clearly.
She was very thin, her ribs showing clearly through the stretched skin of
her chest, and her pointed nipples prominent on otherwise uncontoured
breasts. Her dark brown hair was matted and fell over her sharp angular
shoulders, and unlike almost everyone else they had met she had no in
her cunt. Her eyes had a haunting vacancy about them, the pupils and
cornea spooky and undefined, and she never faced whoever it was she was
speaking to or whoever it was speaking to her. She had prominent pinched
cheeks and clearly defined cheek-bones, which gave a strangely puckered
look to her mouth.
It was Sweetness who rushed ahead, clearly familiar with every bend and
contour of the corridors in the ruined factory, with Joy and the three
girls following. On the way, they passed other figures in the half-dark
who looked up at them without much curiosity as they went by. They seemed
to be preoccupied in other business which was mysterious and unidentifiable
to Sharon and Tracey, but presumably had some purpose.
"What does everyone do here?" Tracey asked Joy as she dashed onward.
"Fuck knows! Stitching clothes. Grinding wheat. Rolling tobacco. How
the fuck should I know? You do what you fucking can out here!"
"And what does Sweetness do?" Sharon found herself wondering, the
sensation of liquid tongue still a vivid memory between her legs.
"She fucks," snorted Joy. "Or more precisely she gets fucked. We've
got a stall, and when I'm not out scavenging in the woods, she takes
whoever wants to take her."
"So she's a prostitute, then?"
"I haven't the smallest fucking idea what that is. Whatever you want to
call it, it's all Sweetness can fucking do. But she's fucking good at it.
Aren't you, Sweetness? You're a fucking good fuck, aren't you!"
Sweetness turned her head round and gazed sightlessly at Joy. "I do my
best."
The soon exited the factory, and found themselves in a broad area
where other people in the settlement were busy. Most like Sweetness had no
clothes at all, but some had rags which hid some of the unsightly scars and
wounds which was a common feature in the encampment. A staggered past
them hobbling on a large branch on the one leg and half a set of genitals
that were left to him. His skin was tattooed all over with strange
khaki-like splodges. He greeted Joy, and hobbled onwards.
"What happened to him?" Sharon asked.
"Oh! He's that rare thing: a deserter who didn't get shot escaping.
However, he got away through a minefield, which explains his injuries. But
at least he's alive!" Joy caught up with Sweetness who was standing by a
battered foam mattress next to a wooden board where the letters 'SEX FOR
SALE' were carved into it. "Well, here we are! Lie down, Sweetness!"
The stretched herself out onto the mattress, leaning herself
up on her shoulders, with her legs open and her shaved on prominent
display. Joy sat on a rock by the side of the mattress, and smiled
sardonically at the three who stood around. "I guess selling
yourself for sex is an option you can go for. Buttercup'd make you
all like fucking aristocracy."
"How much does it make?" Sharon asked, making a mental comparison with
the cost of sex in Throb. "How much money do you charge for Sweetness?"
"Money! Money! There's no fucking use for fucking money here. What
you gonna do with it? Clean your arse with it? No, all you'll get is
food, candles, clothes if you want them, that kind of thing. But with
fucking Buttercup you'll wipe up."
"Food, candles and clothes!" gasped Tracey. "That doesn't sound like
it's fucking worth it!"
"Well, what do you fucking expect, dearie?" Joy sneered. "Cigarettes,
booze and televisions? There's no fucking electricity here even if you
could get those things. Anyway, you can just bugger off. I can see my
first customer coming."
Sharon, Tracey and Buttercup stood discreetly back as a squat hairy with a ragged cloak and a mangled arm approached carrying some turnips from
whose ends were still dangling dried earth and roots. He gave the turnips
to Joy, who examined them with a critical appraising eye. "Ten minutes!"
she said to him, gesturing towards Sweetness. "Any more and it's on
credit." The hairy grunted, and handed Joy his cloak revealing some
deep festering scars across his back amongst the long black hair. He
then unceremoniously knelt on the mattress, holding out his tumescent penis
towards Sweetness in the broad hairy hand that was left unmangled.
Sharon grimaced. Of all the who'd ever fucked her, none of them had
been quite as grotesque as this figure. For fuck sake, he only had one eye
and an empty socket where the other should be. And she'd been fucked by
some pretty fucking sorry specimens in her time! However, Sweetness had
none of Sharon's aesthetic doubts, aided no doubt by her blindness, and
guided by the hairy man's hands she plunged her mouth greedily onto his
prick and gobbled and it almost with desperation. As it came up to
its erection, it really was not that splendid a specimen, no more than
three inches long with the hair from the balls tangling with the coating of
hair on its whole length. She pushed her head back and forth on its stubby
fat length: the whole of it easily getting into her mouth. And then when
she judged it to be as erect as it could be, she lay on her back and let
him fuck her, which he did in a snorting, grunting way, his hairy arse
thrusting up and down mechanically and not at all expertly.
"Have you ever been fucked by someone so horrible?" Tracey asked
Buttercup as they watched.
"Well, not anyone scarred or disabled. They'd be sent off to fight in
the war or whatever. But some of the people on the other side of the wall
are pretty horrible. Fat and horrible, really. But you get used to it.
One fuck's much the same as another when you don't think about it too much.
How about you?"
"You fuck what you can," Tracey answered philosophically. She looked
sadly at her new lover. "What about last night? When you were ... doing
it with Joy? Was that horrible?"
Buttercup looked directly into Tracey's eyes, and smiled
sympathetically. She clearly recognised Tracey's concern. And also her
jealousy. "Oh! It was really horrible! Not like it is with you. You're
much nicer!"
Tracey felt a strange burning on her cheeks. This must be what it's
like to blush, she thought, reflecting on this unusual sensation which
she'd never felt since she was and probably almost a virgin. She
smiled at Buttercup in a way that she was sure was hopelessly soppy and
stupid. But she didn't care, and anyway she couldn't help it. Buttercup
turned her unbelievably beautiful body towards Tracey, put her hands on her
shoulders and pressed her face towards Tracey's.
"Do you want to make love with me, Tracey sweetest?" she asked in a
strangely low and reassuring voice.
Tracey tried but couldn't articulate a response. She nodded her head.
"We'll leave Sharon with Sweetness and Joy, and go into the woods. Is
that what you'd like, Tracey?"
Sharon was horrified to see her friend blush a deep kind of redness, her
freckles burning against her sunburnt skin. What was happening to Tracey?
But she didn't need an explanation as she watched her friend walk off
hand-in-hand with Buttercup towards a small wood just fifty yards away from
the settlement. The bastards! Off to do their dykish business and leaving
her with a bunch of fucking cripples in a fucking wasteland! Part of her,
however, was envious that it was Tracey and not her who was having a
relationship with a woman who back home would be some kind of model, and a
fucking rich one too. There was no fucking justice in the world, she mused
as Tracey and Buttercup vanished into the shadows of the wood. She turned
back to watch the hairy man's prick push in and out of Sweetness' arse.
"That'll cost him extra," commented Joy with a sneer. "You can't
fucking take more unless you fucking give more."
Buttercup and Tracey wandered through the wood together hand-in-hand,
Tracey struggling to keep down a fit of giggles that kept bursting
uncontrollably towards the surface. Despite her misery, she had never felt
so happy before. This was love. She was in love. For the first time in
her life, she was in love. Unless you count Darren who used to fuck her in
the garden shed his had owned when she was at school and strictly
had only just lost her virginity. Or Wayne whose hated them when she
found them screwing on the marital bed. Or even Baz who was probably the
first really half-way decent fuck of her life. But this was different.
She'd never felt so passionately and helplessly in love before.
Buttercup stopped in a small clearing, and tenderly turned Tracey
towards her. Wordlessly and still smiling, she undid each button of
Tracey's blouse and with care pulled it open and slid it down Tracey's
arms. "Lie down!" she commanded with a whisper. Tracey obeyed, lying down
naked on the moss and bracken, not really noticing the coarse dry twigs on
her sun-scorched flesh. She closed her eyes, while a broad and silly smile
spread over her face.
And then, she felt a tender licking and on her ankles and feet.
She pressed her chin against her chest and gazed down at Buttercup's arse
which was hovering over her stomach while her tongue busied itself lower
down. Each lick, each nip of Buttercup's teeth, each stroke of her
beautiful classically contoured hands sent a tremor of delight through her
body. She shuddered and shook, as Buttercup worked her way up patiently
from her ankles, to her knees, ever upwards, her bum moving closer and
closer towards her eyes and mouth. Onto the thighs, on the inside, on the
outside. And then... And then... Buttercup's teeth and tongue engaged
with the lips of Tracey's vagina, and snaggled in the short hairs of her
crotch. And then, Buttercup's was close enough to Tracey's face
that her nose could smell its odours and her eyes could gaze lovingly at
its the folds and details.
"I love you! I love you! I love you!" gasped Tracey, before sinking
her nose into Buttercup's arse (the smell of which was somehow sweeter than
any arse she'd smelt before), and her tongue and teeth could reciprocate
the pleasure Buttercup's own was giving her below. She gasped and
shuddered. And then... A pulse of pleasure rippled through her body. And
exploded into a gasp. And then another gasp. Oh God! Oh God! Oh Fuck!
She shivered, shuddered, and groaned as spasms of orgasm of a degree and
depth she'd never before imagined crashed and thudded through her body like
waves on a beach, like vibrations of a drum, like nothing she'd ever
imagined before.
And then... While arching her back up to the rhythm of her internal
orgasms there was a crash and a thump and a roaring noise that she at first
attributed to her imagination thundering through the wood and shaking the
top leaves of the trees.
Sharon also heard the noises. But she was much closer. She'd got
fairly pissed off while standing around aimlessly near Sweetness and Joy.
The hairy had been replaced by another man, with a somewhat thin and
bent prick and almost the ugliest and most disfigured face she'd ever seen.
He was now lying down underneath Sweetness, whose shoulders were bouncing
up and down as her slender body slid up and down the length of his prick.
And then with the crash, and as the sky exploded, and the jet plane shot
off, Sweetness was thrown off the and flung by the shock onto the
ground. Sharon stumbled and crouched on the ground, watching the jet plane
disappear, seeing the smoke and flames emerge from the depths of the factory where the plane had dropped its payload.
"What the fuck!" shouted Joy. She was also crouched down, looking at
the factory behind them, Sweetness lay huddled on the parched dry earth,
her hands over her eyes, and a trickles of semen sliding down her legs.
This explosion was followed by another series, as plane after plane shot
at supersonic speed through the sky, their roar following explosion after
explosion. Rubble and debris shot out from the factory and flew in all
directions. A lump of tangled metal flew into Joy's shoulder and sent her
sideways onto the ground taking with it a chunk of Joy's arm and leaving a
trail of blood arching behind it. Her head fell against a stone and a
trickled of blood seeped out from her mouth. The stood up and caught a
brick in his chest which sent him staggering backwards onto the ground.
Sharon crouched down, covered her head with her hands, as she'd imagined
she ought to do during explosions, like they did in all the action movies.
Though in the action movies, there wasn't usually such strange quiet as the
roar of jets and the vibrations of the explosions died down, to be
following by a chorus of moans, cries and shrieks from all around. She
peeked up through her fingers to see people from the settlement running, it
seemed in all directions. Some had blood hiding the contours of what might
once have been faces. There were others like Joy, lying on the ground,
moaning and yelling. Smoke was billowing out from the factory and rolling
around the ground. Dust was thrown up from explosions that must have hit
the dry earth.
Then there was a crackle of what Sharon's memory of action films told
her must be automatic gun fire. A was running across the ground a few
yards from her, and then he fell to the ground, the back of his head now
just a formless mess of and grey. Sharon stood up. This was not a
safe place to be. She saw Sweetness crouched near her, tears streaming
down her face from her sightless eyes. "What's going on? What's
happening?" she cried.
Sharon didn't know the answer to that. She could see some shadows which
looked like armoured vehicles driving towards them across the parched open
fields. She also saw running towards them, carrying guns, the silhouettes
of what must only be soldiers. But not soldiers as she thought they should
look like. They had guns which they were firing as they ran along. But
otherwise they were naked. Their skin was all blotched with green and
brown, and, oddest of all, each and everyone of them was sporting an erect
penis which was proceeding ahead of them.
They were shouting to each other and to the world in general. "Glory be
to the King!" one shouted. "And to the King all Glory!" another replied.
"May he live forever!" another shouted.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" shouted Sharon. Every one for themselves. She
picked herself up, intending to run to safety somewhere, anywhere. And
then just before she got ready to move she saw Sweetness staggering towards
Joy who was moaning inarticulately.
"Joy! Joy! What's going on? Answer me! What's going on!"
"I'm no fucking charity!" snarled Sharon, trying to persuade herself to
leave Sweetness and be fucked. And then she saw a shadowy figure, and his
monstrous erection, aim his submachine gun at Joy and then blast it in her
direction. Joy's body spasmed for the last time as the bullets shot
through her and sent portions of her face and flying into
Sweetness' own face.
Despite herself, Sharon ran up to Sweetness. "Fuck Joy! Come on!" she
shouted, grabbing the blind by the wrist and dragging her with her.
However, their own escape was barely any distance at all, until she found
herself confronted by the erect penis and steely testicles of another naked
soldier. She stopped, and hugged Sweetness tightly to herself. Who else
was there to comfort her? Or to give comfort to?
"These ones are alive!" the soldier shouted.
"And they're not fucking cripples either!" responded another.
"The Sergeant'll be pleased with these ones!" shouted a third, as the
three soldiers surrounded the two girls.
Sharon lay on the ground, shivering from fear, clutching Sweetness'
naked body which shuddered from even greater fear and misery, staring up at
a trio of erect pricks and gun barrels. "What the fuck are you going to do
with us?" she managed to ask through the mucus of despair that had
risen from her throat, humiliatingly aware of the stream of that was
trickling down her bare legs.
XI
Tracey and Buttercup hurriedly jumped up: Tracey pulling on her blouse
and checking that she still had her bag with her precious passport inside.
One thing was sure, a noise like that did not bode well. Buttercup
gathered herself together more quickly than her lover, but nothing could
disguise the look of real alarm on her face.
"What the fuck do we do?" asked Tracey. "And where's Sharon?"
"It's best not to worry about her," Buttercup replied, wiping traces of
Sharon's vaginal juices from her lips. "We're in real enough trouble
ourselves."
"Do you think she's been killed? Oh fuck! What do we do?"
"We try and get as far away as we can."
"What the fuck do you mean?"
Buttercup gazed into Tracey's face and frowned. "This is a war zone.
People get killed. We could get killed. We've got to get out of here!"
Tracey nodded, and followed Buttercup as she ran ahead through the wood. They heard more explosions in the distance. More roaring jets. And
a sound which Tracey identified as gun fire, but not gun fire like in the
vids, but uncoordinated spasms of it from unidentifiable directions.
Sometimes a short spark, sometimes a loud bang, and sometimes a crackle.
Between these sounds were moments of peculiar uneasy quiet, spasmodically
broken by fresh and unpredictable noises. Each crack, bang and crackle
sent a spasm down on her spine, and despite the heat of the day, she found
that she was shivering.
They had no idea where they were running, but they knew it had to be in
the shadows of the trees. However, the wood was not large enough for them
to avoid coming to its edge after not too long. They had no idea where
they were in relation to where they'd come, but in the near distance they
could see the smouldering ruins of the factory where they had spent the
night. It was clearly not a place to return to. It had collapsed from its
previous dilapidation to little more than piles of smoking ruins around
which were prostrate naked figures and the silhouettes of other darker
figures running around.
"What's going on?" whispered Tracey from behind the bush where she
and Buttercup were sheltering.
"Soldiers killing each other. Soldiers killing other people. Lots of
things."
"It doesn't look very organised," whispered Tracey who'd always imagined
warfare to be somehow more like the array of plastic soldiers she'd seen in
model shops. Or even like the set pieces she'd seen on some movies. It
was difficult in the smoke and the distance to make any sense of anything
that was happening. Amongst the dark figures running around were also some
jeeps who were dashing about, raising even more dust, associated with
cracks of rifle and machine gun fire. One jeep appeared to spin out of
control, ploughed over some pale bodies, collided with a wall and almost
instantly exploded into a ball of fire.
"Quick!" whispered Buttercup. "This may be our only chance!"
"You what?" replied Tracey in a similarly low voice, but nonetheless
took her cue from Buttercup and ran out of the protective shelter of the
wood, through the orange and black smoke which was billowing their way and
into the field. What about mines? she vocalised to herself, but
nonetheless kept running. As they ran, Tracey knew not where, there were
more figures to be seen running chaotically in the distance. She could
make out that some of them were nude, although their skins were strangely
dark and shadowed, but she was sure she caught glimpses of some strange
protuberances from just above their legs. Shit! They've got hard-ons!
What a fucking waste! She tripped on the ground, catching her knee on a
rock, but she ignored the pain, more desperate to keep up with Buttercup,
who continued racing onwards ahead of her, than to administer to her pain.
Fuck! She was out of shape. You'd've thought all that fucking would have
made her a bit fitter, but ... Fuck!
She then saw some more shadows around a parked jeep to which they were
running. It was almost as much a shock to realise that they were wearing
clothes than that they were there at all. She almost felt like pointing
this out to Buttercup. If she could ever catch up with her. Look! Normal
people! Wearing clothes. All over them, Their crotch as well as their
chest. Like back home! After leaving home, she'd almost forgotten that
clothes existed. However, Buttercup was running in a quite different
direction now, away from these figures, so Tracey followed. And the
crackle of gun fire, both frighteningly close and thankfully too far away
to hit them, reminded her of the true extremity of their situation.
Then she saw Buttercup had halted in a crater ahead of them, which was
still slightly smouldering and in which could be seen some small traces of
metal which she guessed was probably shrapnel. Or possibly something else.
Puffing and wheezing she caught up with her lover and was about to greet
her, to reassure her that she was well, that she hadn't been shot, but was
forcibly prevented from this by Buttercup forcibly grabbing her arm and
urgently indicating with a finger to the lips that she should be quiet.
Tracey concurred with a foolish smile, and lay beside Buttercup in the
rocky recesses of the crater.
She then became gradually aware why she should be so quiet. Ahead of
them was a group of about five fully clothed soldiers, with helmets on
their heads, bags and belts hanging from their khaki uniforms and massive
boots which noisily crunched on the dry earth. They were carrying in their
arms some very formidable machine guns which occasionally they mopped the
ground with in a rapid succession of automatic gunfire. They had come
across the naked figure of another who was crawling on his front on the
ground, still with an erect penis from below him. Tracey could now make
out that this figure although naked was somehow covered in splodges of dark
brown and green over his tanned body. The soldiers moved towards him, with
their guns pointed towards him but not firing.
And then they surrounded him. Tracey waited in anticipation for more
machine gun fire, which would kill off the already wounded figure, but
instead she was astonished to see one of the soldiers pull down his
trousers while two others held the figure to the ground. What the fuck!
And then, covered by the cocked guns of the remaining two soldiers, and
despite the wounded soldier's struggles and cries she could make out that
the trouserless soldier was bobbing his arse up and down on the back of the
wounded soldier. She squeezed Buttercup's hand. Although she'd often seen
buggery while in Throb, it had never been as obviously non-consensual as
this. Nor was this first encounter the last of the wounded soldier's
suffering, as each soldier took it in turns to fuck the enemy soldier,
while taking turns in standing guard and holding him down. And then
finally, after an agony of waiting and the horror of the violence, the
soldiers finished, buttoned up their baggy khaki trousers and with a rapid
burst of gunfire extinguished what little was left of the wounded soldier's
misery.
And then they moved on, joking and clearly refreshed, plodding through
the dry dead field, leaving the remains of the upturned carcass in several
pieces scattered over the rocks and earth, relieved of both his rifle and
his life. Even Buttercup found it difficult to disguise her disgust.
"We've got to carry on running," she whispered to Tracey. "Our only
hope is to make it to the border. And then, I have no idea what'll happen
to us. But we can't stay here. When we see more soldiers, just fall to
the ground and pretend to be dead."
"Why?"
"They're less likely to kill us. Or even rape us. If they think we're
already dead."
This was advice which Buttercup and Tracey adhered to on several
occasions as they hastened over the dry fields, hoping that the dark
figures in the distance wouldn't be concerned to come and confirm that they
were dead. Or even to make definitely certain that they were. However, as
they ran on, the groups of dark figures they saw, and watched from the
relative safety of earth and dry dust level seemed rather more anxious on
their own safety than on anything else: irrespective of whether they were
naked and fully priapic or well-dressed and well-armed. Only the jeeps and
the occasional rumbling tanks seemed to cross the landscape with apparent
impunity, leaving behind them a trail of magazine cartridges and a loud
cacophony of potential destruction. If this was a battlefield, mused
Tracey, it was a fairly disorganised one. Perhaps, she reflected, on some
higher level, observed by helicopter or satellite, there'd seem to be some
pattern to it, but from ground level it seemed uncoordinated and random.
Soldiers seemed to be wandering in all directions. There appeared to be no
concept of enemy lines.
But there was no doubt from the occasional gun fire, the distant
explosions, the carnage of abandoned machinery, that a war was being
fought. This was brought to them suddenly, when there was another series of
explosions somewhere in the distance which Tracey observed to be truly
earth-shaking. How much fire-power had been used to produce such
explosions? she mused, as a stream of smoke sped across the sky from the
tail of some four or five jet planes, whose supersonic booms were barely
audible over the echo of the explosions their payload had caused.
The true nature of war became even more obvious when the landscape ahead
of them revealed itself as scattered with very many corpses of mostly naked
khaki figures interspersed very occasionally by that of a fully clothed
one. Tracey held Buttercup's hand as much for the need of comfort as for
the pleasure of her physical touch. The figures were all ahead of them and
spread across the landscape towards their right and just as much to their
left.
"Do we have to walk through them?" she asked timidly.
Buttercup pointed ahead at a line of wire and fence no more than half a
mile away. "That's where we want to go. And unless we also want to get
killed, we've got no choice. It's either ahead or back!"
Tracey nodded. But fuck! This was not going to be easy. Despite the
urgency of their situation they walked, rather than ran, through the lines
of dead soldiers, unable to take their gaze off the horror of what they
were soon surrounded by. Bodies were scattered as they had died, and some
as they had been left after further gunfire. They lay on their side, on
their back, and some on the front. And even dead, many of them were still
sporting the gross erections which they'd had at the moment of death. Not
all bodies were in any sense intact. Some bodies were shattered and
scattered over several yards. In some cases, the head was blown into a
bloody mess of red, grey and brown, while their bodies, even with their
hard-ons lay as reminders of where the heads had once been. On one
occasion, Tracey's sandled foot trod on a hand and wrist totally detached
from the body several yards away to which it had once been attached.
