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From: bradley_stoke@hushmail.com (Bradley Stoke)
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Subject: {ASSM} Escape From Buggery Ch. Twelve (12/20) {Bradley Stoke} (caution)
Date: Wed,  9 Jul 2003 07:10:06 -0400
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Title: {ASSM} Escape From Buggery Ch. Twelve (12/20) {Bradley Stoke} (caution)
Author: Bradley Stoke
Part: Chapter 12 of 20
Keywords: (caution)
Short Summary: Sharon and Sweetness are captured by Buggery soldiers.

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
==========

Sharon and Sweetness are raped and captured by Buggery soldiers, while trying 
to escape from Buggery to the neighbouring republic of Gomorrah. 



Chapter Twelve
==============


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 cunt 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 cunt 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 
cunt 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 cunt 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 
young girl 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 hole 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 young man entered. 
He seemed peculiarly delicate and somehow awkward. He 
was clearly a soldier, and like the soldiers who'd raped the 
two girls 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 girls 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 young man 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 men 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 men didn't kill you."

"Didn't what they do to us ? wasn't that fucking enough?"

"Rape is normal in war. My men haven't had sex with a 
woman for years. Many of them have never fucked a 
woman before. But like it or not my men 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 men 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 girls 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 red 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 red 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 piss 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 girl 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.


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

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