index


Message-ID: <44038asstr$1061338205@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: bradley_stoke@hushmail.com (Bradley Stoke)
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
NNTP-Posting-Date: 19 Aug 2003 20:29:55 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Escape From Buggery Ch. Sixteen (16/20) {Bradley Stoke} (caution)
Date: Tue, 19 Aug 2003 20:10:05 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Title: {ASSM} Escape From Buggery Ch. Sixteen (16/20) {Bradley Stoke} (caution)
Author: Bradley Stoke
Part: Chapter 16 of 20
Keywords: (caution)
Short Summary: Tracey and Buttercup work in the factory in 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, where they shelter with a community of women. 



Chapter Sixteen
===============


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 girls 
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 girls 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 man 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 men 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 men 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 older 
women.

As the queue brought Zeta, Tracey and Buttercup towards 
the welcoming bright glare of the neon lit interior, the men 
could see the girls more clearly.

"Fuck! You're a fucking beauty, ain't you?" a corpulent 
man 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 girls 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 enormous 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 girls 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, breasts 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 breast 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 girls 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 man 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 girls stood up, and looked at him and his 
colleagues who were standing idly around a coffee 
machine. "That's it, dearies. This way!" The girls 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 man who'd 
spoken to them said to a fat middle-aged man 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 girls up a concrete stairwell to 
an array of offices where there were no women other 
themselves at all. All around them were men 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 men 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 men buggering some scrawny women. With no 
ceremony and no preparation, Ralph bade the girls 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 man in a striped shirt with a polyester tie decorated 
with picture of Bugs Bunny and Tweety Pie. And then 
Ralph, Bob and this other man 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 girls 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 man 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 cunt 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 breasts and faces, and 
the men 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 men laughed at 
her distress, Bob joining in.

"You're a fucking popular whore with the boys!" he 
grinned.

And then the two girls 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 girls 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 girls 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 breast 
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 men 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 
man in a suit with a striped nylon shirt 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 man 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 man 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 man 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 man 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 girls were 
fast asleep, their limbs entwined around each other, and 
Tracey's nose and face buried in Buttercup's long blonde 
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.



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.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+