As she walked, numbed by the horror of it all, she felt a stirring
within her chest and throat. And then, without the warning she'd
associated with vomiting after a night of heavy drinking, she heaved and a
stream of liquid gruel pushed itself from deep inside her starving frame,
coughed into the air and onto her blouse and breasts. She collapsed as her
chest continued its convulsions, but soon nothing came out from her mostly
empty stomach, although her body was willing that there should be more.
After several moments of retching, she stood up and continued to follow
Buttercup through the lines of corpses, a dribble of liquid vomit still
emerging from the corner of her mouth, and her eyes stinging from the tears
the effort had cost her.
Soon they were up to the line of barbed wire and fence. It was obvious
that there was no way they could get through it. Even where the wire was
at its least high, it was far too high to jump over and lethal to touch.
The line of metal defences stretched in all directions. On the other side
of the wire was a landscape almost identical to the one they were walking
along, scattered with fewer bodies and signs of carnage, but not empty of
it either. Gomorrah really seemed no better than Buggery. Tracey was
beginning to wish that Sharon and she had chosen to go to Sodom. And where
was Sharon? Was she dead?
"What the fuck do we do now?" she asked Buttercup.
Her lover shook her head sadly, her face expressing her own misery.
There was no smile on her haggard face, and her long beautiful hair was
snagged by clumps of earth and her own sweat. "I don't know! I guess we
just follow the fence until we find an opening."
"An opening?"
"There must be one somewhere. The Gomorran soldiers must have come from
somewhere."
Tracey nodded resignedly. There was no choice. But the sun was sinking
rapidly. Their flight through the battle zone had taken many hours. It
had been a mixture of mad dashes across fields and across overturned earth,
interspersed by periods of playing dead which although it had hindered
their progress, had at least provided them with some opportunity to recoup
their strength before their next mad dash. Behind them stretched the
barren, corpse-ridden fields of Buggery. Ahead lay the mysterious but not
exactly inviting barren fields of Gomorrah. And between the two, a
frustrating and lethal line of defence. Tracey and Buttercup didn't know
whether to turn left or right, but they made their choice and walked along
on the uneven dry ground, as their shadows got longer and the sun
approached the distant horizon.
However, after only a mile of walking they saw an area where vehicles
were entering and leaving, and about which wandered several uniformed
soldiers. Although Tracey knew their choices were extremely limited, it
was only because she was with Buttercup that she resisted the otherwise
overwhelming temptation to turn round and flee in quite the opposite
direction.
The Gomorran soldiers were clearly not expecting to see anyone walking
towards the border post, and seemed almost frightened when one of them
spotted them and yelled out to his compatriots. Three or four machine guns
pointed towards them as they continued walking towards the border post,
Tracey following Buttercup's example and walking with her hands raised
above her head to show that they weren't carrying any weapons.
"Fuck! They're only girls!" snorted one of the soldiers when the had approached near enough in the dusk for them to be properly seen and for
them to be within earshot.
"But don't the fucking Buggery lot have fucking women soldiers?" another
soldier said to his comrade. "I vote we shoot the fuckers to buggery,
sir."
"They're only girls, corporal" repeated the first soldier. "Girls are
no fucking good as soldiers. All they're good for is fucking. Leave them.
We got work to do."
Tracey and Buttercup were both pleased and a little surprised to see the
soldiers mostly ignore them, with only one of them watching them with his
gun half- cocked, while his comrades continued loading items onto a jeep
and busying themselves with some radio equipment. They walked past the
soldiers, still not convinced that they weren't going to be shot, their
arms dropped to their side from weariness and perspiring heavily despite
the cooling evening air.
They saw what looked like a border guard, who was standing to attention
by a chair, his machine-gun by his side, eyeing them suspiciously as they
approached. His expression was quite clearly not of the friendliest. Just
behind him, on the Gomorran side was another soldier who was smoking a
cigarette and staring as much at them as at his comrade.
Buttercup walked up to the guard, who was built quite large with very
short hair and a small dark moustache underneath a brutal looking nose. He
turned his dark eyes towards Buttercup. "What the fuck do you want?" he
asked, raising his machine gun directly at her
Tracey walked behind Buttercup, disloyally wondering how much
Buttercup's body might shield her from a hail of bullets. Buttercup
smiled, despite her obvious terror. "We're refugees, sir. We want to
escape from the horrors of Buggery to the refuge of Gomorrah."
The guard lowered his gun, and laughed in a not especially amiable way.
"Refugees! Fuck! For Gomorrah! You're not the first bitches to want to
enter our democratic republic, but the last ones we dispatched pretty
quickly. Fucking whores! Why should we fucking spare you? Is it 'cause
you got through the fucking mine- field. If you weren't fucking tarts, you
ought to get fucking medals for getting here without your fucking leg blown
off!"
Tracey blanched. Mine-field? In her fear and desperation, she'd
totally forgotten that it wasn't just bullets she'd had to be mindful of.
What fucking slim chance had she had that she'd survived this walk?
Buttercup, however, continued smiling and continued walking towards the
soldier. "We can make it worth your while," she said seductively.
"I bet you fucking can, whore!" snorted the guard. "But you're not a
bad looking bitch. I could let you through. But what about your scrawny
bitch girlfriend. What say we that we blow her to fuck and just let you
through."
"It's either both of us or neither of us," Buttercup said firmly.
"In that case," snarled the guard as if challenged, raising his gun and
holding it up as if ready to let loose. And then with a bit of a snarl.
"Yeah! S'pose we could do with a bit of a fuck. Oi! Jello! What d'you
think?"
His comrade threw the stub of his cigarette onto the ground, and stubbed
it out with a booted foot. "Yeah, Buzzcock. I ain't had a fuck for days.
And the long haired cow is a real motherfucking killer bitch."
"OK, Girls!" grunted Buzzcock. "You're in luck. Come on the Gomorran
side of the border." He stood to one side as Buttercup and Tracey strode to
the gap in the wire fence, and walked through, a sudden spasm of relief
exploding inside Tracey's chest. They weren't going to be killed!
"Welcome to fucking democracy. There's no fucking royalty here. And
there's none of your fucking Buggery perversions neither."
Jello stopped Buttercup when Tracey was through the gap. "Now, you
bitch! It's fucking payback time. Let's see what you've got to offer."
"Not so fast, sonny Jim!" growled Buzzcock. "We can't let them in like
this! Not with the scrawny fucking dressed up like some half-arsed
nancy boy. You fuckers take your fucking rings out of your cunts, or we'll
fucking pull them out. And you, chicken shit!" he addressed Tracey. "You
take off that fucking or whatever you call it on your fucking tits.
There ain't no clothes allowed for bitches here. Bitches don't have the
fucking right. I don't know what your fucking cunt-arse government lets
you fuckers get away with: but bitches have got to know their place here.
And give me your fucking bag and all!"
"But my passport! My money!"
"You won't need fucking Buggery dinars in Gomorrah. Their fucking
useless. In case you hadn't noticed we're at war with you lot. But your
passport's worth more than both your lives put together." Buzzcock grabbed
the bag, turned it upside down and poured its contents on the floor. A
cascade of lipstick, compacts, notes and knickknacks fell to the floor,
including Tracey's precious passport. "Fuck me! Real money! And a real
passport! What kind of fucking whore are you to have this kind of stuff on
you? Did you steal it?"
"No!" Tracey replied indignantly despite her distress. "It's mine. I
took hours queuing up at the passport office for it!"
Buzzcock grunted. "So you're a fucking foreigner even to Buggery.
Well, don't expect any help here. Bitches like you won't be allowed within
even a mile of a fucking consulate."
Tracey and Buttercup stood together: Tracey feeling more naked than
she'd ever felt before with no clothes, no possessions and not even the
cunt-ring which despite herself she'd got rather attached to. And what
were the soldiers going to do?
Her answer came fairly soon, and in full sight of the other soldiers
loading the vehicles. She and Buttercup were dragged onto the ground by
their hair, her roots stinging from the rough tugging, and then the two of
them were brutally raped. At least, she assumed it was rape, even though
Buttercup had, in a very real and genuine sense, asked for it. But this
wasn't making love. It wasn't even like the rough sex she'd sometimes had
on a bad date. Or like the drunken fucking she'd had when she'd told the
bloke she was with to fuck off. This was brutal, violent and animal. They
were forcibly penetrated with no preparation at all. First Buzzcock into
Buttercup and then Jello into her. She was so dry down there. And it
hurt. And she was punched when she struggled. And then it was more cock in
her cunt. And cock in her arse. And then a slap round the face. And
after more minutes of unpleasant, disgusting forced penetration, sperm
squirted into her mouth and eyes.
And then it was over. The soldiers had had enough. They buttoned up
their trousers, which they had only lowered to their knees in all the time.
"Now fuck off!" commanded Buzzcock.
Tracey and Buttercup picked up their bruised bodies. Tracey left with a
small trickle of blood down her thighs that had been drawn from her anus,
and a fresh bruise upswelling on her chin. Buttercup had sustained a cut
lip and one eye was strangely swollen as a bruise began to form. Her hair
was disordered and she seemed even more shocked than Tracey. It occurred
to her through her own misery that Buttercup, being the so much more
attractive of the two girls, had almost certainly received more attention
than she. And that somehow the more attractive a was, the more
determined the soldiers had been that she should suffer.
Tracey put an arm around Buttercup who was weeping and occasionally
coughing, small traces of blood spitting out onto her cheek. They turned
around and walked along the road. They hadn't walk any distance however,
when Jello jumped in front of them with a snarl.
"Fuck! Don't you fucking Buggery bitches know fucking anything! This
is a fucking road. Yeah! A fucking road! And so it's not for the likes
of you fucking whores. If you don't want us to fucking shoot you, stay off
the fucking road. In case you ignorant cows didn't know, roads are for
fucking only. You bitches stay off the road, if you know what's good
for you."
"Where do we go?" sobbed Buttercup, strangely subdued.
"I don't fucking know! You wanted to come to Gomorrah, didn't you. We
didn't have to let you through. Anywhere. As long as it's not on a
fucking road. Or a fucking town. Or a fucking city. You bitches ain't
got no rights."
"Sorry?" asked Tracey, sure that she'd misunderstood something.
"You don't know fuck shit! Let me spell it out for you. You're in the
Democratic Fucking Republic of Fucking Gomorrah! You're fucking bitches!
That means you've got no fucking constitutional rights. No fucking
consti-fucking-tutional rights at all! No fucking women, bitches, whores,
girls or dykes have rights. Not to clothes. Not to possessions. Not to
fucking anything. Keep your nose clean and keep out of only areas!"
XII
Sharon's recollection of her rape and that of Sweetness by the Buggery
soldiers was confused and painful. She had never known that sex could be
so horrible, and she was sure she'd known horrible sex before. Even
non-consensual, when the bloke in the car park who she'd been avoiding all
night had fucked her in that brutal way. But that was almost fun compared
to the horrors of the brutal and seemingly never-ending rape she'd endured
on the Buggery battlefield. She knew that her arse and were being
violated repeatedly, but it was only pain and humiliation and fear that she
was fully aware of. Surely by now they'd had enough, she'd thought as once
again her dry and unwilling was penetrated by which prick she didn't
know. She could see through the tears that clouded her eyes and the
blackness that threatened her consciousness, that Sweetness was being
treated no less brutally than herself. How could sex be so bad? She'd
always associated it with pleasure, and now all she could do was hope and
pray that it would be over soon. But no chance! Yet another of those
peculiarly permanently stiff penises pushed through the bruised and ripped
lips of her and pushed into her far deeper than she was properly able
to take it. And the violence wasn't just restricted to just her arse and
cunt. She was forcibly held down and her arms stung from the force of the
soldier's grip while she her mouth and nose burrowed into the dry earth.
Every time she stirred in any way that could be interpreted as resistance,
and resisting was what she couldn't help doing, she was punched or kicked.
She barely registered the world around her. Was it day or was it night?
Sweetness was screaming in misery and distress. "Joy! Joy!" she gasped as
another man's khaki-coloured buttocks fell on top of her and thrust
brutally in and out of her. It was with an extra degree of disgust that
she noticed that the soldier's sexual attentions were not limited to the
two girls. They would grasp each other's balls, suck each other's dicks,
and she was sure she saw two soldiers fucking each other. In fact, she was
fucking certain, as one soldier's buttocks descended onto the buttocks of
the soldier fucking Sweetness, pushing his prick in with far less
resistance than he'd have found in Sharon's and pushed backwards and
forwards in a manic fashion gasping orgasmically in the same rhythm as
Sweetness' cries of pain.
And then, she didn't recall how, they were dragged along, their knees
bleeding from when they staggered and fell, just as did their orifices from
their punishment, away from the smoking ruins of the bombed factory for how
long Sharon didn't know. But each step was an agony. Each stumble, and
its attendant kicks and blows from the soldiers, another even greater
agony. She could barely see where they were: the tears in her eyes clouded
everything despite the bright sun. She repeated Tracey's name again and
again without knowing why, punctuated by every fucking shitting bastard
swear word in her vocabulary. Loud enough she was sure to be heard by
anyone with an ear to her cut lip, but not to the soldiers. Occasionally,
a drop of blood, from her nose or from her cheek, she didn't know, would
trail into her mouth and cause her to cough despite the pain this gave to
her bruised ribs.
And then, at last, no more walking. Sweetness and she were in a dark
tent where only the patches of sun through the black tarpaulin allowed
sufficient illumination for her to see where she was. She collapsed from
pain and exhaustion, pleased only that the worst agonies were over; and
then the darkness that had bubbled in the recesses of her mind overwhelmed
her and that was the last she could remember.
When she awoke, she didn't know when, she was able to examine the tent
where they had been left. There was very little to it. There were some
wooden boxes and crates, and the bare uneven ground on which the tent had
been erected. Behind her was a metal post pushed into the ground, and from
that came a metal chain which was attached to her left ankle and restricted
her to less than a yard in which she could crawl, and was not long enough
to permit her to stand. She wasn't alone in the tent. She could see the
shadowy figure of Sweetness, similarly chained to a metal post, just
outside her reach, and she could hear an incoherent sobbing.
Not wholly incoherent. Occasionally, Sharon could distinguish the name
'Joy', but otherwise there was nothing that made sense. Despite her own
pain and misery, Sharon felt an overwhelming emotion of pity for the girl.
Being blind, her shock and horror must have been compounded by her
helplessness and by her ignorance as to exactly what horrors had been meted
on her. Sweetness raised her face and looked in her direction, her eyes
registering nothing, a black bruise swelling on her right cheek and eyes,
and dried blood and snot on her upper lip. "Joy! Joy! Where are you?"
she moaned, and then buried her face into the palms of her hands.
Here they were, somewhere. Alive at least. With nothing. This hadn't
worried Sharon before. Her very life had been her chief concern. But now
she was sure. Her blouse was removed, thrown aside no doubt in the rape.
Her sandals that she'd bought in the high street when she and Tracey were
happily planning the holiday: gone forever, trampled into the dusty fields
outside. And her bag, with her passport, money and possessions, gone also.
Never to be seen again. Along with her last hopes of ever leaving Buggery
by the normal process of border control. Would she ever see home again?
Would she even survive to see the world beyond the tent? What would become
of her?
Or of Sweetness? Did she even know that Joy had been blown to pieces?
Or that the factory where she'd lived was now nothing but rubble and smoke?
She gazed at the sadly. So thin. So helpless. And she must
have led such a sad life. Fucking for a living. And a living that had
been a dank in the ground, in a Kingdom where her very blindness was
as good as a death sentence. Whose situation was worse? Sharon who'd had
at least some good times in the smoky night-clubs and damp car parks of
home? And even had the best fucks of her life not so many days ago? Or
Sweetness who'd known nothing but misery and despair ever since her
sightless emergence into the world? Strangely, contemplating Sweetness'
dire straits made her own seem the more bearable and in a curious way a
source of some guilty comfort.
Sharon pulled her naked bruised body over the earth and leaned out a
hand in Sweetness' direction. She couldn't quite reach the girl, but
Sweetness heard her movements. Her face lit up and her sightless eyes
looked in her direction with a disconcerting vacuousness. "Joy! Is that
you?" she gasped.
"It's me. Sharon."
"Sharon? The tourist. Where's Joy?"
"Joy's dead. There's no more Joy."
"Dead. No Joy!" Sweetness weeped, but she'd clearly already
half-reconciled herself to this possibility, not erupting into the hysteria
of tears that Sharon had feared. "How did she die? What happened? Where
am I?"
Sharon explained to Sweetness as best she could what had happened and
where they were. And rehearsed as much to herself as for Sweetness'
benefit the horrors they had been through. She talked and she talked,
disjointedly, ramblingly, punctuated with questions of how Sweetness was,
less from a need to know and more from a need to hear Sweetness reply
through the globules of tears, mucus and blood in her mouth. Every now and
then, Sweetness would interject with "Joy. Joy's dead. She's dead." She
was evidently trying to comprehend the enormity of her situation.
The flaps of the tent briefly parted, letting in a flood of daylight,
and the tall slim figure of a entered. He seemed peculiarly
delicate and somehow awkward. He was clearly a soldier, and like the
soldiers who'd raped the two he was naked and his entire skin was
dyed khaki. He differed only in that he carried a holster around his left
shoulder and had several stripes tattooed onto his right shoulder. He was
also had a normal flaccid penis. He walked over to the and crouched
in front of them.
"I'm Sergeant Moss. I'm the commander of this camp since the colonel
was killed yesterday. How are you? Not feeling too bad I hope?"
Sharon stared at him, barely able to hide the hostility from her gaze.
"What do you fucking think? I feel fucking awful. And when are you gonna
let us go, you bastard?"
The sighed. "I'm afraid that's not possible. You're spoils
of war, I'm afraid. Escape is just not possible. The soldiers need some
R&R, you know. And you're unfortunate enough to have to provide it for
them. I'm deeply sorry for you. It wasn't my choice. But war is war.
And you are victims of it."
"You fucking shit! Fucking let us free. I don't fucking care about
what your fucking soldiers want. And anyway haven't they fucking done
enough?"
"I can't apologise enough for the violence and brutality of my men.
What they did to you was inexcusable. Rape is one of the worst crimes
there is. Short of murder, of course. But this is war. We've sustained a
colossal amount of injury in the last day. The colonel's gamble just
didn't pay off. The Gomorrans gave us far more of a drubbing than we'd
expected. At least a thousand died yesterday and last night, and most
of our supplies were destroyed by the bombing raids. But I don't expect
you to sympathise with my men. All I can offer as comfort is the
observation that at least my didn't kill you."
"Didn't what they do to us ... wasn't that fucking enough?"
"Rape is normal in war. My haven't had sex with a woman for years.
Many of them have never fucked a woman before. But like it or not my probably saved your lives. The Gomorran soldiers are not known for their
mercy. They would also have raped you - just as they would have raped any
of my soldiers - but it's unlikely they'd have let you live. And you were
in the heart of a battle field. Gunfire, mines, bombs. Your chances of
survival were very low. I doubt whether very many others in that
settlement of yours managed to wake up this morning..."
"Tracey..." mused Sharon. Her best friend was probably also dead. And
all they'd wanted was a holiday in the sun. Her eyes exploded in tears.
"You bastards! You bastards! You fucking fucking bastards!"
"I can see you're unhappy," mused the sergeant. "And I can't promise
you the security or the freedom you want. And we don't have any medical
supplies to do anything about your cuts and bruises. But they do look
superficial, so I don't think you're likely to die from them. Much as I'd
like to, I can't free you. It would be my death sentence. Morale is low
enough as it is, and any small thing I can do to assist my is about all
there is left for me to do until, or if, reinforcements ever arrive. I'll
leave you now. But I'm sorry to have to inform you that, from now on, you
will be expected to provide sexual favours for my men, and that some of
them are not going to be that gentle with you. But I can promise you that
I will do my best to ameliorate the agony. It won't be much, but I do have
a modicum of authority even if I don't believe I have quite the respect my
rank should have."
With that, he left the two huddled on the dry ground, once again
to immerse themselves in their misery. Eventually, Sharon managed to fall
asleep again, her consciousness sinking in clouds of despair and Sweetness'
muttered moans and cries as she mourned the death of her companion. "No
Joy!" she moaned again and again. "No more Joy. No more Joy again.
Ever!"
The sergeant soon became the most frequent visitor to the tent as the
days and nights merged into a hazy horror of misery, discomfort and
despair. After a while, Sharon almost looked forward to the visits as they
were the only thing which interrupted the tedium and bleakness which did
not necessarily involve sexual penetration. When he wasn't there, which
was most of the time, Sharon and Sweetness lay near each other slumped on
the hard dusty earth. The only physical comfort Sharon could give
Sweetness was to hold her hand as they stretched out towards each other,
while Sweetness rambled on about her worries and woes. Generally, their
conversations were disjointed, and returned repeatedly to their worries
about their current situation and their recent losses. Sweetness was
genuinely inconsolable about the death of Joy who had been her protector,
keeper and lover for two or more years. Her life before that had been even
less pleasant than living in the ruined factory. She had been kept in
hiding from the police from birth by sympathetic peasants. The war reached
where they lived, and in the chaos of the destruction which befell the
village and her guardians, Sweetness found herself helpless and alone in
the world, not knowing where she was and where to go. It was Joy who'd
found her and saved her life, but she would forever blame herself that
she'd not been able in some way to prevent Joy from losing her life. Her
sightless eyes were and raw from the tears which memories of her
darling Joy inevitably provoked in her.
When the flaps of the tent opened and the sergeant returned, Sharon was
always filled with dread if he came in with anyone else. And usually there
were three or four others. Because this invariably meant more rest and
recreation for the soldiers who accompanied him and several hours of pain
and humiliation for the two girls. With little introduction and sooner
than Sharon ever feared, she and Sweetness would be fucked: in the arse and
in the cunt, and no opportunity to protest. After her initial rape, Sharon
vowed she'd never be penetrated again, but what use were her vows where she
was: tethered to a pole and thoroughly incapable of putting up any struggle
at all if she didn't want a gun butt slammed into her face.
