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Subject: {ASSM} Escape From Buggery Ch. Eleven (11/20) {Bradley Stoke} (caution)
Date: Tue,  1 Jul 2003 16:10:05 -0400
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Title: {ASSM} Escape From Buggery Ch. Eleven (11/20) {Bradley Stoke} (caution)
Author: Bradley Stoke
Part: Chapter 11 of 20
Keywords: (caution)
Short Summary: Tracey and Buttercup are caught up in the war between 
Buggery and Gomorrah.

Escape from Buggery
===================

Synopsis of whole novel
======================

Sex tourism is an adventure, but for Sharon and Tracey their 
trip to Buggery was rather more of an adventure than they'd 
anticipated. And certainly more than the brochure advertised. 
This is a dark disturbing novel in a world the sex tourist 
would rather not know about.


For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

Previously
==========

Tracey and Buttercup are trying to escape from Buggery to the neighbouring 
republic of Gomorrah. 



Chapter Eleven
==============



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 thick 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 
thick 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 man 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 girls 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 famous 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 cunt 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 shirt 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 girl 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 men 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 men only areas!"




For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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