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From: bradley_stoke@hushmail.com (Bradley Stoke)
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Subject: {ASSM} Escape From Buggery Ch. Thirteen (13/20) {Bradley Stoke} (FF)
Date: Thu, 24 Jul 2003 05:10:05 -0400
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Title: {ASSM} Escape From Buggery Ch. Thirteen (13/20) {Bradley Stoke} (FF)
Author: Bradley Stoke
Part: Chapter 13 of 20
Keywords: (FF)
Short Summary: Tracey and Buttercup escape to 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 escape from Buggery to the neighbouring republic 
of Gomorrah. 



Chapter Thirteen
================



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 vagina 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 girls 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 girls 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 vagina 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 girls 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 girls 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 girls 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 girls 
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 men 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 men only public transport or to enter men 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 men 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 men don't want. We can sell our bodies. 
And we can work in the factories and as servants doing all 
the chores which men 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 girls 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 men won't do it for us, who else is there for us to turn 
to except ourselves?"

"What do the men do? Don't they ever want sex or 
anything?" wondered Tracey. She couldn't imagine how 
men 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 man 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 men have of having sex is by going with 
a prostitute?"

"Well, they can have sex with each other. The Republic of 
Gomorrah actively encourages men to do that. They 
regularly have big campaigns where they try to persuade 
men 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 men 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 men 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 men 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 men 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 men 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 piss 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 girls 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 girls 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 men would use to address them: if 
it ever crossed their mind to use a name at all.

A young girl called Theta Seven Six Seven Five showed 
the girls 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 Men 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 older or not so good 
looking. The men are always doing horrid things to me. 
Last time, one man 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 girl 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 girls 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 vagina 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 
vagina 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 vagina 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 hole 
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 hole 
as it could, Buttercup definitely shits. And, as the odd taste 
amongst the rich smells emerging from her vagina 
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 men like anal intercourse so much? The 
arse is nowhere as beautiful as the cunt. Nothing to it! A 
hole 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 men 
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.


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

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