The soldiers who raped her, - and it couldn't really be called anything
else, - were mostly quite young, were frighteningly unimaginative and
insensitive in their love-making, and invariably left her lower regions
battered, bruised and torn. They all were blessed with the phenomenal
erections which seemed to be a permanent feature of them. The only times
Sharon ever saw a penis that wasn't and raw with a throbbing glans and
veins was after the soldiers had at long last relieved their sperm either
into or onto them. The sergeant was the only one privileged to have a
penis that wasn't mostly erect.
The fucking was intense, amateurish, and seemed to go on forever. And
she wasn't fucked nearly as much as Sweetness who, because of her youth and
vitality, was more thoroughly fucked than she was. She was becoming
accustomed to pricks up her arse, shoved into her mouth and plunged (least
painfully of all) up her cunt. And at the same time, she could see
Sweetness through her tears of rage and disgust engulfed by a mob of
khaki-coloured figures who were fucking her as best they could. When they
weren't fucking each other. Which they did frequently, during, before and
after fucking either or both of the girls.
The sergeant, despite his protestations of decency, was no less of a
fucker than the others. His long thin prick, when aroused, as it very soon
was, joined the others in painful penetrating her, Sweetness and of course
the arse of all, or many, of the other soldiers. And when they left,
Sharon and Sweetness would be nursing their fresh wounds and humiliations
slumped on a ground which never got more comfortable and dampened by semen,
shit and piss. Even this respite which they'd been hoping and praying for
all the time they'd been raped, offered little comfort and even less hope.
And as the small pile of their shit and grew in the shadow of the
tent, it really did not smell very reassuring either.
However, when the sergeant entered unaccompanied there was no question
of sex and he was all kindness. Even if Sharon remembered distinctly the
times he'd fucked her (and no more expertly or sensitively than his
soldiers), these were visits which she rather welcomed and which offered
Sweetness and she almost the only respite from their misery.
He explained that he'd never wanted to be a soldier. In fact, his
ambition had always to be a poet, a talent for which he had shown great
promise whilst at school. But the Kingdom of Buggery had no demand for
poets and a much greater appetite for cannon fodder. Despite his delight
and skill at verse, he'd also proven himself to be a brave and capable
soldier for which he earned his promotion to sergeant. For this he earned
more stripes, the tattooing of which was almost as painful as his initial
tattoo into military colours. This was mandatory for all soldiers, and
ensured that they would have no chance of any other career for the rest of
their generally rather short lives.
He was very lucky to have survived the battle which had killed Joy and
separated Sharon from Tracey. The carnage had been indiscriminate and
widespread. At least fifty, and maybe a hundred, soldiers had actually
been machine-gunned down by forces of the Buggery Army who were under
instructions to fire on any retreating soldiers. The press of soldiers
attempting to escape the bloodshed behind them into the guns of the army's
rear guard would have been greater if the Gomorran jet planes hadn't been
so thorough in their carpet bombing of the Buggery army encampment. Had
the Gomorrans been less efficient, it was unlikely that the sergeant would
still be alive.
Buggery military life was harsh and unremitting, and, true to the
general policies of the Kingdom, as humiliating and brutal for the soldiers
as it was for the citizenry they were defending. Once in military tattoos,
clothes were banned, and as a result of injections, pills and masturbation
(sometimes mutual), soldiers were expected to maintain an erection at most
times. Particularly during battle and inspections. The thinking was that
a sexually aroused soldier was necessarily an effective one. The sergeant
was uncertain as to the truth of this, but he knew that his own prick was
at its greatest state of arousal during combat. Slaying, fucking, being
fucked: all were part of the excitement of war. And he could vouch that it
certainly scared the fuck out of the Gomorrans to be faced by massed
erections, occasionally squirting out semen as they made the kill.
Women were rarely pressed into military service, and those few rarely
survived very days, even if they were never caught up in combat. However,
sex was such an integral part of life in Buggery that soldiers were
expected to have sex with each other. Anal intercourse was encouraged and
even enforced. However, rank had to be respected. Higher ranks could fuck
anyone of lower rank: and did so with appetite and arbitrariness. Lower
ranks could only fuck those of the same rank as themselves or lower. A
colonel could fuck a corporal, but a corporal could never stick his prick
up a colonel's anus however much he wanted to (or the colonel might
actually like it). Life in the army was a man's life, but not a life for a
man who was choosy about his sexual partners.
When the sergeant left, Sweetness and Sharon would be left alone in the
shadows of the tent: sometimes left very much in the dark when it was
nightfall. Although Sharon insisted to Sweetness that she was no fucking
dyke, (something which she wasn't sure Sweetness really understood), she
sought out Sweetness' hand to clasp and didn't complain too much as she
stroked her ankle or arm or whatever little of her that she could reach.
Besides, Sweetness was still grieving the loss of Joy. It was difficult
for Sharon to understand how a like her, who might even be quite
attractive had she the chance of gaining weight on her emaciated body,
could ever find much pleasure in the crippled disfigured body of her
deceased lover. Sometimes Sharon's mind cast back to the days before she
and Tracey arrived in Buggery. Squalid though their life had been, it was
paradise compared to her the dilemma of her current confinement.
XIII
Tracey and Buttercup wandered along in the dark Gomorran landscape,
their shadows cast forward by the light of the nearly full moon, able to
see that on this side of the border as on the other there was evidence of
the detritus of war. They were both very tired and both felt thoroughly
abused. Buttercup was finding the pain between her legs a particular agony
for which she was grateful for Tracey's devoted love, as she grasped her
lover's hand. Tracey herself tried to keep out of her mind both her
feeling of relief that she hadn't been blown to pieces by mines on the
Buggery side of the border and her apprehension that it might still happen
on the Gomorran side. She didn't know what she'd expected on arrival in
Gomorrah, but she knew it hadn't been yet more of this anxious loneliness
and fear, and this feeling that she had left one hell only to arrive in
another which so far promised no better than that which they'd left. The
pain in her own and arse, though less than that of the more
absolutely abused Buttercup, still made her feel weak and helpless.
Eventually, after several hours of directionless wandering away from the
border, the two had to succumb to their exhaustion. They moved out
of the open air, where at least they could see where they were, into the
forbidding shadows of a copse, where a crater and the remains of a
fire-bombed jeep reminded them that war was still not that far behind them.
They rested together, relying on each other for warmth and comfort, each
being a pillow for the other's weary head, too exhausted for Tracey to make
love to Buttercup: an ambition which had so often surfaced in her thoughts
as she admired her lover. And soon they were asleep, too exhausted to care
anymore. Occasionally, Tracey thought of Sharon. Was her friend even
alive? She wondered. Or had she been brutally raped and murdered by the
Gomorran soldiers as she'd witnessed them treat the Buggery soldier?
Tracey was awoken by Buttercup, who was gently stroking her hair. She
lifted herself up on her elbow and looked around her in the bright sunlight
at the desolate, parched countryside, initially convinced that she was
still in Buggery, and that her memories of the day before had been nothing
but an unpleasant nightmare. Buttercup kissed her sadly, but lovingly.
Despite her anxiety, Tracey smiled. "At least we're still alive."
Buttercup returned the smile, on a face whose beauty was badly marred by
a growing bruise on her cheek and a cut just above her eye. She glanced
down at her crotch, where Tracey could see a small trickle of blood that
had emerged from her vagina. "Not just alive," Buttercup said with a
sadness,. "but together!"
She sat up, and grasped her knees between her arms, slightly shuddering
from a despair that Tracey recognised in herself. "Now, we've got to make
a new life together in Gomorrah. And first we've got to find some other
people. And just hope that they aren't as brutal as the border guards."
Despite their weariness and hunger, the two lifted themselves up,
and walked out into the open. Behind them they could see the line of the
border defences and, beyond, the battered landscape of Buggery. Ahead was
just more desolate, broken ground, broken by the odd copse and decaying
tree, and no evidence of human settlement. But they walked on, their feet
aching on the harsh uneven ground, their skin burning in the morning heat,
and their hands clasped desperately together.
It was only after several hours of wandering, broken occasionally by
rests on the odd boulder, where Tracey felt acutely her lack of cigarettes,
that they came to anything that resembled habitation. And a sorry squalid
landscape it was too. A kind of shanty town of tents and buildings of
cardboard and corrugated iron. And amongst it they could see the odd
figure wandering naked amongst the buildings. As they got closer, they
realised that all the figures they could see were women, all of them naked
and all looking a little scruffy even in their nudity.
Buttercup bravely approached one woman, letting go of Tracey's hand, who
reluctantly relinquished her grip. The woman had long poorly combed hair
to her waist, a very hairy which stood out as a broad triangle of
fur between her legs, and had shaved neither her legs nor under her arms.
She made the two seem peculiarly even more naked than she, with the
short stubble of hair on their own vaginas, and the slowly growing hair on
the rest of their body.
"Greetings," said Buttercup. "We're refugees from Buggery. We're
looking for somewhere to live."
The woman looked at them without surprise, and not especially
welcomingly. "I guessed as much. You're not the first refugees to come
this way. And I guess you've also been made suitably welcome by the border
guards." She brushed her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a small
smudge on her nose. "Heaven knows why you should come here. To Gomorrah.
There are women from Gomorrah who are so desperate to leave, that they
become refugees in Buggery. But at least you're alive. And you've still
got all your limbs, I see. You don't know how lucky you are. Many
refugees who come here, came off much worse for wear than you have."
"Can you help us? Do you know anyone who can give us food and shelter?"
persisted Buttercup, despite this rather unencouraging introduction.
"Yeah. Sure. I know how to help. But don't think I can help that
much! I don't know what you foreigners expected, but you're not gonna find
much luxury here."
She led them through a maze of tightly packed huts and make-shift
dwellings to a rather larger wooden shack near the centre of the
settlement. They walked past small dogs, innumerable chickens and several
cows and goats; along paths worn down by feet; past other women similarly
naked and unshaven. This was a village in desperate need of a hairdresser,
Tracey reflected. She was also aware that there were no shops or even
market stalls. What sort of dump was this? The woman left the two outside the shack while she went in. "I won't be long," she promised.
A few minutes later she emerged with another woman who was probably in
her early forties, and who, like all the other women they'd seen, was
naked, hairy and unkempt. She had a proud bush of hair obscuring her
crotch which crept onto her thighs and half the way to her navel. Her dark
brown hair was long and bushy, and showed no evidence of having seen a
brush or comb. She smiled at the two with rather more warmth than
the woman they'd first met.
"Hello. Glad to meet you. I'm Delta Seven Oh Nine Three, but you can
call me Delta. I've been elected Welfare Officer for our village. I guess
you're refugees here. Come inside out of the sun. Please."
Buttercup and Tracey followed Delta, lowering their heads as they passed
through the rather low door. The room inside was very sparsely decorated,
with just a wooden frame bed and a few cushions scattered about on the
floor. Delta sat on the edge of the bed and signalled to the that
they should recline on the cushions.
"So?" Asked Delta after the formalities of introduction were over.
"What brings you to Gomorrah?"
Delta did not appear at all surprised at Buttercup's account of why she
had escaped from Buggery, but was quite startled when she discovered that
Tracey had been a tourist. She needed a little explanation as to what a
tourist was. It was clearly neither a word nor a concept familiar to her.
"So people from your country regularly travel to other countries and
then leave after only a week or two. And you visit places like Buggery. I
don't think we have any 'tourists' in Gomorrah. In fact, we don't have
many visitors at all. Gomorrah's a kind of international pariah. I don't
believe it has very many foreign friends at all."
"Why's that? Is it a horrible regime like Buggery?" wondered Tracey.
"Well, in fact it's a democracy. And quite a free democracy. But women
aren't allowed to vote, and whichever government comes in seems to compete
with each other to maintain the state of sexual apartheid which
distinguishes this country."
"Sexual apartheid?" queried Tracey who'd never heard of the word before.
"What's that mean? Is it some kind of kinky perversion?"
Delta frowned. "You seriously don't know what it means? But that's why
no one in the world recognises the Gomorran Republic. It's when women
don't have any rights, and have all the rights they care to elect for
themselves."
"Rights?" wondered Buttercup who was having quite different difficulties
in understanding what Delta was going on about.
"You know: the right to own property; the right to vote in state or
local elections; the right to education; the right to roam freely without
help or hindrance; the right to travel on only public transport or to
enter only zones; the right to bear and bring up your own children; the
right to protection by the law from abuse and harassment; the right to be
treated the same as a man."
"You mean you have to rights for all that?" wondered Tracey whose
knowledge of politics was limited to knowing who the prime minister was,
and even then she wasn't always sure. "I thought that was just natural."
"It obviously is where you come from. And it's because women in
Gomorrah don't have rights that all the other governments in the world
won't ever talk to the Gomorran government or even recognise its right to
exist. We don't have the rights to possess anything: not clothes, not
land, not anything. They just about tolerate us living in villages like
this, because otherwise all the women would die from exposure and
starvation. And then the wouldn't be able to have sex, bear children
or have cheap labour. And even then there are some who'd begrudge us even
this much."
"So, how do you live?"
"Well. We can live off the common land, which is all the crap land that
the don't want. We can sell our bodies. And we can work in the
factories and as servants doing all the chores which think are beneath
them. But we have to be careful where we go and what we say. And we
mustn't ever complain. That's about it. Anything else we do is strictly
speaking illegal."
"What sort of things are they?"
"There are unofficial schools which we've set up to educate the as
soon as they're dumped on us. Which is from birth, where they just get
left on the ground for us to find and look after. The boys, of course, are
immediately looked after by the state. No one knows who their real mothers
and fathers are. Once a woman's given birth, she's turfed out of the state
hospital and expected to fend for herself. There are unofficial committees
which look after our own welfare, and make sure women aren't left to die
when they're ill or disabled. There are unofficial hospitals, unofficial
local governments and unofficial housing committees. We women look after
ourselves. After all, if the won't do it for us, who else is there for
us to turn to except ourselves?"
"What do the do? Don't they ever want sex or anything?" wondered
Tracey. She couldn't imagine how could get by without the basic things
in life.
"Well, there's always prostitution if they want sex. Most women do it
at least some of the time. It's the nearest to proper loving sex that you
can have with a here. And it's more remunerative than working in a
factory or as a servant. Women aren't allowed to own money: and anyway
there's nowhere we can spend it. So all you get is food. When you sell
your body you can get hold of drugs, alcohol, medicines and all the other
things you can't get hold of otherwise."
"So the only way have of having sex is by going with a prostitute?"
"Well, they can have sex with each other. The Republic of Gomorrah
actively encourages to do that. They regularly have big campaigns
where they try to persuade that that is the right and proper thing to
do. The more purist male separatists clearly find heterosexuality somehow
offensive and threatening. But however much propaganda there is, most seem to prefer fucking women. And, I guess, even though it's not often
very pleasant, even most women somehow prefer it that way. Of course, they
can just rape us. There's no law preventing them doing so, and there are
clearly quite a few who actually prefer rape. And, of course, rape
usually involves other kinds of violence as well. Most of us have been
raped once or twice a year: and some unlucky ones, much more often than
that. It doesn't help to be too attractive to the men. They somehow think
it's some kind of provocation." She smiled sympathetically at Buttercup.
"I'm sure you'll find out all about that when that bruise on your face goes
down."
"So are free to rape us whenever they like?" gasped Tracey, who was
still feeling acutely the bruises and humiliations sustained during the
border crossing.
"Well, yes," admitted Delta. "But not all men. Even though they can,
most don't. They prefer paying for sex. It's more pleasant for them
as well as for us: even if they are a bit clumsy and awkward. And all they
ever seem to know about is fucking. They never do anything else. Up the
cunt. Up the arse. A hand job or a blow job. It's pretty predictable,
doesn't take very long, and it means you can do quite a few in a single
night. Even quite a few in a single hour. Some women complain about men's
lack of imagination and sensitivity, but it does make it easier and more
profitable." Delta smiled conspiratorially, and then leaned under her
wooden-framed bed to reveal a bottle of whisky. "Look what one of them
gave me the other night. And all I had to do was let him on me. Do
you fancy a sip?"
Delta passed the bottle over to Tracey who greedily gulped down a
mouthful. Fuck! Alcohol! She'd forgotten how fucking good it was! Now
all she needed were some ciggies and a cheeseburger and she'd really feel
fine. She passed the bottle to Buttercup who politely declined, and then
back to Delta who pointedly took a rather smaller sip, and carefully placed
it back under the bed.
"Well, now we need to find somewhere for you to stay. And tomorrow I'll
take you to one of the factories near here where you can get a job. That
way you can at least get something to eat. We don't have enough food to
spare for very long, I'm afraid. You can last till tomorrow can't you?"
Buttercup nodded, although Tracey felt her hunger quite acutely. The
taste of alcohol had aroused her appetite, and she was now acutely aware of
how little she'd had to eat since she'd left Throb. She sighed to herself,
but accepted that she was now totally indebted to Delta.
Delta led them through the village, introducing the to other
women, similarly hirsute and naked, who all had names with numbers. It
seemed to be a Gomorran thing. Epsilon Nine One Two One. Omicron Five Six
Seven Two. Tau Seven Three Two Three. These apparently were the names
that the had stamped on them at birth just before they were abandoned
to the elements and whichever woman took pity on them. It was also the
only kind of name that the Gomorran would use to address them: if it
ever crossed their mind to use a name at all.
A called Theta Seven Six Seven Five showed the to a
small hut made from cardboard, corrugated iron and brushwood. She had long
blonde hair, blue green eyes and a slightly twisted nose. She smiled
continuously. "I only built this hut, yesterday," she said proudly. "I'm
in the housing committee. We're always building huts and repairing other
huts. I get food from the other women for that, so it means I don't have
to go to the Only areas for work or sex."
"Do you prefer that?" asked Buttercup gently.
"Oh! Very much. I'm always getting raped when I go to work. It's
really horrid. I wish I was or not so good looking. The are
always doing horrid things to me. Last time, one made me eat his shit
and then he kicked me in the face and breasts. You can see what he did to
my nose. I hate men! I never want to see one of those bastards again. If
I could, I'd kill every fucking last one of them! They hate us and I hate
them!"
Theta continued smiling as she spoke, expressing her strength of feeling
only by her choice of words and not by her expression. "I hope this hut's
to your taste. It faces the sun in the morning, so you should be up early
to go to the factory. You'll be going with my lover, Zeta. Zeta Four
Seven Three Seven, that is. She works at the chicken packing factory. So
we always have chicken in our hut. Every day."
Theta led Buttercup and Tracey to a hut through whose shaky walls rays
of light from the sun easily entered and whose roof offered the barest
protection from wind and rain. It was secure enough for either to
lean against the wall for it not to collapse on top of them, but clearly a
storm of any strength would smash it to pieces. The floor was covered in
straw and grass, but otherwise it was wholly bare. However, the were
so tired and exhausted, that this was more than adequate. Tracey smiled at
Buttercup and held her to her chest.
"Oh! We're here at last! Safe and sound and together!"
Buttercup smiled more wanly. She was clearly troubled by all that Delta
had told them, but she chose not to voice her concerns. She cupped her
hands behind Tracey's neck, her fingernails into her nape and pushed her
face right up to her lover. She turned her head slightly to one side,
probed with her tongue on Tracey's lips and as her lover gave her familiar
gasp of ecstatic anticipation, she clasped her mouth tightly to her
lover's. Tracey pulled Buttercup to her, her hands exploring the contours
of the beautiful woman's body underneath the long flowing, slightly matted,
golden hair. The delicate contours of her shoulder blades. The precious
and delicate nobbled spine, which descended from her slightly arched neck
and sank down her back until finally sinking into a pit above her
gloriously round, smooth golden buttocks. Unlike her own, these were
buttocks ample enough to hide the contours of her hip, but not too ample to
detract from her essential slimness.
Her hands grasped Buttercup's buttocks, and then, inevitably, curiosity
and desire and longing being what they were, her fingers sought out the
mound of pleasure where her lover's short stubble raised above her vagina.
And with a gasp of delight and pleasure she discovered that, yes!
Buttercup's was moist and welcoming. "Oh! Buttercup! Buttercup!"
she gasped, easing her lover onto her knees and then onto her back, as her
fingers pushed in and out of the moist, fleshy wonderfulness of it all. "I
love you! I love you!" she cried again, as Buttercup swivelled round her
body, so that she could lick Tracey's while Tracey was able to
reciprocate from above.
Tracey parted the delicate golden lips and momentarily paused to wonder
at what she could see, all the while feeling Buttercup's tongue expertly
lapping on her clitoris. Buttercup's opened like a fig. The
clitoris emerged hard, short and majestic above the folds of her vulva, and
there as her probing finger established again was the into which so
many pricks had entered, and now was hers. She winced as she reflected on
the border guards' pricks who'd so recently violated her lover, as they had
also violated her, and she fancied she could taste some of the caked blood
and semen on her lover's vaginal stubble. But now it was hers, as her own
vagina was Buttercup's, so she let her tongue rasp against the shadow of
blonde hair that grew around her nose while a finger explored the caverns
of her lover's anus. Yes, she reflected, as she sniffed her finger after
it had entered as far inside the tight pursed as it could, Buttercup
definitely shits. And, as the odd taste amongst the rich smells emerging
from her confirmed, she almost certainly pisses as well. But
perfection is only human. And from her own lower regions she felt
Buttercup's own fingers, teeth and tongue explore her own vagina. She
briefly reflected on her shit- smelling finger. Why do like anal
intercourse so much? The arse is nowhere as beautiful as the cunt.
Nothing to it! A with a small puckered entrance and an unpleasant
smell. None of the odour, delicacy, flower-like elaborateness of a cunt.
Perhaps that was because all wanted was a hole, and they didn't
appreciate the finer things.
As of course she did. Now she was with her lover, in the shadows of the
hut, on the dry coarse straws of the hut's floor, enjoying the best sex of
her life with the best lover she could ever imagine.
XIV
It started as a day like all the others as far as Sharon was concerned.
In fact, in her misery she had lost all concept of days. Life was nothing
but boredom and fear punctuated by rape. Only a few hours earlier
Sweetness and she had had to endure another assault by the Buggery
soldiers. Again ones she'd never seen before with the exception of the
sergeant who escorted them in. She was vaguely aware of the violence done
to her through her tears and pain. Her arse hadn't recovered from the
previous assault which had already left a trickle of blood between her
buttocks. Her was similarly bruised and battered. And yet more
pummelling. She could see Sweetness' face pressed against the ground like
her own, a leg hooked over her back while another soldier squeezed his
penis into his arse. She could see the other soldiers fucking each other
and could hear the gasps and pants of the soldiers as they penetrated her.
