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From: bradley_stoke@hushmail.com (Bradley Stoke)
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Subject: {ASSM} Escape From Buggery Ch. Seventeen (17/20) {Bradley Stoke} (caution)
Date: Wed, 27 Aug 2003 05:10:06 -0400
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Title: {ASSM} Escape From Buggery Ch. Seventeen (17/20) {Bradley Stoke} (caution)
Author: Bradley Stoke
Part: Chapter 17 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 Seventeen
=================


Neither Tracey nor Buttercup went to work in the factory 
the following day: the excuse being that they needed to 
exchange the proceeds of their day's labour for more 
immediately edible items. Neither of them could live on 
chicken alone. They sought out Theta Seven Six Seven 
Five.

She was very impressed by the wealth of returns the girls 
had got from their single day there. In fact, she seemed 
very envious. "I've never done as well as this!" she 
exclaimed. "The men obviously took quite a shine to you!"

Buttercup nodded modestly, but she clearly took no pride 
in what all this had cost her. The girls exchanged a 
particularly juicy chicken breast for some potatoes, a small 
knife and a small sauce pan. Then Theta took them to the 
impromptu market place near the centre of the settlement, 
which was lined by naked women whose wares were laid 
out on the ground in front of them. It wasn't that the wares 
for sale were especially appetising: raw vegetables, bottles 
of beer, thawing bags of frozen vegetables, cans of soup 
and beans, and other wares either gained from labour on 
the fields, or, like the girls, from working in a factory. The 
girls eventually walked away with a can-opener, a large 
box of kitchen matches, a selection of not especially 
exciting canned food, a meat loaf and some fresh greens. 
Tracey treated herself to a cigarette which she greedily 
smoked as they sat down in their small hovel, examining 
their purchases. She didn't really enjoy it very much: it 
didn't taste nearly as pleasant as her nicotine withdrawal 
promised and it made her feel queasy. Neither girl had felt 
very keen on actually eating any of the chicken pieces 
they'd earned, so one thing definitely not on the menu was 
fowl.

They cooked the food on a pile of dry sticks and twigs, 
eating the tinned food directly from the cans in which they 
came, and although it was a meal of convenience, it was, 
for Tracey, the best meal she'd had since Throb. And a 
meal enjoyed the more for sharing it with Buttercup whose 
body she later chewed and nibbled with at least as much 
enthusiasm as for the baked beans and meat loaf she'd 
eaten early: the trickle of tomato sauce on her chin replaced 
by the much more satisfying taste of Buttercup's vaginal 
juices.

As the two girls lay on the floor, their arms and legs 
entwined and the sweat of their passion sticking their 
bodies even closer to each other as they dried out in the 
morning heat, Buttercup suddenly gave Tracey a very firm 
hug. "I love you, Tracey," she exclaimed. "I love you so 
much!"

Tracey gasped. "You what?"

"I've never had a proper relationship before. Sure, I had 
relationships with the other girls and boys behind the wall, 
but this is different. It's free. We're not prisoners like I was 
before. Sure the sex was good. Very good. But with you, 
it's different. It's better. It's real love!"

Tracey sighed. She kissed Buttercup full on the mouth and 
soon again they were writhing and caressing together in the 
discomfort of the grass and straw which composed their 
mattress, but however much she was sure her tongue was 
giving Buttercup pleasure, she somehow didn't feel worthy 
of her lover. How could someone like her, someone who 
was used to being called a slut, whose cunt had taken in 
every prick it could, be worthy of someone so absurdly 
beautiful and so ridiculously perfect as Buttercup? She had 
the sort of body most women would die for, and here she 
was, laid open to Tracey's attention as if ? as if she were 
someone better than the girl she was. She just didn't 
deserve such good fortune.

After the girls had recovered from their passion and 
ecstasy, they ventured into the settlement as a whole. 
Despite its obvious poverty, it was very well organised, 
and Tracey was impressed by how much trust all these 
naked women displayed. None of them seemed to fear theft 
of any kind. Food and other possessions were laid out so 
easy to steal, and no one took advantage of it. Back home, 
Tracey would have conformed to the law of taking what 
she could, but despite her avarice, even she couldn't see 
herself claiming as her own the many things left lying 
around carelessly around and inside the tents and small 
makeshift shelters. But she still found it very strange 
surrounded by all these naked, hirsute women and not a 
man in sight. Young girls were running about 
unselfconsciously in their naked state. Older women were 
sitting around idly or working at whatever task that 
occupied them. And many more hovels were empty than 
occupied, as most women were out elsewhere, perhaps 
working in factories like the one Tracey and Buttercup had 
the previous day.

