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From: bradley_stoke@hushmail.com (Bradley Stoke)
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Subject: {ASSM} Escape From Buggery Ch. Nineteen (19/20) {Bradley Stoke} (MF FF)
Date: Tue,  9 Sep 2003 22:10:12 -0400
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Title: {ASSM} Escape From Buggery Ch. Nineteen (19/20) {Bradley Stoke} (MF FF)
Author: Bradley Stoke
Part: Chapter 19 of 20
Keywords: (MF FF)
Short Summary: Tracey and Buttercup work as prostitutes 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 Nineteen
=================


Tracey knew that back home she was regarded as 
something of a slut. This had never been something which 
had really troubled her. After all what were the opinions of 
a few dried-up cunts compared to the pleasures of all that 
cock which was just out there for anyone willing to grab it. 
She'd even sometimes been called a tart, but that was an 
epithet too far. For all the indiscriminate fucking she'd 
enjoyed with Sharon, she had never been a prostitute. Not 
that she'd slighted any gifts her lovers might have left her, 
but that was only fair. A fair day's pay for a fair day's work. 
But it was a totally different thing to be out there, actively 
selling her snatch.

Prostitution in Gomorrah wasn't quite the same as back 
home. For a start, there was a lot more of it here. And also, 
there was none of the approbation associated with it as 
back home. It was just another way of making a living. Not 
that there were that many options. You could work in the 
fields or in the community, but that had very low returns, 
dependent almost entirely on either the season or how well 
everyone else was doing. You could work in the factories, 
but that invariably meant sex anyway. Especially for 
Buttercup. She couldn't help being so very pretty, and it 
was almost a curse to her here. And it wasn't as if the work 
in the factories was that easy either. And Tracey hadn't 
forgotten the time she and Buttercup woke too late to get to 
the front of the queue of the other women waiting to get 
into work, and ended up having to walk back home without 
having got anything for their pains of actually getting there. 
As a prostitute you were guaranteed of getting something, 
and the returns were substantially better than sealing pies 
in cellophane, slicing legs of ham or packing munitions. In 
fact, after her first day, Tracey was wondering why she'd 
not opted for it earlier. She took home much more than she 
did from a day in the factory: two packets of cigarettes, a 
chocolate gateau, several kilos of apple and a small alarm 
clock. 

She quickly learnt how to match the value of the sexual 
favours she gave for the rewards that came with it. A hand 
job was the least profitable. That might get no more than a 
medium-sized melon, or a frozen pasty, or a second-hand 
comb. A blow job might be worth a packet of twenty 
cigarettes, a large bottle of Coca-Cola, a whole frozen 
chicken or a litre of milk. A fuck might rake in as much as 
a bottle of wine or a leg of lamb. And anal intercourse 
would bring in a small transistor radio or a bottle of spirits. 
Compared to how she'd been before, Tracey felt rich. And 
the cigarettes were welcome as well, although they were 
very rarely any kind she'd ever heard of before. But when 
you spent hours waiting for sex by the roadside, a cigarette 
or two was a very welcome companion.

Buttercup was less keen on prostitution than Tracey, 
although she was actually substantially more successful at 
it. In fact, this may have been part of what she didn't like. 
She never seemed to have enough time to recover between 
one encounter and the next. But she did at least twice as 
well as Tracey, and not just because she had more 
customers. Often her clients were so grateful to meet 
someone as genuinely beautiful as her as to give many 
times more than was absolutely necessary for the services 
she provided.

And the mechanics of prostitution was so very different 
here in Gomorrah to what happened back home. Although 
of course for Buttercup there had been no equivalent to 
prostitution in her life in Buggery, and she had nothing to 
compare it to. In the absence of clothes and make-up or 
even tottering high-heels, the only thing that marked out a 
prostitute was the fact of where they were and how long 
they hung around. Most Gomorran women kept their 
distance from the world of men, fearing that they'd be 
raped or arrested or beaten up. Only prostitutes had any 
license to encroach at all on male preserves, and then only 
on the very margins of it. Along main roads in the 
wilderness, at the very edges of towns and cities, by 
desolate industrial wastelands. And there they would stand, 
or sit, Tracey and Buttercup amongst them actively seeking 
out the men's attention.