She had long given up struggling. It only made it more. All she
could look forward to was the pain ending, and then being left huddled in a
slump to nurse her sorrows. Sometimes she saw enough of the soldiers from
the undignified positions in which they'd held her down to see just how
young and sometimes mutilated they were. She knew that their sufferings in
this war had also been considerable, and the scars and dismemberments were
proof, if proof were needed that war was no more pleasant for the
combatants than it was for innocents like her who had been dragged into its
sphere.
And then, hours of solitude with Sweetness whose tears of grief for Joy
were intermingled with rage against the who had treated her so badly.
It was evening, so only a shadowy form of Sweetness could be seen in the
narrow light passing through the tent's closed entrance. Sharon sat with
her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms nestling around her legs,
staring into space, depressed, anxious and bruised. How long would she
last until she was discarded or worn out? It was while these dark thoughts
ran through her mind that she was suddenly startled by a loud bang and a
sudden burst of light which briefly illuminated the contours of Sweetness'
recumbent white form.
Thunder and lightening, presumed Sharon. But no, there wasn't any rain.
The little patch of sky she could see through the tent door was clear. And
then another crash. Not too far away. And the sound of running outside.
What was happening? In the tent, all she knew of was frantic activity
outside, the occasional thundering crash and accompanying flash of light.
And then the sound of gunfire.
"Oh No! Oh No! We're gonna die! We're going to die!" cried Sharon in
utter fear, a patch of suddenly releasing itself from between her
legs and squirting onto the ground beneath her.
Sweetness moaned. "What's happening? What's going on? What's
happening?"
"I don't know," admitted Sharon, conscious only that whatever it was, it
was dangerous and potentially lethal.
The noise and confusion only intensified. The gunfire became an almost
continuous rattle as it progressed to machine guns and hand automatics.
Every few moments there was a shriek or a thump or a crash. The tent was
illuminated after and during each new noise, and Sharon could see Sweetness
in those few instances lit up and crouched. She despaired. "I'm gonna
die! I'm gonna die!" she moaned unable to hear her own voice over the
cacophony, and distantly aware of similar shrieks and cries erupting from
Sweetness. Sharon rolled herself into a ball, hid her head into her arms
and like a mantra moaned: "Die! I'm gonna. Die!" She could hear soldiers
running about outside. At one stage, the tent shook as a body fell against
it and then slumped to the ground. Sharon yelped with terror. When would
she be next?
"Sharon! Sharon!" she distantly heard. She looked up to see the
shadowy figure of the sergeant. He was crouching down, but Sharon could
see that his penis was fully erect between his legs.
"Not now! For fuck's sake not now!" Sharon pleaded, afraid that she was
about to be raped.
"I love you, Sharon," said the sergeant in a voice hollowed out by
excitement. "I love you. I only wish we'd met in ... in better
circumstances." Sharon gazed at the figure when there was another monstrous
crash which shook the tent and briefly lit the sergeant up. He was clearly
excited, and not just his penis. Sharon noticed a gash on his leg and a
swelling of flesh and blood. The sergeant slightly hobbled. "If we ever
meet again .. if I survive ... I'd so like to meet you again ... but,
for now, you must run. Run away!"
Sharon was conscious that the shackle around her ankle was being taken
off and suddenly she was freed. Her ankle felt sore, but it was also free.
Then, as she crouched, rubbing her ankle and wondering what to do, she
watched as the sergeant unclasped Sweetness' ankle and then both of them
were free.
"You must run! Both of you! The Gomorrans. They're here. Soon
they'll be in this tent. And they'll kill you! You must leave! Now!"
The sergeant tugged Sharon up, who was unsteady from so many days of
lying down. And weak from eating so badly. And bruised and battered from
her multiple rapes. He grabbed Sharon by the arm and pulled up Sweetness
who was terrified and weeping. He pulled them out of the tent, hobbling on
his wounded leg.
"I have to fight! You have to run!" the sergeant shouted urgently.
Sharon was startled by the brightness and confusion of the camp outside
which she'd only glimpsed when she'd been dragged in. All around were
Buggery soldiers running naked with their erect penises, with guns in their
arms. On the ground were the bodies of other soldiers. Some tents were
burning, and there was smoke drifting across the landscape. She could
vaguely see the shadows of jeeps in the distance driving around through the
smoke. And all around was the sound of gunfire and the occasional whistle
as bullets shot by uncomfortably close.
The sergeant pushed Sharon and Sweetness away from him. "That way!
There's a wood. Only a hundred yards! Run!"
Sharon looked around her with startled open eyes, aware that her chances
were lessening by the second. Without a word, she grabbed Sweetness by the
arm and pulled her roughly with her as she ran almost as blindly as
Sweetness in the dark void where the sergeant pointed. As they ran, they
occasionally glimpsed soldiers lying on the ground and others running in
all directions. She was unsure of where she trod, and felt the rough earth
acutely as her bare feet raced onwards. Despite her blindness, Sweetness
was keeping up with her, moaning but not complaining.
And then, they were into some woodland. But Sharon kept running, aware
that this was only shelter in the most temporary sense. They ran over
through the dark shadows, gashing their ankles and their thighs on the
brambles and thicket. Gradually, the sound of gunfire became more distant,
but the explosions when they occurred were loud, threatening and shook even
the tall trees around them.
Sharon ran and ran, her breath short and painful. And then she noticed
an opening in the trees through which the moon was shining. Sharon guided
Sweetness through the trees, and put an arm around the girl.
"We've escaped. We may be safe," she whispered. Sweetness looked up
her, gazing with sightless, tearful eyes.
"I hope so! I hope so!" she whispered.
However, when they got to the edge of the wood, Sharon could see that
they were still far from being as safe as she'd hoped. Outside a full
battle was in action. Buggery soldiers were running about, their erect
penises silhouetted grotesquely against the moon. Gomorran soldiers in
jeeps were also in evidence, firing at the Buggery soldiers from their
jeeps. A large tank was charging over the dried barren earth, crunching
over the bodies of dead soldiers, occasionally releasing explosions of fire
into those soldiers who were running about. Sharon was suddenly aware that
the tank was heading towards the woods where they were, and might soon be
on them. She wasn't sure that the trees would offer it much of an
obstacle.
She squeezed Sweetness' shoulder. "We have to keep running. It's
dangerous here." Sweetness nodded, and joined Sharon as she led her back
into the wood.
However, it was not long until Sharon's exhaustion became the better of
her, and she and Sweetness were reduced to staggering through the dark
dismal wood, not knowing where they were going, only knowing what they were
running away from. The sound of explosions became more infrequent and more
distant, and she was now more conscious of the deadness and silence of
where they were. But tired as she was, she and Sweetness continued walking
and stumbling in the dark. Neither said much to each other, although
Sweetness clung to Sharon's arm or hand so tightly that Sharon could feel
the girl's nails dig deep into her flesh.
The walked on and on, until they could walk no more. And then,
hoping that it was safe, Sharon settled on a spot underneath a tall tree
around which was mostly grass and moss, and although it was slightly damp
in the night chill, she gently eased Sweetness down to join her in the dark
for the rest that her body demanded of her. Sweetness sighed and pulled
herself onto Sharon's body for comfort and warmth. Sharon had neither the
energy nor the cruelty to push her off.
In fact, their bodies were the only shelter they had from the chill.
They held each other tightly, seeking solace in each other's arms,
Sweetness' head buried in Sharon's lap and Sharon's head resting on
Sweetness' back. Sleep was elusive and fitful, but when it finally came,
brought relief of a kind that Sharon had not known for many days.
It was serenely and blissfully peaceful when Sharon woke up. The light
from the sun lit up the green and brown forest, revealing the many pretty
blue and yellow flowers that she'd not seen the night before. The sun's
heat burnt on her bare back and Sweetness was clasped closely to her: her
arms looping beneath hers and around her back, her face close to her own,
and their legs entwined together. Sweetness stirred and opened her eyes.
The pale sightless eyes gazed at her through the wild hair that had fallen
onto her face.
"Oh Sharon! You saved me! I'm alive! How can I thank you?"
Sharon sighed. "It's not over yet," she said miserably. The darkness
that had engulfed her in the days of rape and abuse in the tent was not
that easily lifted. But she appreciated Sweetness' tender affection. The
girl put her arms onto Sharon's shoulders and pushed her face into
Sharon's. She kissed her full on the mouth, her tongue just emerging and
about to enter between Sharon's lips. Sharon gently pushed Sweetness away.
"Oh! Sharon! I love you. I love you," said Sweetness sadly.
Sharon was not pleased to hear this. "I'm not a dyke," she reminded
Sweetness. "Just keep your fucking hands off me! Well, not your hands.
But your tongue anyway." She was distantly aware of Sweetness' hands
probing between her legs and then a finger stroking the short hairs of her
crotch around the cunt-ring, which was all she had to wear. Sharon brushed
Sweetness' hand away, gently and sympathetically. "And whatever you do,
don't put your hand there."
Sweetness weeped. "But I love you. You saved my life."
"I don't fucking care! It's I want ... well, not all ..." she
mused, thinking of the regular abuse she'd so recently become nearly
accustomed to, "but anyway ... not women. Do you understand?"
Sweetness bent her head down, her hair cascading onto her hands and over
her skinny breasts. Her bony limbs seemed so vulnerable in the sun, as she
pushed her clasped hands down between the angles of her knees. "No, I
don't," Sweetness admitted. "I don't understand at all. Joy always made
love to me. Why don't you? What's wrong with me? Don't you like me? Do
I look so horrible?"
Sharon was aware that tears were running down Sweetness' nose, and one
droplet hung precipitously from its end. But she couldn't relent. It
wasn't right. "Come on, Sweetness," she said gently, putting a hand on
Sweetness' own clasped ones. "We have enough to do. We have to somehow
find things to eat. And we've got to get away from here." She lifted
Sweetness' head up by her chin and gazed into her face. The was quite
pretty, if horribly malnourished. The cuts and bruises on her face
detracted from her attractiveness. Her cheeks were sunk in, there was a
dark mark around one of her eyes, and her lips were cracked and the lower
one slightly split. "We must get moving."
"But where to?" wondered Sweetness standing up above her unsteady and
slightly wobbly. Sharon gazed up at the unshaven triangle between her
legs, the sharp angles of her hips and the caved-in stomach. An
overwhelming sadness came over her, colouring her darkness with a fresh
sense of foreboding.
"I don't know. I don't fucking know!"
Without Buttercup or Tracey, Sharon felt even more hopeless than she had
before. And her responsibilities towards this blind may have given
her a sense of purpose, but that didn't make her any more capable. Their
wanderings through the day and the days to come were aimless, meandering
and uncoordinated. They wandered in and out of the woods. Sometimes
walking along the empty roads. Sometimes straying towards the battle zones
where bombed-out tanks and abandoned vehicles gave evidence of potential
danger.
On a few occasions they saw the bodies of soldiers rotting in the sun,
surrounded by the buzz of insects and the gathering of horribly slimy
things around them. On one occasion, they even saw the body of a soldier
fully clothed, with maggots and flies crawling through the fabric. This
was the first time Sharon had seen anyone, alive or dead, with clothes on,
and this acutely reminded her of her nakedness. She looked down
disparagingly at her bruised and lacerated body, her bare a kind of
affront to her sensibilities. Would she ever wear clothes again? And lead
a normal life? She looked at Sweetness, who was staring blankly ahead, her
hand, as always, tightly grasped in hers. She was discomfited more by the
horrible smell from the corpse than by its sight. Sharon felt overwhelmed
by a sense of sadness and something else she had been resisting so
strongly. She tenderly kissed Sweetness on the cheek, who started slightly
alarmed, and then smiled as she established what had touched her. Sharon
gently eased the off as she tried to reciprocate the affection.
Sharon was completely hopeless at the task of finding and preparing
food, and Sweetness was understandably even worse. As the days and nights
went by, a succession of wandering punctuated by exhaustion, the two got
weaker and their wanderings more fitful. Every time they saw figures in
the distance, the hid either flat on the ground or in the thickets,
terrified that they might be seen by soldiers or, worse, police. Sharon's
self-confidence dropped and her despair intensified. But still the sun
shone, the landscape alternated between the bleak barrenness of the open
fields and the forbidding shadows of the forests.
Those times that they had the energy to stumble forwards became steadily
shorter, and the times they rested became longer. Soon, Sharon leaned more
and more heavily on Sweetness, who was steadily losing her passion for her
guardian as her own energy levels dropped further. Sharon's awareness of
where she was became increasingly more tenuous. When they rested, their
consciousness slid away so easily, and stirring became even more difficult.
The sun burnt on Sharon's back and shoulders and her legs became
increasingly lacerated as her stumbling became more faltering and more
unsteady. And soon they weren't walking at all.
Sharon wasn't at all sure how long she and Sweetness had been lying on
the earth in the shade of the large tree. They were clinging to each other
in desperation, Sweetness occasionally shivering as fatigue and hunger
shook through her body. Sharon's mouth was dry and her lips cracked. The
few fruits and the odd mushroom they'd eaten hadn't really been enough to
sustain them with either nourishment or moisture. And then she felt a hand
on her shoulder. She assumed it was Sweetness, and opened her eyes
surprised to see that both of the girl's hands were clinging to her
shoulders, her eyes closed and one leg pushed out ungainly away from them.
Sharon started. She mouthed "What the fuck!" and looked up at the
possessor of the strange hand, expecting to see a Buggery soldier with his
erect penis and khaki skin. Instead she saw the face of a woman with her
hair shaved off and a strangely reassuring smile under a small nose
disfigured by a huge nose-ring.
"Who are you?"
The woman offered Sharon a bowl of water which she was holding in her
other hands. Sharon took it from her and gulped it down greedily, and as
she did so glimpsed the hands which had proffered the bowl to her. They
were slim white hands with the third finger on the left hand cut off at
just about the lower joint. She looked up and evaluated this strange angel
of mercy. It then became clear. The naked body, the chains running from
the pierced nipples and the shaven vagina. The crouched figure was a
Sodomite pilgrim.
The woman smiled again, and opened her mouth voicelessly. It was with
an acute sense of discomfort and unease that Sharon realised that there was
no tongue in the mouth behind the sparkling white teeth, or rather only the
stump of a tongue. And this Sodomite pilgrim was not alone. There were
three or four others: one male, the other female, all naked bar the chains
and rings from piercings all about their bodies. They were all smiling at
her. Despite herself, Sharon smiled back.
The woman who'd given her the water was crouched beside her, the chains
from her nipples resting on her knees. She placed a hand on Sharon's lips
and then pulled herself forward to kiss her gently and tenderly on the
lips. A very warm and brief kiss. She then gently raised the bowl of water
to Sharon's mouth.
Sharon sipped some more and looked up at the solicitous and kindly gaze
of the strange woman. "Thank you," she said sincerely and with difficulty
through the newly watered corridors of her parched throat. "Thank you for
saving my life."
XV
The Sodomite pilgrims couldn't be described as great conversational
company. In fact, as they had all had their tongues removed, they weren't
able to converse at all. The conversation they had with each other was
conducted in sign language and mouthing, but this was enough for them to
organise themselves pretty well. Despite their various mutilations, they
were astonishingly self-sufficient and capable. They knew exactly which
roots, fruits and berries could be safely eaten. They were expert at
catching and killing rabbits, birds and other to provide meat.
Their various cooking utensils were eminently practical for the task of
living off the land. They were, however, very kind and helpful to Sharon
and Sweetness. After the girls' abject failure in fending for themselves
in the Buggery countryside, the Sodomite pilgrims were the perfect
companions.
Nevertheless, association with the pilgrims came with a price, but not,
thankfully, one which involved self-mutilation: at least not on the gross
level that the Sodomite pilgrims had undergone. All the pilgrims had had
their tongues removed, and the third finger of the left hand mostly removed
or cut off. One had her left hand cut off at the wrist, but the
others had clearly drawn the line at a less point. The had
their vaginas sewn together, whilst the had a bolt all the way through
the end of his penis, the other end of which was attached to his nipples.
All the pilgrims had their head shaved. Indeed, all their hair except the
eyebrows was removed: a daily ritual which the pilgrims accompanied with
prayers and even song, although as none of them had tongues it was
impossible to determine what these songs might be about.
It was made clear to Sharon that although the were welcome to
accompany the Sodomite pilgrims on their wandering through Buggery, they
should at least conform to the same appearance as their mentors. Both
Sharon and Sweetness were far too disorientated and distressed to object,
after their ordeal in the camp and their near starvation in the
countryside. Indeed, Sharon was living in a constant unfocused haze: a kind
of continuing nightmare darkened by her present fears and past traumas.
Would she ever see Tracey again? Would she ever see home again? Had she,
in fact, already died and was now in some kind of hell? She just allowed
the Sodomites to shave and decorate her as they so desired: not complaining
and really not caring.
Sweetness and she were both treated the same, so although she had no
mirror to see her reflection, she knew from looking at Sweetness exactly
what she now looked like. Her head, arms, vagina, legs and armpits were
all shaved by some lethal looking razor blades which skimmed over the
fairly basic creamy soap which was applied to lubricate the skin and
facilitate the shaving. This ritual was almost pleasant. The whose
face Sharon had first glimpsed in some strange sense had adopted the pair,
and she was the one who administered the shave. As each part was shaved
clean, she then kissed the whole of the shaven area with her lips, as if to
be sure it was sufficiently smooth. Sharon might normally have objected to
this degree of intimacy, but she had seen that the pilgrims adopted the
exact same routine when shaving each other. And it was undeniably quite
pleasant to feel the brush of this girl's nose and lips against the bare
skin of her vagina. The most intimate and unthreatening sensuality those
lips had probably ever experienced. At home, her labia was normally
nothing but an open door, or one, when not open, was pushed ajar with as
much haste as was required for a prick to get inside. Soon, she and
Sweetness lay back on the grass under the morning sun, their skin fresh and
clean after the application of the blade, glistening in the shine of the
soap and saliva that had accompanied the shave.
Sharon ran her hand over her shaven head, and looked sadly at the
strands of her bleached hair where it lay on the grass. It certainly felt
weird. And from looking at Sweetness, she could see how weird it also
appeared. The pate was significantly paler than the rest of the skin which
had otherwise been mostly tanned by the sun. Sharon was dismayed by how
strangely nobbly Sweetness' shaved head looked, and, of course, how it must
be correspondingly so on her own head. The bump at the nape of the neck
where it joined the skull. The ears looking so much smaller on a bare
background. The sweep of forehead which went up without interruption of
any kind at all. In fact, the loss of hair must have been more
considerable for Sweetness than for her. Sweetness' hair had previously
been quite long, often obscuring most of her face and much of her neck and
shoulders. Sharon's hair, by contrast, had not obscured very much at all,
and after the haircut administered by Primrose had been relatively short
already. But short was not at all the same as bald.
The shave wasn't the last treatment meted out on the two by the
Sodomite pilgrims. Sharon's nipples were already pierced, as was her
clitoris. This was not true of Sweetness who had never been pierced
before, either voluntarily, like Sharon, or by law, like most women in
Buggery. The pilgrims found little difficulty in threading chains and
rings through Sharon's nipple and crotch. She soon had weighty jangling
ornamentation hanging from her front. This seemed to represent some kind
of clothing to the Sodomites, although unlike any clothing Sharon had ever
worn before, even in Buggery, this provided neither warmth nor modesty. A
wreath of thin chains dangled from the rings through her nipples, and were
somehow held in check by those threaded through the ring in her crotch
Applying the same ornamentation to Sweetness was more difficult. Sharon
had to explain to Sweetness what was happening to her as the Sodomite
pilgrims pierced her small puffy nipples and her tender clitoris with their
sharp pins. They were clearly skilled at what they were doing, because
although they didn't administer any painkillers, the operation in the three
points was done extremely quickly and inflicted remarkably little pain on
the girl. Her yelps of pain were tempered by the kisses administered
to her by the Sodomite who had taken responsibility for the two. She
rested Sweetness' head on her lap, and squeezed her hand tightly and
affectionately as she winced and cried out. And then after all the
piercing was done, she cuddled Sweetness to her chest as the rings which
had been inserted into her nipples and clitoris kept the piercings open.
And only after a quarter an hour or more of such voiceless comforting were
the chains threaded through the rings, weighing her front down, and
bringing her to fresh cries of pain, as they tugged at her tender wounds.
And, there she stood, in front of Sharon who lay on the grass, gradually
getting used to her own new appearance: her head shaven, bare legs and
vagina, and a front obscured by chains. She stared ahead, sightlessly and
confused, unable perhaps to be sure whether she alone had been singled out
for this painful ceremony. Her eyes were still moist from the tears she
had shed during the piercing ceremony, her slightly bruised and
even more puffy from the weight of the chains, and the bruises and
scratches she'd gained after the two perambulations in the woods even
more distinct against her hairless bare frame lit by the unforgiving glare
of the Buggery morning sun.
Sharon looked at the Sodomite pilgrims gathered around them and observed
the indulgent smiles on their faces. She was suddenly struck by a bolt of
lucidity and was just as suddenly frightened. She stood up and rushed over
to Sweetness. She put an arm around the blind girl, and pulled her bare
body against her own.
"You're not fucking cutting our tongues out! Or sewing our fucking
cunts together!" She shouted at them.
The who'd comforted them smiled more broadly. She then made some
strange hand signals to her companions while mouthing something while her
voice made a sound her tongue couldn't articulate. The other pilgrims
laughed in a good- humoured way: a way which seemed incongruous in such
bizarre looking people. She then walked up to Sharon, placed a forefinger
to her lips, and placed her hand on her crotch in a tender, non-threatening
way.
"Are you gonna fucking sew me up, you bastards?" Sharon asked
aggressively.
The shook her shaved head with a frown and a smile. She then
pulled Sharon and Sweetness to her chest and kissed the two of them
affectionately. Her mouth moved, and her throat voiced a response, but
Sharon could make no sense of any of the guttural vowels. She smiled
again, and returned to her companions. She immediately returned with a
plate full of some more of the very tasty vegetables that she had prepared
earlier, and made another growling sound which appeared to say "Eat up!"
The Sodomite pilgrims violated the two no further, and indeed in
their inarticulate way made their best efforts to make them feel at ease.
In fact, as Sharon came to realise, as they followed the pilgrims through
the countryside of Buggery, their newly shaved heads and chains of Sodomite
bondage were actually something to be grateful for. None of the many
police who they passed in their wanderings paid them any attention at all.