However, the next day, it was up early and off with Zeta 
over the dry-baked fields to the same chicken factory as 
before. This time they knew what to expect and the day 
didn't seem quite as long, though this time they were on a 
part of the production line where they had to slice the 
freshly plucked chickens into the pieces which later in the 
line other women were sealing in cellophane as they had 
the last time they worked there. Buttercup was no more 
adept in using the sharp knife she gripped in her plastic-
gloved hand than she was in wrapping the same cold, pink 
flesh in clear plastic, but in truth her ability at cutting and 
slicing was not what determined her reward at the end of 
the day.

At first, Tracey thought when Frank grabbed her from 
behind that Buttercup might use the knife she held in her 
hand to stab it into the scrawny man in his battered grey 
suit. But despite her obvious annoyance, she meekly 
followed him up the concrete stairs to wherever he did 
whatever he did to her. It was ages until Buttercup 
returned, looking miserable and humiliated, a small trail of 
blood winding down the inside of her thigh, escorted by a 
male supervisor with the soggy end of a rolled-up cigarette 
held in p[ace by moist saliva to his lower lip.

And that wasn't the only such departure from the 
production line Buttercup endured. Clearly word had gone 
round the male workers that there was a girl on the shop 
floor of far better than average appearance, and Buttercup 
was dragged away on three other occasions. This included 
the manager who had obviously not had enough of her after 
the earlier occasion. After each excursion, she seemed 
weaker and more ashamed than the time before, and her 
hands were visibly trembling as her knife viciously sliced 
through the tendons which held the legs or wings onto the 
chickens' breasts, and gutted the offal out of its clammy 
cold interior.

On only one occasion was Tracey similarly dragged away, 
and this was during one of  those agonisingly long periods 
when Buttercup had been taken away. This was by Jack, an 
unshaven supervisor with a disproportionately large gut for 
a man of otherwise unremarkable girth, who dragged her 
into a small dark room at the back of the factory where a 
smelly damp mattress had been laid down on the floor for 
this exact purpose. He apparently had a thing for sluts with 
short hair, but even so his attentions were concentrated 
entirely in fucking her and requiring her to give his short 
fat cabbage-smelling cock a sucking beforehand. Tracey 
hardly felt him as he pushed his prick back and forth in her 
cunt, taking a fuck of a long time to even become stiff long 
before his interminable thrusting released any sperm which 
he did right inside her. 

As it spurted out of her fanny onto the short curling hairs 
of her vagina, Tracey reflected on the inconvenience of 
having hair so short that it marked her out from the other 
girls. It wasn't that short now, and her mousey-brown 
natural colour was beginning to overcome the bleach 
which made her hair look so unnaturally pale. She hoped it 
would grow long soon, and fast. She'd rather do without a 
bonus than attract the attention of every man who had a 
thing for short hair. Back home, that wouldn't have 
bothered her. In fact, anything which got her a good fuck or 
two on a night out was welcome. But here, the fucking was 
even more mechanical and careless, so that those fucks in 
the alleyways seemed almost tender and loving by 
comparison.

When Jack took her back to the production line, she was 
pleased to see Buttercup in her place, struggling with the 
wings of a chicken and stabbing it viciously with her knife: 
perhaps taking out on the dead fowl the anger that she felt 
towards her most recent fucker. Tracey was almost glad 
that she'd had to endure a fucking as well as her. 
Somehow, it slightly evened up the girls' relative misery.

The rewards of the day's work was even greater for 
Buttercup than before and both Zeta and Tracey had to help 
Buttercup carry her rewards home. Buttercup, however,  
seemed to even hate her bonus and had almost refused to 
take it when it was handed to her, but Tracey ensured she 
took away as much as she was given.

The next few days continued in much the same fashion. A 
day at work alternating with a day of exchanging at the 
market-place whatever collection of chicken pieces, beer, 
canned food or chocolate bars Tracey and especially 
Buttercup had earned from a day of tedious factory work 
and non-consensual sex. The day at work was too long and 
too arduous for either girl to do anything else but get to and 
from work, and endure whatever it had to offer. Principally 
these sufferings were cold hands, the odd nip from the 
knives they sometimes had to use, and the pain of anal and 
vaginal intercourse, peppered with the foul taste of an 
unprepossessing set of penises and their sour-tasting 
semen. And, as Buttercup confessed, on one occasion from 
the manager pissing straight into her mouth while she was 
being fucked up the arse by a senior supervisor.