As a result of whatever terms in which cross-border treaties had been
phrased, the Sodomite pilgrims were actually the most free people in the
Kingdom of Buggery. Indeed, the police appeared to be just as much
disgusted by the Sodomites' appearance as Sharon herself had been
initially. Even when the Sodomites prostrated themselves in front of the
police, arse to the air, gesturing invitingly at their anuses, this
provocation seemed to serve the purpose of actually dissuading the police
of doing anything. They left the Sodomites to their own business,
strutting off with their massive dildos strapped to their waists, and
protruding incongruously in front of them, more willing to cause harm to
their own citizens than to these shaven, pierced and mutilated pilgrims.
When they disappeared, the pilgrims would smile amongst themselves, and
kiss Sharon reassuringly, aware of the terror that inevitably caused her
body to tremble. Sweetness as always knew only as much as Sharon ever told
her, which was normally just to keep quiet and pretend that her tongue had
also been torn out.
There was a comforting routine to the Sodomite's day. At sunrise,
sunset, and three other times a day, the pilgrims indulged in a ritual
which was both fascinating and quite unpleasant to watch. Essentially,
this involved anal intercourse: an exercise achieved by the use of rather
ornate dildos which the pilgrims drew out of the cloth bags they carried
over their shoulders. These bags were themselves of some ritual
significance: each of them was embroidered with a slogan which must have
had some meaning in their faith. "To Give is to Receive". "Surrender to
the Will". "The Orifice Taketh and Giveth Release". This was clearly not
a faith of silent contemplation.
Their ceremonies were an orgy of flesh and anal penetration: the
pilgrims' bodies entwined around each other, the dildos strapped to the
waists by leather and chains, their ends thrust deep inside the ritually
presented arses. Even the male pilgrim was made to receive a dildo thrust
up his arse. His own penis wasn't used at all. The reason for this Sharon
noticed with some distaste was because he had been castrated, and the
scrotum which seemed so full beneath his flaccid penis was filled not with
testicles but with metal balls. Like the girls, he had to use a dildo to
fulfil his role in the ceremony.
While this went on, Sharon held onto Sweetness, glad that her blindness
precluded her from fully understanding what accompanied the grunts and
gasps which freely exploded from the pilgrims in their orgiastic ceremony.
The vaginas were sealed during the ceremony as much then as at other times,
which meant that the on each other that invariably conjoined the
penetration was a messy and uncoordinated affair, as the burst
through the barrier of stitches and rings, and splashed over the pilgrims
in a random kind of way. As also did the shit, which thankfully they
didn't always choose to ingest as part of the process. Some of the more
devout ensured that their ritual sodomy was also accompanied with
flagellation from nettles and whatever else could be used for the purpose.
These ceremonies rarely continued for much more than half an hour, and
then, sated and somehow purified, and with expressions of beatific ecstasy,
the pilgrims continued as before in the more mundane businesses of
preparing food, hunting and gathering food, and, if they were already on
their route, walking through the barren Buggery countryside.
At night, Sharon rested against Sweetness, too weak from walking and her
tribulations of the previous days, to complain as Sweetness showered her
with affectionate kisses and cuddles. Indeed, she only complained when
Sweetness' fingers or tongue wandered towards her arse or cunt, on which
occasions, she would forcefully remind the blind that she was not a
fucking dyke. Sweetness seemed resigned to Sharon's frequent rejection of
her advances, but this did not stop her from declaring, much to Sharon's
embarrassment, that she was in love with her and would do anything she
wanted. She noticed that Sweetness' affection for her was observed
indulgently by the Sodomite pilgrims, as they lay apart from the two girls,
gathered in a body of intertwined, intermingling flesh, chains and naked
skin.
The days were spent in wandering: something which Sharon had become so
accustomed to now that she no longer thought to complain even to herself.
This wandering was the purpose of the pilgrims' visit to Buggery, and the
effort of it was a small price to pay for the food, water and protection
the pilgrims provided. At irregular intervals, sometimes two or three
times in a day, and sometimes only once in a day, the pilgrims would arrive
at a place of some religious significance to them. Sometimes it was
obvious what the object of their worship was. A tomb or a statue or a
desecrated, disused shrine. Sometimes it was much more obscure. An tree, the centre of a field of beetroots, a house lived in by puzzled
Buggery subjects. At whichever place it was, the pilgrims would prostrate
themselves, arse high in the air, their arms stretched out in front of them
whilst one of them would intone in a voice made unintelligible by the loss
of tongue. And then, after leaving some tokens of worship, like a bunch of
thistles, a coin or a chain, the pilgrims would continue on their way.
Sharon was never sure what she should do in these ceremonies, but she
reasoned that whenever anyone from Buggery was watching, especially if they
were police, it was best to follow the example set by the others and to
instruct Sweetness to do the same. It amused her in a grim kind of way to
see the obvious discomfort of people from Buggery at the pilgrims'
presence. They rarely came very close, but they would watch the strange
ritual with fascination.
On only one occasion did anyone from Buggery take advantage of the offer
of abuse that the pilgrims made to everyone they met. Two policewomen with
erect dildos and muscled bodies pushed into the pilgrims, kicking and
punching them. But the fact that the pilgrims were taking the punishment
with such apparent pleasure, asking for more with each punch or kick,
clearly upset even them, and they gave up after hardly any time at all.
The pilgrims themselves seemed quite gratified by the abuse that they had
received and soon meted out even worse punishment on each other in an
flailing orgy of nettles and brambles.
That evening, the pilgrims were still quite excited by their brief
encounter, proudly feeling the bruises raised on their faces and limbs, and
gently kissing the scratches which they had sustained. Their ritual sodomy
lasted longer than usual, while Sharon comforted Sweetness who was clearly
frightened by what she could hear but could not see. And then the ritual
became a softer, more sensual and gentle lovemaking as the pilgrims
entangled bodies became engulfed in more conventional caresses and kisses:
tongues and fingers exercised on mutilated genitals and tongueless mouths.
The seemed as keen on the sensuality as much as the girls, despite his
emasculation and the inability of his penis to become erect or functional.
The who had first befriended them noticed Sharon and Sweetness
huddled together in the shade of the tree in the darkening shadows of
night. She wandered over to them, crouched down and smiled. Wreathed in a
rather becoming grin she attempted to say something which Sharon strained
to understand. It was hopeless, however. Without a tongue, her words were
just inarticulate noises and her hand gestures were too intricate and
involved for Sharon to make any sense of them. Then the knelt down,
put a hand on Sharon's crotch and the other on Sweetness, and gestured with
a jerk of her neck that she was inviting the two to join in the
pilgrims' lovemaking.
Sharon had by now lost her fear of the pilgrims. They had not even once
attempted to persuade or coerce either of the to join in their
perverted rituals, and had made clear by their actions that they had no
expectation that they should do so. It was sex and not physical abuse and
humiliation that the was offering them; but however relatively benign
such lovemaking was in comparison, it was still not something that Sharon
could entertain. "I'm no fucking dyke!" she replied, but relatively
good-humouredly. She was almost flattered by this extension of a hand of
friendship, but her days of abuse in the soldier's camp still left her
scarred and the thought of sex, even with a man, was not something that
attracted her. "But Sweetness here..."
Sharon put a hand on her blind companion's shoulder. "Our Sodomite
friend wants to know if you want to ... well, not fuck exactly ... but,
you know, have sex..." She glanced up at the Sodomite's smiling, kindly
face. "It's not going to involve arse- fucking or fucking whipping or all
that shit, is it? I don't want Sweetness, you know, or any kind of
fucking shit you lot sort of do ... It's normal sex, isn't it?"
The Sodomite smiled broadly, and shook her head to assure Sharon.
"What do you think, Sweetness?" asked Sharon, aware of the girls' own
sexual needs and hoping that if it was spent on the Sodomites it would no
longer be focused on her.
Sweetness smiled at Sharon. "You don't mind?"
"No, of course I fucking don't!"
Sweetness stood up, and allowed herself to be led away by the Sodomite.
She turned back her head and smiled in a direction somewhat to the left and
ahead of where Sharon actually sat. "Don't forget. It's you that I love!"
Sharon settled back, feeling happier if Sweetness were happy, and felt
good in herself as she watched Sweetness enter the mass of pale shaven
flesh of orgying Sodomites. She smiled with pleasure as Sweetness gasped
with pleasure. She wrapped her arms around her chain-ridden and
observed with satisfaction as Sweetness was satisfied. She was so
obviously enjoying the lips and fingers exploring her vagina, the kisses on
her face and breasts, the feel of three or more bodies surrounding her.
She yelped and gasped and grunted, her body shining with a glint of
perspiration in the moonlight, as she was engulfed in the mass of flesh,
lip and chains, both her nipples chewed on, her clitoris afire with the
attention of two pairs of lips and discreetly applied fingers. Her cries
of joy and ecstasy at first echoing across the fields from the copse where
the pilgrims were resting, and then gradually subsided as her energy and
those of her lovers diminished and the caresses became less passionate and
more languid.
But even after all that, it was to Sharon's arms that Sweetness
eventually returned, her flesh sweaty and smelly, her sore and
plastered with her vaginal fluids, and in whose same arms that she stayed
all night. "I love you, Sharon," she whispered, her shaven head against
her ward's bechained bosom. "You are my perfect lover."
XVI
The sun hadn't yet arisen when Tracey and Buttercup were woken by Zeta,
who was naked like everyone else, slightly podgy with a mass of black curly
hair which flowed in ringlets to half-way down her back. She stood at the
doorway with a very broad grin looking at the two whose only source
of warmth through the night had been from each other's closely entwined
body.
"We have to start early if we have any hope of getting into the
factory," she explained as she hurried them on their way.
"Where is the factory?" wondered Tracey, yawning and only half aware, as
they staggered across the dark fields.
"Another couple of miles. It's good that it's not been raining for a
while: that can make the journey quite horrible," replied Zeta. "You'll
get used to it, though. But if you get there too late then you've got no
choice. It's first come first served most of the time."
Eventually, just as the first rays of the sun appeared over the horizon,
they came to the intimidating dark shadows of a large functional building,
where only one or two windows were lit and where already there were a
couple of dozen other women: all naked and all with very long hair and all
standing around outside the building. And then Tracey and Buttercup stood
with Zeta for about an hour as more and more women gathered. There was
very little conversation amongst the women standing there, all of them
tired and many of them yawning. Tracey shivered and clung to Buttercup for
warmth, aware of the stares she was attracting. As wakefulness crept up on
her, she became aware that this was because the two looked very
different from the others, with the short hair on their vaginas: nearly
none at all in Buttercup's case, and in Tracey's case with the hair on her
head strikingly short.
And then the doors to the factory opened and a in overalls and a
flat cap emerged from the light inside to the shortening shadows outside.
He stood warily by the entrance, until he was joined by three other men,
wearing blue work uniforms and peaked cloth hats.
"Let's be having you, then!" one of the shouted, which was a cue for
the women to gather in an orderly procession at the factory doors' entrance
and to file in. As they did so, they were evaluated in a desultory fashion
by the who clearly saw this as a routine rather than a pleasure. Some
women were greeted with familiarity and some were turned away. These,
Tracey noticed, were generally the women.
As the queue brought Zeta, Tracey and Buttercup towards the welcoming
bright glare of the neon lit interior, the could see the more
clearly.
"Fuck! You're a fucking beauty, ain't you?" a corpulent with a
cigarette in his hand commented to Buttercup. "You wanna fuck rather than
work like the others, dearie?"
Buttercup shook her head, and hurried after Zeta as she went in. Tracey
was aware of a disapproving glare at her shorter hair as she entered
herself, and was frightened that this might disqualify her; but fortunately
not and she soon caught up with Zeta and Buttercup.
And then the were lined up by a conveyer belt under the harsh neon
light amidst the loud noise of the cranking machinery and the gusts of heat
emanating from their engines. They were in an open room with
machinery and lines of conveyor belts stretching in all directions. As
they stood in anticipation, more and more women filed in, and soon all the
available spaces were filled. And then, although there were many women
still outside waiting to get in, the factory doors were closed and the
working day began.
And tedious, tiring, monotonous and unrelenting it was too.
Fortunately, Tracey had had her share of factory jobs in the past, so she
knew more or less what was expected of her. Like the other on her
conveyor belt, she was issued with a pair of clear plastic gloves which was
all anyone had to wear, besides a little factory- issue ribbon which was
secured through the hair to keep it off her face. Her job, like Zeta and
Buttercup was to take the icy cold chicken legs, and wings as they
trundled by, place the lump into a polystyrene tray, and then wrap it
tightly in a square of cellophane. The wrapped piece of chicken was then
replaced on the conveyor belt where it trundled along to where some other
women were weighing them and sticking sticky-back labels on them. And that
was it. Chicken after chicken leg after chicken wing.
Tracey soon got into the rhythm of it. Boring, monotonous jobs like
this was all the work she'd ever had, and soon the rhythm and routine
overcame any sense of meaning and purpose. Buttercup however was far less
adept than her, and had great difficulty in getting into any routine. She
was packing one piece of chicken for every three that Tracey packed, and
the plastic was creased and too loose. She began to weep with frustration
as the effort of it became too great for her.
Inevitably, her slower performance attracted attention from the male
supervisors who were wandering around in their blue overalls, cloth caps
and cigarettes. One came behind Tracey and Buttercup, and watched the two
of them with surly interest.
"What's your name, dearie?" he asked Buttercup, stubbing his cigarette
out on the cold hard factory floor. Nervously, Buttercup told him.
"Fuck! What sort of fucking ponced-up name is that? And what about
your friend. What're you called?"
"Tracey."
"Fuck me! We got a right pair of fucking wierdies here. At least
'buttercup' means something. But when in the name of fuck did 'tracey'
ever fucking mean anything. You're both a couple of fucking immigrants,
ain't you? Well, you'd better pull your fucking socks up, Buttercup
sweetie, (if you were ever allowed to wear the fuckers) or you're out.
There're lotsa other women out there who'd do your job if they got the
fucking chance."
With that, he left them with a sniff. Buttercup stared at Tracey
plaintively, her cheeks reddened with humiliation and shame, tears of
frustration etched onto her cheeks.
Eventually, after how many hours Tracey didn't know, there came a rest
break. The conveyor belt stopped and the pieces of chicken stopped passing
by. The sat down cross-legged on the hard concrete floor, while
other women came by with polystyrene cups of insipid tea and limp slices of
white bread covered with a sliver of tasteless margarine. Tracey put an
arm around her lover, who continued to weep, while Zeta looked on at the
two with sympathy.
"Oi! Buttercup!" yelled a man's voice. Tracey's lover looked up
startled. The who'd spoken to them earlier was shouting to them from
the distance. "Yeah! It's you I'm fucking talking to. And your fucking
dyke friend, as well. C'mere!"
The two stood up, and looked at him and his colleagues who were
standing idly around a coffee machine. "That's it, dearies. This way!"
The hungrily demolished the last crumbs of the bread, which
disintegrated into a choking mulch in their mouths, only digestible thanks
to the liquid assistance of the tea, and threaded their way through the
sympathetic glances of the other women to where they had been beckoned.
They stood obediently in front of the men's leering gazes. "I told you
she were a babe, didn't I Ralph?" the who'd spoken to them said to a
fat middle-aged with a dark brown polyethylene tie, a grubby white
shirt and a pair of shiny black polyester trousers..
"Yeah! You weren't fucking kidding either, Bob? She's the best fucking
piece of arse I've seen in a fuck of a while." Ralph puffed out a mouthful
of blue smoke, and took another drag of his filter-tipped cigarette. "So
you're a fucking immigrant, are you? Fucking out of Buggery with a fucking
poncy name like 'Buttercup'! And your fucking friend. Is this bitch from
Buggery too? You look a bit fucking weird to me. Where'd you come from?"
Tracey told him, and was surprised by how much it alarmed him. "Fuck
me! You get all types these days! Well, don't expect any different
treatment while you're here, bitch. Women are the same wherever the fuck
they come from. You got no more fucking rights than any other slut in
Gomorrah. This is a man's world, and you get treated the fucking same as
any other bitch." He let his cigarette drop from his fingers and stubbed it
out with his rubber-soled boot. "And that means, bitch, that you and your
flower-fancying friend come up to the office, and no fucking questions
asked."
And so it was, having hardly recovered from their rape on the Gomorran
border, that Tracey and Buttercup were reminded of the brutal realities of
life in a man's world. Ralph and Bob led the two up a concrete
stairwell to an array of offices where there were no women other themselves
at all. All around them were either in uniforms or bad-fitting suits,
in offices full of the pallid aroma of cigarette smoke and covered in
posters of nude women and motor cars. As they walked by, the men's eyes
followed them, leering and unsympathetic. For the first time since she'd
left home, Tracey was acutely aware of her nakedness as the appraised
her with the same air as evaluating any other functioning set of machinery.
And then into Ralph's office, where there was a wooden desk covered with
papers and a bookshelf on the wall lined with ring-back folders. There was
a prominent calendar of some buggering some scrawny women. With no
ceremony and no preparation, Ralph bade the lie down on the
nylon-carpeted floor, which they did with trepidation under Ralph's and
Bob's eyes, and those of a tall thin in a striped with a
polyester tie decorated with of Bugs Bunny and Tweety Pie. And
then Ralph, Bob and this other pulled down their trousers revealing an
unappetising trio of erect penises. Ralph's was short and stubby,
surrounded by a bush of dark curly hair halfway up its length. Bob's was
thin and narrow with a quite unpleasant smell. The third man's penis was
similarly thin and narrow with a slight bend in it.
And then, one after another, Buttercup and Tracey got to know the
penises rather better. Both knew better than to struggle. Buttercup
by virtue of her years in Buggery where sex for her had often been of a
similarly unpleasant coercive nature. Tracey as a result of all the fucks
she'd had over the years back home. But however inexpert and unsubtle the
fucks she'd got accustomed to, in dark alley-ways, in multi- storey car
park stairwells, behind bus shelters, she'd had few which were quite as
mechanical and perfunctory. The pricks went in, slobbery stubbly faces
scraped against her cheeks and chin, her arms held down, and the thrusts
back and forth with a steady unimaginative rhythm. She looked over at
Buttercup who was enjoying it even less than her, eyes closed and a grimace
over her face. Above her Bob was pushing away back and forth, while Ralph
fucked away at her. And then all change as Bruce, the tall thin took
over, grunting and moaning above her, his tie drooping over Tracey's mouth
as his skinny hairy buttocks thrust back and forth and back and forth.
Tracey's was sore as fuck. Sex wasn't usually this joyless.
And then, finally, an orchestrated trickle of sweet-sickly tasting semen
over the girls' naked and faces, and the were standing, gasping
and wheezing, as they eased their pricks back inside their flies and
adjusted their belts. Tracey and Buttercup lay flat on the ground,
semen-stained heads turned towards each other. Tracey rested her hands on
her crotch in a vain attempt to lessen the ache that came from the inner
folds of her cunt. Buttercup with her hands drawn up and clasped together
on her chest, as if in prayer after the ordeal she had endured.
"Well, girls! No more fucking sitting around enjoying yourself," barked
Ralph. "It's back to the fucking shop floor with you two. And no fucking
shirking off either, you bitches! Don't think that a bit of fun upstairs
brings you whores any fucking special privileges."
Buttercup and Tracey were then led back to the shop floor, semen still
over their faces and dripping down their thighs, through a cordon of male
office-workers who leered and grinned lasciviously at them as they passed
by. One took advantage of their vulnerability to slap Buttercup forcibly
on her buttocks causing her to yelp. Several laughed at her distress,
Bob joining in.
"You're a fucking popular whore with the boys!" he grinned.
And then the two were back on the shop floor, by the side of the
conveyor belt, back to the monotony of packing chicken parts. Buttercup
was no more expert now than she was before, and Tracey noticed how quiet
she was and that she was still weeping. She knew it wasn't just from the
pain between her legs, as the treatment they had received hadn't been harsh
enough to cause more than a stinging pain with a slight bruising on the
vagina lips.
"They certainly like your friend," commented Upsilon, a painfully thin
girl with long mousy her was standing next to Tracey.
"But it's not right that they should fuck her. Or me for that matter."
"Well, it makes a break from the packing. And you'll both be getting
extra rations for your efforts."
Indeed, this was true as Tracey found out when many hours later, the
conveyor belt stopped and all the queued up at a formica top table
where their dinner was doled out. This was a wholly unappetising
collection of stewed meat and over-boiled vegetables served on a metal dish
with more white bread and a bowl of unidentifiable soup ladled out by the
serving-women, all of them naked except for the plastic hats which held in
their hair. Both Tracey and Buttercup were served substantially larger
portions than any of the other workers, and although it didn't actually
taste especially nice it was a welcome addition to their stomachs. Even
after wolfing it down, Tracey could still have eaten more.
She chatted with some of the other girls, while Buttercup sat silently
beside her, uncharacteristically morose and still tearful. Tracey found
that the came from settlements scattered all over the place, that
none of them enjoyed the work they did, and none of them had any feeling
other than contempt or disgust for the male supervisors.
"Don't worry about the fucking you got," smiled Upsilon. "It happens to
all of us every now and then. It may not be much fun but it is a break in
the routine, and you do get more to eat as a result. And anyway what do
you expect from these pigs. The bastards only know one thing about what to
do with women, and even that they don't do very well."
Then, back to the conveyor belt, and more hours of labour as the sun's
light through the factory windows arched around the building. Chicken wing
after chicken after chicken leg. And as they worked, the male
supervisors wandered round, pinching bottoms, laughing libidinously and
making coarse comments about breasts, cunts, buttocks and anything else
they could think of. Some women were teased for being 'babes', some
sneered at for being 'dogs', some contemned for being 'whores', and any
woman that showed any sign of spirit was called a 'bitch'. Tracey had met
plenty of like that back home, but somehow not so many in one place and
she guessed that here the misogyny was more sincerely and deeply felt.
Buttercup was obviously hating her work, and her productivity if
anything was dropping as the afternoon progressed so painfully slowly.
Tracey regarded her lover with compassion, trying to imagine the depths of
her misery. But Buttercup's ordeal was not over. A large, fat in a
suit with a striped nylon and a plain polyester tie loomed into
sight, and with no warning or introduction grabbed her by the breasts,
groping them unsubtly in his large hairy hands and took an ear in his
moustachioed mouth. Buttercup flashed a brief look of annoyance, was just
about to react, but then reasoned better of it.
"So, you're the Buggery immigrant they told me about, dearie," he
sneered. "Enjoying life here in Gomorrah?"
Buttercup nodded her head meekly, while the looked her up and down,
his tie dangling to the left of his large belly and his hands still on her
breasts.
"Fuck me! You're fucking gorgeous! I ain't seen a bitch like you here
ever! They certainly know how to breed 'em in Buggery, don't they? I've
gotta have a piece of this action. Come with me, dearie."
Buttercup was then led away by this corpulent man, who put an arm around
her naked waist, while the other male supervisors stood to one side,
restraining their usual leers and not making any of the coarse remarks they
might otherwise have done. And then she was out of sight, and Tracey
transferred her gaze back to the pieces of chicken that were sliding down
the conveyor belt uninterrupted by this encounter.
"Fuck!" exclaimed Zeta. "That was the manager. Your friend's hit the
jackpot!"
Tracey was sure that this was not how Buttercup viewed the state of
affairs, but she smiled without comment and busied herself in stretching
the polythene over the cold pale piece of chicken in its tray. She worked
away for an agonisingly long time, wondering what indignities was being
meted out on her lover as the chicken parts rolled by and even through her
gloves the chickens' flesh was feeling increasingly cold and slimy. She
was almost certainly being fucked, and she winced at the thought of this
disgusting fat sinking what she imagined was another less than average
cock into her beloved's cunt; and possibly even her arse.
Eventually, after what seemed like, and may well have been, hours,
Buttercup returned, escorted by a thin in overalls and collar-length
greasy hair. She looked even more unhappy than before, walking with
difficulty and occasionally rubbing her buttocks. Her face was defaced by
tears, and a stream of clear pale liquid was still rolling viscously down
her legs. She took her place back on the conveyor belt next to Tracey and
said nothing. It seemed that the distraction of packing pieces of chicken
was somehow a relief to her.
It was much later, after one more tea break, that the working day ended.
The sun was well beneath the horizon, and the two girls, like all the other
women, were yawning and exhausted. The conveyor belts stopped, the last
pieces of chicken were wrapped in polythene and labelled, and the workforce
queued up to leave. Even leaving was an ordeal. The queue went on
forever, but as they left they were all presented with a clear plastic bag
holding a single packed piece of chicken, which clearly represented their
wages for a day's work.
Tracey's package was larger than those of most of the others. She had
three pieces of chicken in a rather larger bag and a bar of milk chocolate.
Buttercup had even more. Some five pieces of chicken, several bars of
chocolate and four bottles of beer. The who singled her out and
presented her with the flimsy bag, which looked unlikely to last even the
journey home, leered at her and grinned.
"You've made a fuck of an impression on the manager, sweetie. 'Snot
often you bitches get beer. Hope you fucking enjoy it."
Buttercup accepted the bag gracefully, but Tracey could see that she
viewed it with some kind of disdain. And then they were out in the dark
outside. It had started to drizzle and the ground was ever so unpleasantly
damp under their feet. And then the long walk home through the dark and
dampness, following Zeta, all of them too tired to talk and all looking
forward to what little home comforts that awaited them. The prize for
their sexual favours which had first seemed so welcome, became an
increasing burden as its weight added to their travails; and when, after
the thin plastic handles of the bags snapped from the weight, first
Buttercup's, then Tracey's, and Zeta's not at all, the rewards had to be
carried in their arms over the treacherous bumps and grooves of the
muddying fields they crossed.
All through the day, Tracey had been looking forward to Buttercup's
welcome caresses when they got back to the settlement. Surely, they would
be compensation for their suffering. But Buttercup was not in the mood.
Not from lack of trying, the girls' lovemaking became less and less active,
their sexual desires frustrated by weariness and pain. And within half an
hour of collapsing on the straw in their hut, the drizzle on the outside
becoming more insistent and finally escalating into rain, the two were fast asleep, their limbs entwined around each other, and Tracey's nose
and face buried in Buttercup's long hair. Not a good day, Tracey
reflected, although part of her was already wondering what she would get in
exchange for the pieces of chicken she'd gained from her otherwise
unrewarding molestation, ironically of all the sex she'd had recently the
most like that she was accustomed to back home.
XVII
Neither Tracey nor Buttercup went to work in the factory the following
day: the excuse being that they needed to exchange the proceeds of their
day's labour for more immediately edible items. Neither of them could live
on chicken alone. They sought out Theta Seven Six Seven Five.
She was very impressed by the wealth of returns the had got from
their single day there. In fact, she seemed very envious. "I've never
done as well as this!" she exclaimed. "The obviously took quite a
shine to you!"
Buttercup nodded modestly, but she clearly took no pride in what all
this had cost her. The exchanged a particularly juicy chicken for some potatoes, a small knife and a small sauce pan. Then Theta took
them to the impromptu market place near the centre of the settlement, which
was lined by naked women whose wares were laid out on the ground in front
of them. It wasn't that the wares for sale were especially appetising: raw
vegetables, bottles of beer, thawing bags of frozen vegetables, cans of
soup and beans, and other wares either gained from labour on the fields,
or, like the girls, from working in a factory. The eventually walked
away with a can-opener, a large box of kitchen matches, a selection of not
especially exciting canned food, a meat loaf and some fresh greens. Tracey
treated herself to a cigarette which she greedily smoked as they sat down
in their small hovel, examining their purchases. She didn't really enjoy
it very much: it didn't taste nearly as pleasant as her nicotine withdrawal
promised and it made her feel queasy. Neither had felt very keen on
actually eating any of the chicken pieces they'd earned, so one thing
definitely not on the menu was fowl.
They cooked the food on a pile of dry sticks and twigs, eating the
tinned food directly from the cans in which they came, and although it was
a meal of convenience, it was, for Tracey, the best meal she'd had since
Throb. And a meal enjoyed the more for sharing it with Buttercup whose
body she later chewed and nibbled with at least as much enthusiasm as for
the baked beans and meat loaf she'd eaten early: the trickle of tomato
sauce on her chin replaced by the much more satisfying taste of Buttercup's
vaginal juices.
As the two lay on the floor, their arms and legs entwined and the
sweat of their passion sticking their bodies even closer to each other as
they dried out in the morning heat, Buttercup suddenly gave Tracey a very
firm hug. "I love you, Tracey," she exclaimed. "I love you so much!"
Tracey gasped. "You what?"
"I've never had a proper relationship before. Sure, I had relationships
with the other and behind the wall, but this is different. It's
free. We're not prisoners like I was before. Sure the sex was good. Very
good. But with you, it's different. It's better. It's real love!"
Tracey sighed. She kissed Buttercup full on the mouth and soon again
they were writhing and caressing together in the discomfort of the grass
and straw which composed their mattress, but however much she was sure her
tongue was giving Buttercup pleasure, she somehow didn't feel worthy of her
lover. How could someone like her, someone who was used to being called a
slut, whose had taken in every prick it could, be worthy of someone so
absurdly beautiful and so ridiculously perfect as Buttercup? She had the
sort of body most women would die for, and here she was, laid open to
Tracey's attention as if ... as if she were someone better than the she was. She just didn't deserve such good fortune.
After the had recovered from their passion and ecstasy, they
ventured into the settlement as a whole. Despite its obvious poverty, it
was very well organised, and Tracey was impressed by how much trust all
these naked women displayed. None of them seemed to fear theft of any
kind. Food and other possessions were laid out so easy to steal, and no one
took advantage of it. Back home, Tracey would have conformed to the law of
taking what she could, but despite her avarice, even she couldn't see
herself claiming as her own the many things left lying around carelessly
around and inside the tents and small makeshift shelters. But she still
found it very strange surrounded by all these naked, hirsute women and not
a in sight. were running about unselfconsciously in their
naked state. women were sitting around idly or working at whatever
task that occupied them. And many more hovels were empty than occupied, as
most women were out elsewhere, perhaps working in factories like the one
Tracey and Buttercup had the previous day.
However, the next day, it was up early and off with Zeta over the
dry-baked fields to the same chicken factory as before. This time they
knew what to expect and the day didn't seem quite as long, though this time
they were on a part of the production line where they had to slice the
freshly plucked chickens into the pieces which later in the line other
women were sealing in cellophane as they had the last time they worked
there. Buttercup was no more adept in using the sharp knife she gripped in
her plastic-gloved hand than she was in wrapping the same cold, pink flesh
in clear plastic, but in truth her ability at cutting and slicing was not
what determined her reward at the end of the day.
At first, Tracey thought when Frank grabbed her from behind that
Buttercup might use the knife she held in her hand to stab it into the
scrawny in his battered grey suit. But despite her obvious annoyance,
she meekly followed him up the concrete stairs to wherever he did whatever
he did to her. It was ages until Buttercup returned, looking miserable and
humiliated, a small trail of blood winding down the inside of her thigh,
escorted by a male supervisor with the soggy end of a rolled-up cigarette
held in p[ace by moist saliva to his lower lip.
And that wasn't the only such departure from the production line
Buttercup endured. Clearly word had gone round the male workers that there
was a on the shop floor of far better than average appearance, and
Buttercup was dragged away on three other occasions. This included the
manager who had obviously not had enough of her after the earlier occasion.
After each excursion, she seemed weaker and more ashamed than the time
before, and her hands were visibly trembling as her knife viciously sliced
through the tendons which held the legs or wings onto the chickens'
breasts, and gutted the offal out of its clammy cold interior.
On only one occasion was Tracey similarly dragged away, and this was
during one of those agonisingly long periods when Buttercup had been taken
away. This was by Jack, an unshaven supervisor with a disproportionately
large gut for a of otherwise unremarkable girth, who dragged her into a
small dark room at the back of the factory where a smelly damp mattress had
been laid down on the floor for this exact purpose. He apparently had a
thing for sluts with short hair, but even so his attentions were
concentrated entirely in fucking her and requiring her to give his short
fat cabbage-smelling cock a beforehand. Tracey hardly felt him as
he pushed his prick back and forth in her cunt, taking a fuck of a long
time to even become stiff long before his interminable thrusting released
any sperm which he did right inside her.
As it spurted out of her fanny onto the short curling hairs of her
vagina, Tracey reflected on the inconvenience of having hair so short that
it marked her out from the other girls. It wasn't that short now, and her
mousey-brown natural colour was beginning to overcome the bleach which made
her hair look so unnaturally pale. She hoped it would grow long soon, and
fast. She'd rather do without a bonus than attract the attention of every
man who had a thing for short hair. Back home, that wouldn't have bothered
her. In fact, anything which got her a good fuck or two on a night out was
welcome. But here, the fucking was even more mechanical and careless, so
that those fucks in the alleyways seemed almost tender and loving by
comparison.
When Jack took her back to the production line, she was pleased to see
Buttercup in her place, struggling with the wings of a chicken and stabbing
it viciously with her knife: perhaps taking out on the dead fowl the anger
that she felt towards her most recent fucker. Tracey was almost glad that
she'd had to endure a fucking as well as her. Somehow, it slightly evened
up the girls' relative misery.
The rewards of the day's work was even greater for Buttercup than before
and both Zeta and Tracey had to help Buttercup carry her rewards home.
Buttercup, however, seemed to even hate her bonus and had almost refused to
take it when it was handed to her, but Tracey ensured she took away as much
as she was given.
The next few days continued in much the same fashion. A day at work
alternating with a day of exchanging at the market-place whatever
collection of chicken pieces, beer, canned food or chocolate bars Tracey
and especially Buttercup had earned from a day of tedious factory work and
non-consensual sex. The day at work was too long and too arduous for
either to do anything else but get to and from work, and endure
whatever it had to offer. Principally these sufferings were cold hands,
the odd nip from the knives they sometimes had to use, and the pain of anal
and vaginal intercourse, peppered with the foul taste of an unprepossessing
set of penises and their sour-tasting semen. And, as Buttercup confessed,
on one occasion from the manager straight into her mouth while she
was being fucked up the arse by a senior supervisor.
The days off were the days the enjoyed. They never seemed long
enough and there was so much to do in organising their home and preparing
food. But they got to know the other women in the settlement better.
Theta and Zeta became especially close friends, but more because they saw
in the two the fact that they were also a committed couple like
themselves.
Buttercup tired of the chicken factory. She was no good at any of the
tasks she had to perform, although it was her frequent sexual favours for
which she was rewarded and earned some quite bitchy envy from other on the production line, who commented quite openly that if she'd not been
so pretty she'd have been kicked out for her incompetence from the very
first day.
Zeta took the to other factories, none of which were as near as
the chicken factory and none of them at all pleasant to work in. There was
a cigarette factory where the were given free cigarettes during the
breaks. Tracey smoked Buttercup's who had no taste for them at all, and
indeed avoided kissing Tracey for hours after she'd had a puff.. They
worked in a canned fruit factory where they had to fill the unsealed cans
with an exact weight of slimy orange and grapefruit slices. They worked in
an arms factory where it didn't escape Buttercup at all of the irony of a
Buggery woman assembling munitions which would be used on her own
compatriots.
However, wherever they worked, Buttercup was not the ideal factory
worker, although she steadily became inured to the tedium and became better
at the repetitive tasks demanded of them. Tracey had never thought that
her life at home had ever prepared her for a life abroad, but those years
of dead-end tedious jobs were paying off here. Only her nakedness and that
of all the women around her differed from the factories back home.
And of course the fucking.
You didn't expect a fuck on a day at work back home. And when it
happened, in the boiler room, in the broom cupboard, at the back of the
vans, well, it was a kind of perk. A good fuck at home was to be enjoyed
and even relished. Here, it was too routine, too regular, and absent of
even the most brusque and insincere foreplay or flirting. It was up the
stairs, round the back, on the ground, in the and climaxed on the
face, and, even, occasionally, right inside her or arse. The
men were all the same. Charmless, rough, rude and inexpert. None of them
had even the first idea about how to get more from a woman than what a
woman's could offer them.
Buttercup became steadily less upset after each fuck, but she wasn't
enjoying it any the more. Because she knew it was coming, she took it with
more resignation but scarcely more satisfaction. Sometimes after a day in
the factory, she was merely bitter or indignant. Sometimes, she would weep
uncontrollably, a phenomenon which somehow actually encouraged abuse from
the men. It seemed that to them, a woman was like the prey of a or a
dog. The more she showed her distress, the more they wanted to increase
it: piling on the indignities. But at least, she always got more from it
as a result, and it earned the two the alternate days off which they
treasured so much and earned them so much bitching envy from their less
obviously sexually attractive colleagues.
"Oh, Tracey! I can't stand this any more" moaned Buttercup in tears on
the way home one drizzly night from the dairy where they'd been wrapping
cubes of butter in plastic foil all day. She collapsed onto the damp
grass, letting her heavy plastic bag of milk, butter and cheese spill out
around her.
Tracey and Zeta knelt down beside her as she lay huddled in a ball of
depression, her arms around her legs, her knees pulled up to her forehead,
her head buried below her mass of tangled hair, staring down through the
dark shadows of her thighs at her sore crotch. Both put their arms
around her, Tracey too concerned about her lover to feel too much jealousy
about Zeta's unwelcome show of affection towards her.
"Buttercup! Buttercup! What's wrong?" weeped Tracey.
Her lover raised her head and stared blankly at Tracey and Zeta through
a face made ugly through tears and blank depression. "I wasn't meant to
work in a factory. I hate it so much. I was meant to be a poet, an
artist, a writer. Anything. Not a factory worker. And I hate the
fucking. And I detest the fucking who fuck me! They're such beasts!
Worse even than the in Buggery. At least they enjoyed what they were
doing!"
Tracey wept with Buttercup, acutely distressed by her lover's own
distress. She looked at Zeta imploringly. "This working in factories
isn't doing Buttercup any good at all. It's fucking killing her. Isn't
there anything else we can do? Isn't there any other way we can live?"
Zeta looked thoughtful. "I don't think either are you are going to be
any good as farmers. And you've not been here long enough to be entrusted
any of the other jobs in the community. I don't think anyone would vote
for you. And anyway there aren't any vacant positions for teachers or
house-builders or whatever."
"Isn't there anything else?"
"Well, you do get a lot of sex at work. The like you. And they
especially like Buttercup. And I don't blame them!" She kissed Tracey's
lover tenderly on the cheek, but noticing the jealous daggers flashing from
Tracey's eyes she chose not to reveal any more of her lust . "Sex is
something you two are always going to get while you work with men. Just
like Theta. She had to put up with it every day just like you. But she
could find ways to make herself useful in the community. So, given that
you're going to have sex whether you like it or not in the factories, why
not sell it rather than give it away?"
"You mean fucking prostitution, don't you?" snapped Tracey. "I'm not a
fucking tart. I've got my fucking principles. And my darling Buttercup's
not a fucking pro neither."
Buttercup looked up solemnly. "Zeta's right. It's an option. I'd not
heard of 'prostitution' before I came here, but it sort of makes sense. I
have sex with I don't like every day anyway. Is it better being a
prostitute?"
"It might be for you," smiled Zeta. "Not all of us get the same
attention as you do. For most in the factories, we might have a fuck
every now and then, once or twice a month, not two or three times a day
every day. Or even more like three or four times. Most of us don't
mind it as much as you. It's not so often that it gets to be as much as an
ordeal as it is for you. And for those who don't like other girls,
and not all do, it's all the sex they ever know. But for you, you're
going to have it anyway. We all do a bit of prostitution now and then.
It's normal here in Gomorrah; though it's clearly not so common back where
you come from."
"It doesn't exist in Buggery," corrected Buttercup. "Except at the
tourist resorts, and it's not done like it's done here. They don't stand
around waiting for to pick them up and then getting given food and
things for doing it. But is the sex like what it is in the factories?"
"I don't know what it's like back where you came from, but here the sex
is better. Since the have chosen you and you've got the choice to tell
them to fuck off, they tend to be better lovers. And anyway, a lot of the
men who pick you up don't normally meet in their ordinary life. They
only see when they meet you under the lamp-posts or on the streets,
so they usually treat you better than the in the factories who see
women every day. Some of the aren't too bad really. And some of them
are a lot more generous than they are in a factory. The more they like
you, the more they give. And sometimes they even treat you better."
"You make it seem almost a good thing," mused Tracey.
"It's a living," shrugged Zeta. "But then you've got to sometimes see
it from the men's point of view. They don't have relationships like you
and Buttercup, or Theta and I. They might have ones, but I hear
they're all really promiscuous and quite rough in Gomorrah. Not tender
ones like you have with women. In fact, some punters get really close with
the prostitutes and have almost regular relationships. It's the nearest
they can get to what we have already. You can feel quite sorry for a lot
of the men. Having sex with a prostitute's the only sex they can have."
"Do you mean they can't get or live with a woman or anything?"
"I don't know what 'married' means. I guess it must be some kind of
perversion or something, but whatever it is, no woman is allowed in the only areas, and are just not expected to live outside them. In fact,
they just wouldn't be welcome. So, for those with professional jobs like
solicitors, doctors, computer programmers or civil servants, they just
don't see women unless they look for them. It's only who run places
where women work, and those like the police who patrol outside the only
areas: they're the only ones who can meet women normally."
"So, not all are bad." Wondered Buttercup sorrowfully.
"Not all! But most are pretty crap. And none of them make love as well
as my darling Theta. But, if you're going to have sex with them anyway,
and you don't want to work on the conveyor belts, well, prostitution's the
answer. It's not exactly a job with prospects, and it's not a secure job
with a pension, but it's a living. And for a woman in Gomorrah, it's not
the worst job there is."
Tracey wasn't sure she wanted to find out what the worst job there was,
but she could see the wisdom in Zeta's comments. She looked at Buttercup,
who was looking at her imploringly. She smiled sadly and nodded,
recognising that her lover was now seeing the situation as she did in
rather stark, rather material and in rather new terms.
"Tomorrow then," whispered Buttercup firmly.
"Tomorrow," agreed Tracey, wondering what prostitution meant in a
country where women were not allowed to wear make-up, high heels or short
skirts.
XVIII
The despair that clouded Sharon's perceptions gradually lifted, and she
even came to view her shaven-headed companions as her friends, although she
was frustrated by not being able to communicate with them: her sexual
tastes precluding her even from doing so in the sexual way that Sweetness
did with them every night. The countryside they wandered through changed
from barren fields, to forestry, and then to some high hills covered with
grass and the odd wood. And then they were at the border of Buggery.
Sharon hadn't thought ahead at all. What thoughts she'd had were
focused either on the here and now, or on her past. Her original anxieties
about Sodomite pilgrims resurfaced for the first time in many days. Would
she and Sweetness have their tongues removed? What barbarous customs did
the Sodomites practice in their own land? She wasn't at all comforted by
the sight of the Sodomite border guards with their automatic firearms,
their dress of chains pierced to their genitals and nipples, and of course
the total lack of hair.
However, she was comforted when one of the guards, a tall thin with
dangling earrings and a large ring through his navel, addressed her. "Glad
to see a convert to the Sodomite cause," he said cheerfully. So, not all
Sodomites had their tongues removed.
The pilgrims were clearly excited to be home, and signed
enthusiastically to each other, while they led Sharon and Sweetness to a
small railway station and onto an electric train that was waiting there.
They sat in a carriage together, Sharon by the window, holding Sweetness by
the shoulder and clasped their hands together. No railway tickets were
purchased, and no one else got on the train while they were at the border.
And finally, the train departed and glid through the Sodom countryside.
Sharon was perhaps expecting to see a countryside as impoverished and
barren as Buggery, and was pleasantly surprised as they passed fields in
which there were tractors and farms much like those at home. The stations
they stopped at were serving small towns also much like those at home, and
the people who embarked at the stops were no more dumb than herself. They
may have been shaved and the only items of dress they wore might have been
chains and rings, but they were otherwise like ordinary people, talking to
each other, looking out of the window or reading newspapers and magazines.
Perhaps it was only the pilgrims who'd had their tongues cut out.
Soon enough, the Sodomite pilgrims stopped at a larger station than any
other they'd passed, in the centre of a small city, full of the tall
buildings, apartment blocks and busy highways that Sharon associated with
cities at home. In a sense, all this was very surreal. It almost didn't
feel like a foreign country at all. She took pleasure in describing all
the familiar things she saw to Sweetness. "Ooh! There's a lamp-post. And
a funny church-like building. And there's a double-decker bus. And over
there, I can just about see an advertising board for toothpaste. It's
fucking magic!"