The days off were the days the girls enjoyed. They never 
seemed long enough and there was so much to do in 
organising their home and preparing food. But they got to 
know the other women in the settlement better. Theta and 
Zeta became especially close friends, but more because 
they saw in the two girls the fact that they were also a 
committed couple like themselves.

Buttercup tired of the chicken factory. She was no good at 
any of the tasks she had to perform, although it was her 
frequent sexual favours for which she was rewarded and 
earned some quite bitchy envy from other girls on the 
production line, who commented quite openly that if she'd 
not been so pretty she'd have been kicked out for her 
incompetence from the very first day.

Zeta took the girls to other factories, none of which were as 
near as the chicken factory and none of them at all pleasant 
to work in. There was a cigarette factory where the girls 
were given free cigarettes during the breaks. Tracey 
smoked Buttercup's who had no taste for them at all, and 
indeed avoided kissing Tracey for hours after she'd had a 
puff.. They worked in a canned fruit factory where they had 
to fill the unsealed cans with an exact weight of slimy 
orange and grapefruit slices. They worked in an arms 
factory where it didn't escape Buttercup at all of the irony 
of a Buggery woman assembling munitions which would 
be used on her own compatriots.

However, wherever they worked, Buttercup was not the 
ideal factory worker, although she steadily became inured 
to the tedium and became better at the repetitive tasks 
demanded of them. Tracey had never thought that her life 
at home had ever prepared her for a life abroad, but those 
years of dead-end tedious jobs were paying off here. Only 
her nakedness and that of all the women around her 
differed from the factories back home.

And of course the fucking.

You didn't expect a fuck on a day at work back home. And 
when it happened, in the boiler room, in the broom 
cupboard, at the back of the vans, well, it was a kind of 
perk. A good fuck at home was to be enjoyed and even 
relished. Here, it was too routine, too regular, and absent of 
even the most brusque and insincere foreplay or flirting. It 
was up the stairs, round the back, on the ground, in the 
cunt and climaxed on the face, breasts and, even, 
occasionally, right inside her cunt or arse. The men were 
all the same. Charmless, rough, rude and inexpert. None of 
them had even the first idea about how to get more from a 
woman than what a woman's cunt could offer them.

Buttercup became steadily less upset after each fuck, but 
she wasn't enjoying it any the more. Because she knew it 
was coming, she took it with more resignation but scarcely 
more satisfaction. Sometimes after a day in the factory, she 
was merely bitter or indignant. Sometimes, she would 
weep uncontrollably, a phenomenon which somehow 
actually encouraged abuse from the men. It seemed that to 
them, a woman was like the prey of a cat or a dog. The 
more she showed her distress, the more they wanted to 
increase it: piling on the indignities. But at least, she 
always got more from it as a result, and it earned the two 
girls the alternate days off which they treasured so much 
and earned them so much bitching envy from their less 
obviously sexually attractive colleagues.

"Oh, Tracey! I can't stand this any more" moaned 
Buttercup in tears on the way home one drizzly night from 
the dairy where they'd been wrapping cubes of butter in 
plastic foil all day. She collapsed onto the damp grass, 
letting her heavy plastic bag of milk, butter and cheese spill 
out around her.

Tracey and Zeta knelt down beside her as she lay huddled 
in a ball of depression, her arms around her legs, her knees 
pulled up to her forehead, her head buried below her mass 
of tangled hair, staring down through the dark shadows of 
her thighs at her sore crotch. Both girls put their arms 
around her, Tracey too concerned about her lover to feel 
too much jealousy about Zeta's unwelcome show of 
affection towards her.

"Buttercup! Buttercup! What's wrong?" weeped Tracey.

Her lover raised her head and stared blankly at Tracey and 
Zeta through a face made ugly through tears and blank 
depression. "I wasn't meant to work in a factory. I hate it so 
much. I was meant to be a poet, an artist, a writer. 
Anything. Not a factory worker. And I hate the fucking. 
And I detest the fucking men who fuck me! They're such 
beasts! Worse even than the men in Buggery. At least they 
enjoyed what they were doing!"

Tracey wept with Buttercup, acutely distressed by her 
lover's own distress. She looked at Zeta imploringly. "This 
working in factories isn't doing Buttercup any good at all. 
It's fucking killing her. Isn't there anything else we can do? 
Isn't there any other way we can live?"

Zeta looked thoughtful. "I don't think either are you are 
going to be any good as farmers. And you've not been here 
long enough to be entrusted any of the other jobs in the 
community. I don't think anyone would vote for you. And 
anyway there aren't any vacant positions for teachers or 
house-builders or whatever."