It took some while for Sharon to realise that to Sweetness these things
were totally unknown and unsuspected. She nodded as Sharon spoke, her mind
perhaps on other things, and then she asked, "What is a 'car'? And what
are 'office blocks'? And what do you do in 'shops'?" Sharon blushed a
little, and looked up at her pilgrim companions who were smiling kindly and
sadly at Sweetness. The who'd first met them, signed some comments to
Sharon, but of course she had no idea what was being said, although she
nodded her head as if she did.
Then the pilgrims parted at the railway station concourse, kissing and
hugging each other as they signed goodbye, and Sharon and Sweetness were
left with just the they'd first met, in a vast concourse, surrounded
by shaven heads and the occasional station announcement to places Sharon
had never heard of before. She was just about able to ascertain that the
city's name was Holiness, but beyond that she was totally lost. The smiled and gestured to the two to follow her, which they did by a
taxi where again no money parted hands. Despite being an and quite
fat, the taxi-driver was still shaven and wearing only chains and rings
like everyone else. He signed to the who had befriended Sharon, and
chatted idly to his passengers.
"Your first time in Sodom?" he asked cheerfully. "We don't get many
foreigners here. Any idea why that is?"
"I've just never seen a holiday advertised for Sodom," admitted Sharon.
"Anyway, what's there here to see here?"
"It's a beautiful country," he smiled. "As it has to be to be the home
of the Sodomite faith." He raised his left hand in a gesture whose meaning
was totally lost on Sharon, but she noticed that he too had most of his
third finger removed.
Finally, the taxi stopped outside a tall apartment block, and the three
girls entered the building and ascended by lift to one of the higher
floors. Sharon and Sweetness were escorted by the pilgrim to one of many
apartments where she rang the doorbell. It was answered by a slim with dark brown eyes, full perky breasts, and the usual shaven head and
full accoutrement of jewellery. Two large earrings dangled from her ears
and she had a broad grin on her face as she saw the three girls.
"Oh, Grace!" she cried with enthusiasm. "I've not seen you for so long!
How was the pilgrimage? And who are your friends?"
Grace hugged her friend, kissing her full on the face, and then signed
furiously to her friend, mouthing as she did so and occasionally pointing
at either Sharon or Sweetness. The whose apartment it was smiled at
the two as they stood shyly in the corridor.
"Well, come in both of you! My name's Faith, although that name's a bit
inappropriate unlike my darling Grace's. And Sweetness! What a lovely
name! It's a Buggery name but it could almost pass in Sodom. But what's
your name? Grace wasn't able to sign it very well."
"Sharon."
"'Sharon'? What a weird name! But then you come from a very distant
country. Does it mean anything?"
"No! Names don't mean fuckall. They're just names."
"Really?" commented Faith amusedly, as if this were a notion that had
never occurred to her. "Well, come in. Come in. Sit down."
Faith's flat was relatively simple, but to Sharon's eyes was more luxury
than she'd seen since Throb. In the living room, there were a set of
chairs and a table, but no television and no pictures on the wall. Faith
sat arm-in-arm with Grace and the two exchanged signs and kisses for a few
minutes. Then Grace stood up and got up to leave. She kissed Sharon on
both cheeks, and then knelt down between Sweetness' legs to kiss her on her
crotch. And then she was gone.
Faith smiled at Sharon and Sweetness when they were alone. "Grace has
told me about how little you know of Sodomite ways and customs. You're
both foreigners, and apparently very ignorant of even the Sodomite
religion. She's a lovely and we've been very close friends since we
were at school together. But she's passionately religious. Always has
been. And now she's been on a pilgrimage, she will always be known as
Pilgrim Grace."
"Why's she had her tongue cut out?" wondered Sharon. "Did she commit
some crime or other?"
Faith laughed. And then continued laughing. She shook her head as she
tried to straighten her face. "The idea of it! No, never! It's a
privilege to go on a pilgrimage. A pilgrim has to be very committed to the
Sodomite faith, and the cost of leaving the country is, of course, to leave
your tongue behind."
Sharon winced. "That's fucking horrible! You mean you have to have
your tongue cut out if you want to go abroad."
"Well, of course! It's traditional. It was a religious thing
originally, but as there's so little distinction between Sodomy the country
and Sodomy the religion, it's required of everyone, religious or not."
"But you're religious, aren't you?" Sharon wondered.
"Well, as a matter of fact, I'm not. I'm an agnostic, which means I
can't get any of the top jobs in this country, but I probably wouldn't have
been able to anyway. Why, what makes you think I'm religious?"
"Being friends with Grace?"
"That's no big deal. I'm sure Grace would want me to go to the temples
and pray. Or follow the five daily observances. Or fast on religious
holidays. But I'm not. And Grace respects me too much to expect me to
follow the state religion. After all this is a free country. And I take
it you're not religious, either. So why do you think I should be?"
"Well, you dress the same. All the chains. And the shaven head. And
not wearing clothes."
"'Clothes'? What are they? Well, I don't know how people look where
you come from. Grace has told me about some strange outfits in Buggery,
but then it is an ignorant country of savages. They have a 'king' and a
'royalty'. And all sorts of funny shit. Here, it's a proper democracy
where we can vote for our spiritual and political leaders. And of course
in a country as religious as this, they're essentially the same people.
No, if you want to know if anyone's been baptised into the Sodomite faith,
and that's not done till they're enough to know for sure, you look at
the third finger on the left hand." Faith held her hand up for Sharon to
see. "Mine's intact. That means I've chosen not to be baptised. Most
people choose baptism and of course the ceremonious finger-removal, but
it's their choice. I'd rather keep my finger, unless I was convinced it
was worth it. I'm not unsympathetic to the Sodomite religion. I sort of
half-believe. But I'm not really religious."
"It's different back home," commented Sharon.
"Really? What's it like?"
"Well, different. There are churches and vicars and crosses and things.
I don't know much about it all, but it's not like the weird shit you've got
here."
"I suppose so. It all seems normal to me, but then you're a foreigner.
I've heard bits about your country. It sounds quite horrible. And very
cold and wet. I don't know much about foreign religions much. I listened
to the radio once about your religions. They all have strange takes on it.
Many of them don't even recognise the sanctity of anal intercourse. Or
even understand the virtue of total bodily and sexual submission. Or even
recognise the value of sacrifice of parts of the body to the greater good.
And many of them do not even practice beatings or understand the meaning of
humiliation. What religion do you have in your country?"
"It's Christian where I come from?"
"Crustyism? I heard about that. That's a bit like the Sodomite faith.
I hear you nail yourself to crosses and have some weird cannibal rite where
you drink blood and eat human flesh in a temple. Sounds pretty perverted
to me. And I heard about Muscle-men. That's a religion where women and
men aren't allowed to see each other or have sex with each other unless
they're 'married', whatever that is, and have to get in different buses.
And I hear they have four women to each man. And they beat each other with
old ropes. And the don't even shave their faces. And Bodyism. That's
another weird one. You just sit and meditate under trees. And if your
life has been truly boring and uneventful you're allowed another go at it.
I heard about all your weird religions on the radio. Some involve
worshipping elephants and big black penises. Others involve banging your
head against walls and wailing a lot. At least the Sodomite religion's
relatively sane and sensible."
Sharon didn't know enough about religion to argue with Faith, and she
was pleased when Faith got up and asked them what they might want to drink.
She didn't have any beer and, in fact, had no idea what it might be. When
Sharon explained what it was and what it did, she frowned. "I heard about
that. It's a Crusty thing, isn't it? Drinking alcohol and getting drugged
out. We don't allow intoxicants in Sodom. But I do have some tea. Is
that alright?"
Sharon nodded. She could see that she had a lot more to learn about
Sodom and Sodomite ways. As Faith walked off to her small kitchenette,
Sharon reflected on how much was strange and how much was familiar her in
Sodom. It was certainly strange to be with a woman like Faith who was
naked except for the chains and rings attached to her flesh. From behind,
there was no evidence of anything on her body: a long sinuous line of bare
flesh from her ankle to the shaven crown of her head. From the front,
there dangled the collection of rings and chains which all Sodomites
sported; although Faith's were more decorative than Grace's, including a
dangling gold chain from her clitoris at the end of which was a dark inlaid
pearl. Her nipples, like Sharon's own, had to take the weight of a whole
mass of chains and rings. Sharon still found the appearance quite alien,
and it was difficult to believe that she looked much the same herself, as
did little Sweetness who sat quietly on an armchair and was seemingly
gaining considerable pleasure just from feeling its fabric.
"I never knew chairs could be so comfortable," Sweetness commented.
Sharon sighed. Poor Sweetness had led such a deprived life. And indeed
what was familiar to Sharon about Faith's flat were such things as tables,
chairs and the normal comforts of home that Sweetness had never known.
Even so it was relatively austere. No stereo, no computer, no posters.
Only a few books and a battered looking radio.
Faith returned with a tray on which was a pot and three empty cups. She
lay the tray down on a small table in front of Sharon, and smiled at her
broadly.
"Your Sweetness is a beautiful slave," she commented.
"Yes, she is," Sharon replied, not convinced she'd heard Faith right.
"I don't have a slave at the moment," sighed Faith, sitting on the sofa
next to Sharon. "My last slave ran off with my best friend. We still
don't talk about it. He was such a lovely slave. A good and willing fuck.
A good prick. He used to sleep at the end of my bed. I loved
showing him off to my friends. And then he took a fancy to my friend,
Sanctity, and just left me. And now he's with her and I don't have anyone.
You're lucky. Your slave is so very pretty. Aren't you, Sweetness
dearest?"
Sharon's ward had no objection to being spoken about in such an
objective manner, and nodded her head eagerly in agreement. Sharon herself
wasn't too sure what she should say. Perhaps the word 'slave' had a
different meaning here, she mused naïvely.
"Have you known Sharon a long time, Sweetness?" asked Faith kindly.
"Not very long. Only since Joy was killed by the Gomorrans. Sharon
saved my life. I love her. I love her more than anything. If it wasn't
for her I'd be dead."
Sharon blushed, while Faith stood up and stroked Sweetness tenderly on
her shaven head. "You're such a beautiful girl. And blind, too. Did you
blind yourself because of your own Buggery religion?"
"No, I've always been like this."
"Oh! So blessed! So naturally gifted!" swooned Faith. She took
Sweetness' bare face and pressed it against her side. "Such a beautiful
slave. Have you thought of giving her a nose-ring, Sharon?"
"No. Why? Should I?"
"I don't know how things are done in your country, but here we like
slaves to look like slaves. A nose-ring is the traditional way. And it's
so practical. You can lead your slave along on all fours and it's so much
easier to secure her when you want to. My slave had a lovely nose-ring.
It had a carved snake on it. And it was so big that he could bite on it
while it was still in his nose. It sometimes bled everywhere. Oh! he was
so sweet and loving!"
Sharon was still very confused, but she didn't want to confess how
little she understood what Faith was talking about. Clearly they did
things differently in Sodom. If she wanted herself and her ward to survive
she was going to have to learn quickly. And if it meant that Sweetness was
going to be her 'slave', then maybe that's what she'd have to accept.
The three drank the tea which was weak and milkless, with not even
a single spoonful of sugar, let alone the three which Sharon was used to at
home. They chatted idly about life in Sodom, Faith's job as a computer
programmer and about Sharon's pilgrimage through Buggery with Grace and the
other pilgrims. Faith leaned closer and closer towards Sharon, placing a
hand on her knee and an arm around her waist. Sharon quite enjoyed the
intimacy. It was comforting to her in this alien republic, but she didn't
want to reciprocate in case Faith interpreted it as anything sexual.
However, Faith didn't need too much prompting. She placed her empty cup
onto the table and leaned over Sharon, placing a hand on her crotch,
another on a chained nipple and her lips on Sharon's mouth. The low moan
that accompanied this sequence of actions could not be misunderstood.
Sharon rather forcefully pushed her off. "Don't fucking do that! I'm
not a fucking dyke!"
Faith looked genuinely alarmed, flustered and affronted. "I'm sorry,"
she exclaimed. "I just didn't know... I just thought ... I don't know
what a 'dyke' is, but does it mean you don't want to..."
Sharon tried to spell out her position firmly and unambiguously. "I
don't go after women. It's cock I like. I'm not someone who..."
Faith looked puzzled and uneasy. "I don't know what you want. They
have different customs in your country. And anyway, I suppose you just
don't like me in that way. It's been so long. I just hoped."
Sharon felt sorry for Faith. She looked at Sweetness who was staring
sightlessly in front of her, and also frowning. Perhaps it was better that
Sweetness had some comfort in this way. "I'm sure Sweetness wouldn't mind
if you made love to her," Sharon remarked conciliatorily. "She likes
women. Don't you, Sweetness?"
"Can I?" grinned Faith broadly, regarding Sweetness who was nodding
enthusiastically in agreement. She kissed Sharon eagerly on the lips.
"You're so wonderful and generous, Sharon. Your own slave! For me! The
ways in your country can't be so bad after all if you can be so generous."
Faith left Sharon and descended on Sweetness who accepted Faith's
caresses with passion and delight. For Sharon, this wasn't the first time
she'd watched Sweetness making love with other people: it had become quite
a daily occurrence for her while travelling with the pilgrims through
Buggery. And, anyway, why should she mind. She was no fucking dyke. What
Sweetness got up to with women was nothing for her to get worried about.
And at least Faith had a tongue which she could use unlike the Sodomite
pilgrims who'd even had their vaginas sewn together. Faith's was as
open as her legs, her tongue was as probing as her fingers, and her passion
was at least as great as Sweetness'.
Sharon sat in the sofa as the two writhed and hugged and cuddled
and grappled on Faith's thin carpet. Sweetness' tongue nibbling at Faith's
clitoris and the jewellery dangling from it. Faith's teeth, lips and
tongue biting and squeezing the fleshy folds of Sweetness' vulva, her two
middle fingers thrusting backwards and forwards in the recesses of the
girl's anus. The girls' flesh glinted from the sweat on their chests and
arms, the chains jangling and clashing against each other and against bare
flesh. Sharon eased a finger onto her clitoris while the lovemaking
continued, taking advantage of the girls' preoccupation with each other to
stimulate her own sex, which had only now recovered from the battering it
had taken in the Buggery soldiers' camp. She was surprised to feel how
moist she was. Was she turning into a dyke? she wondered. Or perhaps she
was just happy that Sweetness was happy?
She watched her ward as she grappled with Faith, the two punctuating their passion with grunts and moans, and then she heard her own
name repeated low and over and over again. It was Sweetness. She was
actually calling out Sharon's name in her passion. This instantly confused
Sharon. She wasn't Sweetness' lover. But part of her was pleased to be
the object of such passion. Her fingers dug deeper into her cunt, she bent
her head back and masturbated herself to an orgasm of the sort she'd never
given herself since she was and very much more innocent.
XIX
Tracey knew that back home she was regarded as something of a slut.
This had never been something which had really troubled her. After all
what were the opinions of a few dried-up cunts compared to the pleasures of
all that cock which was just out there for anyone willing to grab it.
She'd even sometimes been called a tart, but that was an epithet too far.
For all the indiscriminate fucking she'd enjoyed with Sharon, she had never
been a prostitute. Not that she'd slighted any gifts her lovers might have
left her, but that was only fair. A fair day's pay for a fair day's work.
But it was a totally different thing to be out there, actively selling her
snatch.
Prostitution in Gomorrah wasn't quite the same as back home. For a
start, there was a lot more of it here. And also, there was none of the
approbation associated with it as back home. It was just another way of
making a living. Not that there were that many options. You could work in
the fields or in the community, but that had very low returns, dependent
almost entirely on either the season or how well everyone else was doing.
You could work in the factories, but that invariably meant sex anyway.
Especially for Buttercup. She couldn't help being so very pretty, and it
was almost a curse to her here. And it wasn't as if the work in the
factories was that easy either. And Tracey hadn't forgotten the time she
and Buttercup woke too late to get to the front of the queue of the other
women waiting to get into work, and ended up having to walk back home
without having got anything for their pains of actually getting there. As
a prostitute you were guaranteed of getting something, and the returns were
substantially better than sealing pies in cellophane, slicing legs of ham
or packing munitions. In fact, after her first day, Tracey was wondering
why she'd not opted for it earlier. She took home much more than she did
from a day in the factory: two packets of cigarettes, a chocolate gateau,
several kilos of apple and a small alarm clock.
She quickly learnt how to match the value of the sexual favours she gave
for the rewards that came with it. A hand job was the least profitable.
That might get no more than a medium-sized melon, or a frozen pasty, or a
second-hand comb. A blow job might be worth a packet of twenty cigarettes,
a large bottle of Coca-Cola, a whole frozen chicken or a litre of milk. A
fuck might rake in as much as a bottle of wine or a leg of lamb. And anal
intercourse would bring in a small transistor radio or a bottle of spirits.
Compared to how she'd been before, Tracey felt rich. And the cigarettes
were welcome as well, although they were very rarely any kind she'd ever
heard of before. But when you spent hours waiting for sex by the roadside,
a cigarette or two was a very welcome companion.
Buttercup was less keen on prostitution than Tracey, although she was
actually substantially more successful at it. In fact, this may have been
part of what she didn't like. She never seemed to have enough time to
recover between one encounter and the next. But she did at least twice as
well as Tracey, and not just because she had more customers. Often her
clients were so grateful to meet someone as genuinely beautiful as her as
to give many times more than was absolutely necessary for the services she
provided.
And the mechanics of prostitution was so very different here in Gomorrah
to what happened back home. Although of course for Buttercup there had
been no equivalent to prostitution in her life in Buggery, and she had
nothing to compare it to. In the absence of clothes and make-up or even
tottering high-heels, the only thing that marked out a prostitute was the
fact of where they were and how long they hung around. Most Gomorran women
kept their distance from the world of men, fearing that they'd be raped or
arrested or beaten up. Only prostitutes had any license to encroach at all
on male preserves, and then only on the very margins of it. Along main
roads in the wilderness, at the very edges of towns and cities, by desolate
industrial wastelands. And there they would stand, or sit, Tracey and
Buttercup amongst them actively seeking out the men's attention.
There were no laws against prostitution in Gomorrah, although Tracey got
to learn from her clients that there were still stigmas associated with it.
A wouldn't boast that he'd seen a prostitute, although he might boast
about the sex he'd had as if it were a different transaction altogether.
Furthermore, as women were not allowed by law to have any possessions, they
could only ever be given things. Never money or anything like that. Not
that either Tracey or Buttercup had any use for money. Women weren't
permitted into shops and money wasn't used as currency in the community
where they lived. Any potential client offering just money had to be
turned down. Those notes with the president's head on them and the
pictures of Gomorran industry and Gomorran war victories, they were totally
worthless in the world of women.
It was relatively easy to identify who were looking for sex. They
would be carrying plastic bags of groceries, a couple of unopened bottles
of wine, or unwrapped cigarette packets. And they would pass Tracey and
Buttercup with eyes which were evaluating them and comparing them with
other women they'd passed, to decide whether they wanted to fuck them. Or
they might be cruising slowly past in their cars, most of which were of a
far poorer quality than Tracey knew from back home, the windows wound down,
as the occupants decided whether they should or not.
But it was for Tracey and Buttercup to make the advances most of the
time: a situation that at first Buttercup resented but then actually came
to appreciate as she realised that it was actually her opportunity to turn
down she didn't want,. Although Tracey wasn't at all sure she liked
the sex as much as she did. Tracey had always liked cock. OK! She wasn't
too keen on cock when it was thrust in her when she didn't want it. But
cock as a whole was fucking magic. She didn't mind too much what pathetic
individual was on the other end of the cock. She liked the taste of it.
She liked it inside her. She liked it when the cock exploded in all that
come, which might drip out of her twat, or seep through the gaps in her
clasped fist round a cock, or get spat out of her mouth. It was cock. It
was cock up her arse, in her cunt, in her mouth and, for less than five
minutes, in her hand.
However, she had sex wherever circumstances dictated, and what they
mostly dictated was no modesty at all. Like all the other along the
road side, under the tall lamp-posts, or in the shadows of the factories
and garages, it was on the ground, in the grass, against the wall, just
whatever happened to be there. Nobody was concerned about their modesty.
And, anyway, what modesty was there? She and all the were already
showing all they had to offer, although the more desperate would
prise open their lips to the as they passed by, the better to
advertise what they had to offer. It was the who were showing more
flesh than usual, but normally it was only the flesh between the tails of
their shirts and the undone belts of the trousers below their knees. Their
pricks were generally by fist, mouth, or arse. And their
hairy, flabby buttocks were no advertisement to any but the most desperate
of of a certain proclivity.
The most comfortable and the most lucrative of fucks were those in the
back of cars, although even to someone as naïve of the nature of economics
as Tracey it was fairly clear that car ownership was nowhere near as
universal in Gomorrah as it was back home. These were driven by who
were rather better dressed than the average client, even though the cars
scarcely spoke to Tracey of great luxury. Often the cars carried more than
one man, and very often were picking up more than one woman. Buttercup
attracted an unusually high proportion of clients in cars, which earned her
both the envy and the respect of the other girls, although she wasn't
really aware of it. In fact, several cars became almost regular visitors:
Buttercup knowing who she was about to fuck just by the sight and sound of
some beaten-up vehicle with the license plate almost hanging off and the
dent on the bumper.
Tracey's favourite fucks were those with Buttercup when the two of them
were picked up together and provided sexual services to the for
material rewards and to each other for pleasure. These were the only time
that the lovers were ever able to enjoy the flesh and passion of each
others' bodies, aware also that their mutual lovemaking in some peculiar
way actually gave pleasure to the who'd picked them up. This slightly
puzzled Tracey. She'd never seen anything very erotic or exciting about
watching two fucking each other, and those few times in Gomorrah where
she'd witnessed it filled her with about as much sexual passion as watching
two dogs doing it. But somehow were different that way. And what was
even more strange was that for doing what she and Buttercup liked doing
anyway, but usually by themselves, they actually got more at the end of the
session than if they'd just let the fuck them. This particularly
confused Buttercup who had no sense of distinction between sex with a or sex with a woman, and thought watching anyone else having sex, in
whatever combination, was at best boring and at worst frustrating.
Sometimes they were driven a distance from the lamp-post or wall they'd
been picked up from. Usually they were driven back after the men's
business was done, but not always, which was difficult for the two in
finding their way back in a country that was still mostly alien to them.
These were the only times that Tracey saw more of the male world of
Gomorrah than just the edges of it where women were permitted to wander.
The male world she could see through the car windows was very similar to
the world Tracey came from. In fact, depressingly similar as they more
resembled the run-down estates, unexciting shopping precincts and shoddy
high streets of the parts of her world back home where she actually lived
and socialised. None of it seemed to have any of the opulence and grandeur
of foreign cities and resorts that she'd ever seen in holiday brochures.
And all you could ever see in the streets were men. And dressed almost
exactly as they were back home. If anything they dressed even worse than
that, showing even less concern for how ill-fitting their trousers were, or
how inappropriately coloured their shirts or ties might be, or how ugly
their shoes were. They would be hanging around outside pubs, standing
around by bookmakers, sitting on walls by off-licences and liquor stores,
smoking cigarettes, drinking from cans of beer in six- or four-packs, and
quite often brawling with each other. Tracey thought, as she glimpsed
these sights, that even if these areas weren't out of bounds to women, it
would be a strange woman who'd want to be out there in this male-only
preserve. The looked like trouble. If they couldn't rape you then
they'd probably want to beat you up.
And then the car would be parked somewhere relatively quiet where there
no to watch what was going on and the or the who'd picked the
girls up would gain the satisfaction they were so keen on. Seats would be
pushed back, cigarette packets and magazines pushed onto the ground and new
stains would be added to those already splattered on the polyvinyl or
velour of the seats' coverings. Pricks would go into the mouth, into the
cunt and buttocks would thrust back and forth while the grunted,
snarled or moaned in the way that they always did. And after usually not
too many minutes, out would the semen which was the obvious object of
the men's exertions, most often on the girls' bodies or faces, but
sometimes down the throat, in the dark recesses of the cunts or in the
tight confines of their arses.
For Tracey there was sometimes, but not always, some pleasure to be got
from all this cock. Not all cock was horrible, and some were better at
fucking than others. She sometimes enjoyed the familiar warm, hard
stiffness of the cocks, that jerking spasm as the cocks ejaculated, that
slow floppiness that the punctuated cocks relapsed into. But none of this
matched those few snatched kisses or caresses she enjoyed with Buttercup if
she were there. No could compare to Buttercup for the passion it
aroused in her and the sheer pleasure of merely touching her, let alone the
peaks of ecstasy their lovemaking visited on her.
Although compared to most women in the community, Tracey and Buttercup
were now relatively well-off, Tracey could see that it was not bringing her
lover nearly as much satisfaction as it did her. Buttercup did seem to
enjoy the company of some much more than others, but these were those
few who would actually talk to her rather than just use her as an
object of their lust. Tracey's views were quite different. She'd rather
the just got on with it than bored her with talk about how tedious
their jobs were, how much they wished it was possible to get to know women
better, or how they hated the prospect of military service. However,
Buttercup's patience meant that she learnt more about Gomorran life from a
male perspective than Tracey ever did. And strangely enough, she felt
rather less contempt for the than Tracey who minded their sexual
predation less than her.
"Gomorrah might be a country for men, run by and for the interests
of men," Buttercup mused, as the two walked back to the community laden
down with the spoils of their activities, "but I don't think it's really
what want."
"That's fucking crap!" retorted Tracey. "Those cunts vote for it.
That's what they say they want. And that's what they fucking get."
"It might be what they think they want. But it's not really what they
want. They've sort of trapped themselves. By denying women of any say or
any rights, they've made a society where the only sex they can have is sex
they pay for, and the only love they ever get is that they get from the
friendship of other men. And together don't seem very good at dealing
with their feelings or their wants. They go on about things like cars,
booze, sport and fighting in the war, but there's no space in their life
for other things."
"Like fucking what?" sneered Tracey. "Flowers and nature and things?"
"Well, yes. Or anything like that. It's like they're only half people,
with only half lives."
"Well! Fuck them! They're not that much better back home where they've
got no fucking excuses. And here it's not like they treat as well or
anything. They've fucking raped us when they couldn't get what they want
with cigarettes or whatever. They treat us like fucking shit. They treat
all women like shit. They're the ones with the fucking power. It's for
them to make their lives fucking better. Or the lives of us women better
either. are just fucking pigs!"
"That's not true," Buttercup protested mildly. "Some of the I've
met are quite gentle. If they could have relationships like we have," she
squeezed Tracey's hand tight and leaned her head onto her shoulder, despite
the weight of the plastic bags she was carrying, "then there's no reason
why they wouldn't be better."
"I know what it's like," spat Tracey angrily. "Remember I come from a
normal country. Not some fucking wierdie place where women have to go
round starkers all the time like here. Or stick rings in their bald cunts
like in Buggery. I come from a normal place. And ain't got no fucking
excuse. And they're still fucking horrible!" Tracey heard herself speak,
and paused abruptly. "Fuck! I'm beginning to sound like some fucking feminist or something. I'm not gonna be burning my bra. Not that I've got
one to burn. are men. You just can't fucking expect them to be
better."
"I just don't believe that," said Buttercup optimistically.
Tracey reflected. She loved Buttercup. She didn't want there to be an
inch of difference between them. "Yeah, you're right! I guess it's 'cos
I've been in this fucking hell too long. I can see why the women here
hate the so much. But I guess even back home there are some that
aren't such fucking pigs. And there'd be a lot fewer pigs here if the didn't run things the way they do."
Buttercup let her bags drop. She could see what an effort it cost
Tracey to do any reflection or thinking outside her normal confines.
Although she loved her tourist lover deeply, she recognised the girl's
intellectual shortcomings and the fact that even in the land of plenty,
she'd not had quite the plenty that others living there had. She put both
arms around Tracey, and drew her close to her and kissed her all
over the cheek, chin and eyes.
"As long as we have each other," Buttercup declared between kisses, "I'm
happy. Whatever indignities the bastards heap on us. However awful the
sex and however humble our lodgings, while I have you I'm happy and
contented."
Tracey wept with pleasure and desire at Buttercup's declaration of love,
but she knew that in truth her lover was not happy and contented. Although
life was better as a prostitute than as a factory-worker, and the sex, if
anything, less humiliating, Buttercup could never be happy and contented in
the lifestyle she was leading. And for her, the cost of her beauty in a
country where it merely attracted more attention actually outweighed for
her its actual benefits. And she felt at an even deeper level, that in a
real sense she wasn't really worthy of the love of such a beautiful woman.
Would it last a moment back home where Buttercup could more easily compare
her to other people?
But for the moment, she had no complaints, as the two sunk onto
the grass under the moonlight, their bodies against each other and despite
the tears that smeared Tracey's face the familiar rhythms of true passion
rose in their mutual embraces.
XX
Although Sharon had no sexual desires for Sweetness, she felt great
responsibility for the girl. After all, she was blind and even more
helpless in this strange country than she was. What would happen to
Sweetness if she abandoned her? How could the feed or fend for
herself? So, she decided that for the purposes of convenience alone, and
because it was what was expected of them, she should present their
friendship as being a mistress/slave one of the type that appeared to be
the norm in Sodom. It provided an excuse for her to continue to take care
of the girl, and might even protect the two of them from any worse advances
from other people. She explained this to Sweetness, and tried to stress
that there was no real meaning to the relationship.
"I'm not a fucking dyke, you know," she stressed to Sweetness as they
lay together on the mattress in Faith's spare bedroom.
"But I still love you," sniffed Sweetness. "Can't you love me in
return?"
Sharon could say no, but she was aware that their relationship was not
totally innocent. Sweetness wrapped her naked body around her, and stroked
and cuddled her, which Sharon reciprocated as long as their fingers never
probed their crotches and there were no tongues involved. "We can cuddle,
but that's fucking all!" she insisted.
However, she quite enjoyed helping Sweetness. Somehow, this role as
Sweetness' carer had awakened in her feelings of responsibility she didn't
know she had. Every morning, she would carefully shave Sweetness' head,
just as she did herself and tenderly thread the chains and rings into her
pierced nipple and clitoris: tasks which blindness made nearly impossible
for the girl. Her heart would sometimes melt as she regarded Sweetness'
vacant gaze in her direction as she washed the last signs of stubble off
the girl's pate. On such occasions, she would tenderly kiss Sweetness on
the lips and then curse herself for giving the cause to expect more of
her than she was willing to give. Sharon had started to get quite used to
this look of baldness and the array of chains. In fact, as she regarded
her own face in the mirror as she carefully shaved the back of her head,
she wondered what it might be to have hair again. What did it feel like to
have all that stuff sprouting out of the top of the head, over the ears and
onto the shoulder? And what was it like to wear clothes, rather than have
chains pulling down relentlessly on the nipples and cunt, so often giving
her inappropriate feelings whenever one was accidentally tugged or brushed?
Faith was happy for Sharon and Sweetness to stay in her spare bedroom,
but she wasn't a wealthy woman so she did what she could to persuade Sharon
to find work. "In this country," she reminded Sharon, "a mistress is
expected to provide for her slave. There are plenty of jobs in the local
newspaper, so have a look there."
Sharon agreed, taking the copy of the Holiness Evening Advertiser that
Faith had handed her and browsed through the pages. It was remarkably
dull. Every page was nothing but newsprint, with no photographs or of any kind. She commented on this to Faith.
"Illustrations of any kind are forbidden by the Sodomite religion,"
Faith told them sternly. "I suppose it's different where you are, but here
it is firmly forbidden to see images, painted, drawn, filmed or
photographed."
"Is that why you have no telly?"
"I've no idea what you mean," sighed Faith impatiently.
"No television. Just a radio," continued Sharon, noting Faith's blank
expression. "Oh never mind."
Faith sighed again and returned to the book she was reading. However,
now that it was mentioned to her, Sharon reflected that she hadn't seen any
images or pictures anywhere. This was one distinct difference between
Sodom and back home, as well as the funny religion and the weird way you
were expected to dress. She was sure she'd find more such differences, but
it seemed weird to her that people exposed themselves in a way that would
get you arrested back home, but were prudish about something as harmless as
pictures. What were these people on?
There were many jobs advertised, and many of them were just like jobs
she'd had back home. It was reassuring to see that there were jobs like
factory workers, attendants, security guards and computer
programmers, just like she would see in jobs advertisements back home. She
had no real idea where to begin looking, but she ringed a few who paid more
Sodomite dollars than the others. It was those boring jobs in offices like
sorting out files and answering the phone where there was most demand, and
she'd soon had a few advertisements ringed in biro, and a few interviews
arranged using Faith's telephone.
Seeing Sharon busy at work, Faith abandoned her book and made some tea
and biscuits. Sharon could see that Faith's grumpiness was probably still
to do with the fact that Sharon didn't want to have sex with her, but, fuck
it! Faith could have sex with Sweetness any time. All she had to do was
ask.
Finally, Sharon arranged an interview which was for a clerical job with
a shipping company, and set off across the city for the interview which was
to be that very afternoon. She asked Faith how she should dress for the
interview, which caused her a little amusement. "Just as you are," she
said with a laugh, but nonetheless loaned Sharon a dangling pearl ring
to make her look slightly smarter. She also recommended that Sharon take
Sweetness with her, as interviewers tended to look more favourably on
applicants with steady relationships. She lent Sharon a chain with which
to lead Sweetness: the same one, she remarked ruefully, that she'd used on
her own slave.
Sharon was still finding life in Sodom curiously like normal life after
her ordeal in Buggery. Here were city streets, shops, buses and all the
accompaniments of civilised life. But the differences were becoming
clearer to her. And not just the bizarre way that everyone dressed, and
the disproportionately large number of people with missing fingers, tongues
or other parts of their body. Now that it had been drawn to her attention,
she was aware of the total lack of images around her. Advertisements were
in text only, and there were no signs of illustration even in shop windows.
She found her way to the block of offices where she was to be interviewed
by bus, which was full of people of all ages, children and people,
dressed only in chains and rings threaded through their body. Not many had
their tongues removed or their vaginas sewn up or their testicles removed,
as with the Sodomite pilgrims, but several were, and she noticed that they
were generally treated with quite exaggerated respect.
Sharon was at first rather unhappy with having pull Sweetness along by a
chain, worried that her ward could so easily get finding her way
through all the people, but she was a who was more than accustomed to
her disability, and held onto Sharon's arm for support. There were many
other couples like her: sometimes a leading another on all fours,
or a woman pulling a along by a chain through his nose, or a woman
slapping a as he cowered under her open palm, or other women like her
dragging another woman about. It was fairly obvious who was the mistress
and who was the slave. Clearly, Sodom wasn't a country that practised
equal relationships.
Sharon waited with Sweetness in the reception area of the office for a
short while, leaving Sweetness behind when she was called for her interview
which was with a rather stout short who might have been balding if it
were possible to say in a country where everyone appeared to be bald. The
interview was cordial and brief as the asked her about her office
skills and what jobs she'd had in the past. He was particularly impressed
by the fact that Sharon had come from another country.
"We get very few foreigners in Sodom, and fewer still who choose to
settle here," he mused. "There are the pilgrims from other countries who
come here to see the Holy relics and the Holy shrines. Otherwise, there
are hardly any at all. But I hear that you foreigners have some fairly
outlandish customs. Is it true for instance that you don't shave
yourselves back where you come from?"
"The do. But mostly just the face. And the women do, but mostly
the legs and under the arms."
"You mean the don't even shave their legs and armpits!" exclaimed
the interviewer, whose skin, like everyone else, was smooth and hairless.
"Truly, it sounds like you come from a very strange place. Hairy people
everywhere. And you even have films and something called the 'cinema'.
Don't your religions proscribe anything?"
"Religion isn't that important back home. And most religious people do
things very differently to how religious people do things here."
"I imagine they would. I wouldn't call myself a religious man, although
I've been baptised," he displayed his truncated third finger, "but I'm glad
that Sodom is a religious country, where our morals are protected by our
religious leaders." He sniffed, and glanced at a plaque on the wall which
held ornate text which Sharon could see read 'To be humble is good. To
suffer divine'. "However, you seem like a good to me. And you're not
flaunting any strange foreign customs that might upset my staff. I see you
even have a slave. Is she from Sodom or did you bring her from where you
come from?"
"Neither. She comes from Buggery."
"Buggery. We've fought so many wars with them over the years. So much
of their kingdom is land which once belonged to the Sodomite people. They
have taken advantage of our people's aversion to war and unnecessary
suffering. A Sodomite principle is never to cause pain to anyone who
doesn't expressly ask for it. These Buggerians don't seem to have any
scruples at all on that front." He frowned severely, and then smiled.
"Well, your slave seems a pleasant enough girl. Blind as well. Is that
for religious reasons?"
Sharon shook her head. "She's always been like that."
The interviewer sighed. "Disability without choice is such a sad thing.
Anyway, when can you start? We have excellent facilities for slaves while
their mistresses, or masters for that matter, are at work. We'd really
like someone to start as soon as possible."
Sharon eagerly accepted the offer, and for the first time since she'd
left home she felt there was some structure returning to her life. She was
earning money and was able to pay Faith for her keep in the flat, and was
able to settle down to a new routine. Not that there was much else to
spend her money on. Holiness had no pubs, night clubs or cinemas. All
there was were coffee and tea shops, and the restaurants were fairly few
and not particularly good. So, after a day at work there was nothing much
else to do, but to return to Faith's flat. In this way, life in Sodom was
significantly less exciting than back home. But otherwise, Sharon was
feeling happier than she'd done for a long time. Mind you, the actual
Sodomite dollar was a strange thing. Like everything else, there were no
images on it, just beautifully ornate Sodomite phrases. On the twenty
dollar note it read: 'Deliverance Through Pain'. The fifty dollar note
read: 'Redemption is Achieved Through Blood, Sweat and Piss'. And the
hundred dollar note, which was barely worth as much as a cup of coffee,
read: 'Grace, Peace and Humiliation.'
Her job in the office was not especially exciting. The computers she
had to work on were distinctly more primitive than any she'd seen at any
office she'd worked in at home, and there was certainly no Internet access.
The work was certainly no more interesting, but it kept her occupied. She
worked opposite a thin girl, Humility, with a pointed chin and wide,
child-like eyes. Next to her was a rather fat man, Surrender, whose chains
were partly held in place by a ring in his navel. On the other side
was a middle-aged woman, Sacrifice, whose sagging pointed and
nipples were dragged down quite sharply by the weights which dangled from
them, and had her tongue removed and so could therefore only communicate by
sign- language which Sharon had absolutely no facility in.
She brought Sweetness into the office every day, like everyone else who
had a slave, and sat her on a cushion chained to her desk just between
Sacrifice and herself. Sacrifice had her own slave, a thin with
persistent blue stubble on his cheeks and chin, and whose tongue was also
removed. Not much chance of conversation there. It had to be said that
Sweetness seemed to have a natural ability in her new role, even though
Sharon was initially rather uneasy about it. Perhaps because of her
sightlessness she didn't really see it as the humiliation that Sharon
recognised it as. In any case, her life up till then had scarcely been
especially empowering. Slaves had a strange role to play it seemed. They
had to ask permission for anything they wanted to do, however trivial, and
to accept without question petty humiliations and refusals. They also were
expected to give sexual favours whenever requested and accept beatings for
the most arbitrary reasons. Sharon had no intention on visiting any harm
on her ward, which in itself raised comment from the other staff.
"You're very lenient on your slave," remarked Humility. "Don't you ever
slap her? I've not seen you on her or spank her or discipline her in
any way. Don't people do things like that back where you come from?"
"Not often," admitted Sharon.
"Despite my name I've never been very keen on being a slave," Humility
confided. "I tried it for a while. But I didn't really enjoy it. And
I've tried being a mistress and I was crap at that as well. Just not stern
enough. Do you think there's something wrong with me?"
"Not at all," said Sharon. Humility placed a hand on Sharon's crotch
and squeezed it. Sharon pushed it off abruptly. "Don't fucking do that!
I'm not a dyke, you know!"
"'Dyke'?"
"Lesbian. You know. A woman who has sex with another woman."
"That's weird. I don't understand why not. Is it some religious reason
or something?"
Sharon sighed. Everything was weird here. Wasn't there anyone who
understood normal sex? Mind you, she enjoyed cock for the first time
properly since Throb (dismissing her stay at the army camp as being
something wholly unsavoury and best forgotten). The in Sodom were so
much easier to pick up, and so much more ready to pick you up than back
home. All it did was for a to like the look of you, and there you
were, in the back room, in the corridor, anywhere, with people walking by,
with this cock fucking you, sometimes with the extra embellishments of
massive studs through the glans. And the weren't too bad at it,
either. But they were always a bit eager to use the back entrance. It was
as if the front entrance just wasn't good enough. Thankfully for Sharon
she didn't really mind which entrance was used, though after a few fucks up
the arse she was beginning to feel her was relatively neglected.
She also found that this weird Sodomite religion was present throughout
the working day. On about three occasions a day, for about fifteen minutes
or so, a high percentage of the office staff disappeared together for their
religious observations. Sacrifice and her slave, and also Suffering, left
Sharon and Sweetness together with Humility in their corner of the office.
Like Faith, Humility had not chosen to be baptised in the faith although
she was not unsympathetic.
"I just don't enjoy all that whipping, beating and buggery," she
admitted to Sharon. "If only there were other ways of demonstrating your
faith which didn't quite so much. And I just don't want to lose my
finger. It's not done me any harm. In fact, I'm quite fond of it." She
held up her hand and flexed her third finger with a sigh.
When the others returned, they seemed flushed with exertion and sweat,
often with traces of blood rising from welts on their back and buttocks,
and sometimes with a small trickle of blood down their thighs. Sacrifice's
slave seemed to be especially badly treated, sometimes smelling of piss,
and frequently with cuts on his face and with a bright shine to his
buttocks. He never seemed at all upset by it though. His grin was often
in direct proportion to the amount of pain he must have sustained: the more
he was punished, the more he appeared to enjoy it. In fact, no humiliation
seemed too much for him, often licking the soles of Sacrifice's feet and on
at least one occasion, licking out dried shit from between her saggy bony
arse cheeks.
Still, whatever! thought Sharon. She was happy with the odd corridor
fuck, and sometimes she persuaded to come back with her to Faith's flat
where she would allow herself to be fucked back and front for as long as it
took, buying off Faith's acquiescence with the gift of Sweetness' always
eager body. The cries of passion and ecstasy that erupted from Faith's bed
were joined by Sharon's own guttural irruptions as chains clashed with
chains, rings clanked against rings, bare hairless flesh slid over flesh.
And that all important cock thrusting in and out of her cunt. And
sometimes in her arse. And sometimes, although Sharon was less keen
herself, she'd be persuaded to strap on a dildo and push that in and out of
the man's arse as he gasped and grunted from the pleasure he seemed to get
as it rubbed against his prostrate gland.
Sharon was never sure how happy Sweetness was. It was clear that she
was quite happy. At least, happier than she'd ever been before in their
acquaintance. Life in Sodom seemed to agree with her, and she lent herself
quite readily to her role as a slave, even though Sharon never allowed her
to enjoy with her the sexual pleasures she allowed her to have with anyone
else. Sharon had no objection to other people making love to Sweetness:
favours the gratitude for which were strangely enough expressed to her
rather than to Sweetness who was rarely thanked. It made life with Faith
much easier than it might be. She often commented on Sharon's generosity.
She even surmised that Sharon's reluctance to have sex with her slave was a
subtle kind of humiliation she was meting on her, which Sharon chose not to
deny, although it was a rather novel notion to her.
It also made her popular with her work colleagues, even though it was
obvious that they had no idea why it was that someone who had so quickly
gained a reputation for her easy promiscuity, which was seen as a great
virtue, should be so fastidious as to the gender of who she had sex with
when she was otherwise so indiscriminate. Humility was particularly
uncomfortable with Sharon's rejections of her advances, but accepted sex
with Sweetness as some kind of compensation. Sometimes, Sharon wondered
how it was that any work was ever done in a day with so much sex in the
office. But then she reflected that it was probably all this fucking which
lowered productivity and in turn ensured that there was plenty of work to
go round, and this was why Sodom managed to achieve full employment.
However, philosophical thoughts like this rarely crossed her mind as she
lay in bed with whatever she'd picked up and took his prick in her
mouth and it clean of come. And such pricks! Almost all of them
had at least one in it, to hold the chains in place, and sometimes
they were a festering mass of metal. She soon came to associate the sharp
tinny taste of steel with the pleasures of sex, to be taken as an aperitif
before being fucked by metal and cock, or to be taken as dessert when her
cunt was sore and her arse was bleeding. Whatever else could be said about
Sodom, the Sodomites certainly knew how to fuck!
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