"Isn't there anything else?"

"Well, you do get a lot of sex at work. The men like you. 
And they especially like Buttercup. And I don't blame 
them!" She kissed Tracey's lover tenderly on the cheek, but 
noticing the jealous daggers flashing from Tracey's eyes 
she chose not to reveal any more of her lust . "Sex is 
something you two are always going to get while you work 
with men. Just like Theta. She had to put up with it every 
day just like you. But she could find ways to make herself 
useful in the community. So, given that you're going to 
have sex whether you like it or not in the factories, why not 
sell it rather than give it away?"

"You mean fucking prostitution, don't you?" snapped 
Tracey. "I'm not a fucking tart. I've got my fucking 
principles. And my darling Buttercup's not a fucking pro 
neither."

Buttercup looked up solemnly. "Zeta's right. It's an option. 
I'd not heard of 'prostitution' before I came here, but it sort 
of makes sense. I have sex with men I don't like every day 
anyway. Is it better being a prostitute?"

"It might be for you," smiled Zeta. "Not all of us get the 
same attention as you do. For most girls in the factories, we 
might have a fuck every now and then, once or twice a 
month, not two or three times a day every day. Or even 
more like three or four times. Most of us girls don't mind it 
as much as you. It's not so often that it gets to be as much 
as an ordeal as it is for you. And for those girls who don't 
like other girls, and not all girls do, it's all the sex they ever 
know. But for you, you're going to have it anyway. We all 
do a bit of prostitution now and then. It's normal here in 
Gomorrah; though it's clearly not so common back where 
you come from."

"It doesn't exist in Buggery," corrected Buttercup. "Except 
at the tourist resorts, and it's not done like it's done here. 
They don't stand around waiting for men to pick them up 
and then getting given food and things for doing it. But is 
the sex like what it is in the factories?"

"I don't know what it's like back where you came from, but 
here the sex is better. Since the men have chosen you and 
you've got the choice to tell them to fuck off, they tend to 
be better lovers. And anyway, a lot of the men who pick 
you up don't normally meet girls in their ordinary life. They 
only see girls when they meet you under the lamp-posts or 
on the streets, so they usually treat you better than the men 
in the factories who see women every day. Some of the 
men aren't too bad really. And some of them are a lot more 
generous than they are in a factory. The more they like you, 
the more they give. And sometimes they even treat you 
better."

"You make it seem almost a good thing," mused Tracey.

"It's a living," shrugged Zeta. "But then you've got to 
sometimes see it from the men's point of view. They don't 
have relationships like you and Buttercup, or Theta and I. 
They might have homosexual ones, but I hear they're all 
really promiscuous and quite rough in Gomorrah. Not 
tender ones like you have with women. In fact, some 
punters get really close with the prostitutes and have 
almost regular relationships. It's the nearest they can get to 
what we have already. You can feel quite sorry for a lot of 
the men. Having sex with a prostitute's the only sex they 
can have."

"Do you mean they can't get married or live with a woman 
or anything?"

"I don't know what 'married' means. I guess it must be 
some kind of perversion or something, but whatever it is, 
no woman is allowed in the men only areas, and men are 
just not expected to live outside them. In fact, they just 
wouldn't be welcome. So, for those with professional jobs 
like solicitors, doctors, computer programmers or civil 
servants, they just don't see women unless they look for 
them. It's only men who run places where women work, 
and those like the police who patrol outside the men only 
areas: they're the only ones who can meet women 
normally."

"So, not all men are bad." Wondered Buttercup 
sorrowfully.

"Not all! But most are pretty crap. And none of them make 
love as well as my darling Theta. But, if you're going to 
have sex with them anyway, and you don't want to work on 
the conveyor belts, well, prostitution's the answer. It's not 
exactly a job with prospects, and it's not a secure job with a 
pension, but it's a living. And for a woman in Gomorrah, 
it's not the worst job there is."

Tracey wasn't sure she wanted to find out what the worst 
job there was, but she could see the wisdom in Zeta's 
comments. She looked at Buttercup, who was looking at 
her imploringly. She smiled sadly and nodded, recognising 
that her lover was now seeing the situation as she did in 
rather stark, rather material and in rather new terms.

"Tomorrow then," whispered Buttercup firmly.

"Tomorrow," agreed Tracey, wondering what prostitution 
meant in a country where women were not allowed to wear 
make-up, high heels or short skirts.




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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