There were no laws against prostitution in Gomorrah, 
although Tracey got to learn from her clients that there 
were still stigmas associated with it. A man wouldn't boast 
that he'd seen a prostitute, although he might boast about 
the sex he'd had as if it were a different transaction 
altogether. Furthermore, as women were not allowed by 
law to have any possessions, they could only ever be given 
things. Never money or anything like that. Not that either 
Tracey or Buttercup had any use for money. Women 
weren't permitted into shops and money wasn't used as 
currency in the community where they lived. Any potential 
client offering just money had to be turned down. Those 
notes with the president's head on them and the pictures of 
Gomorran industry and Gomorran war victories, they were 
totally worthless in the world of women.

It was relatively easy to identify men who were looking for 
sex. They would be carrying plastic bags of groceries, a 
couple of unopened bottles of wine, or unwrapped cigarette 
packets. And they would pass Tracey and Buttercup with 
eyes which were evaluating them and comparing them with 
other women they'd passed, to decide whether they wanted 
to fuck them. Or they might be cruising slowly past in their 
cars, most of which were of a far poorer quality than 
Tracey knew from back home, the windows wound down, 
as the occupants decided whether they should or not.

But it was for Tracey and Buttercup to make the advances 
most of the time: a situation that at first Buttercup resented 
but then actually came to appreciate as she realised that it 
was actually her opportunity to turn down men she didn't 
want,. Although Tracey wasn't at all sure she liked the sex 
as much as she did. Tracey had always liked cock. OK! She 
wasn't too keen on cock when it was thrust in her when she 
didn't want it. But cock as a whole was fucking magic. She 
didn't mind too much what pathetic individual was on the 
other end of the cock. She liked the taste of it. She liked it 
inside her. She liked it when the cock exploded in all that 
come, which might drip out of her twat, or seep through 
the gaps in her clasped fist round a cock, or get spat out of 
her mouth. It was cock. It was cock up her arse, in her cunt, 
in her mouth and, for less than five minutes, in her hand.

However, she had sex wherever circumstances dictated, 
and what they mostly dictated was no modesty at all. Like 
all the other girls along the road side, under the tall lamp-
posts, or in the shadows of the factories and garages, it was 
on the ground, in the grass, against the wall, just whatever 
happened to be there. Nobody was concerned about their 
modesty. And, anyway, what modesty was there? She and 
all the girls were already showing all they had to offer, 
although the more desperate girls would prise open their 
cunt lips to the men as they passed by, the better to 
advertise what they had to offer. It was the men who were 
showing more flesh than usual, but normally it was only 
the flesh between the tails of their shirts and the undone 
belts of the trousers below their knees. Their pricks were 
generally hidden by fist, mouth, cunt or arse. And their 
hairy, flabby buttocks were no advertisement to any but the 
most desperate of men of a certain proclivity.

The most comfortable and the most lucrative of fucks were 
those in the back of cars, although even to someone as 
na<ve of the nature of economics as Tracey it was fairly 
clear that car ownership was nowhere near as universal in 
Gomorrah as it was back home. These were driven by men 
who were rather better dressed than the average client, 
even though the cars scarcely spoke to Tracey of great 
luxury. Often the cars carried more than one man, and very 
often were picking up more than one woman. Buttercup 
attracted an unusually high proportion of clients in cars, 
which earned her both the envy and the respect of the other 
girls, although she wasn't really aware of it. In fact, several 
cars became almost regular visitors: Buttercup knowing 
who she was about to fuck just by the sight and sound of 
some beaten-up vehicle with the license plate almost 
hanging off and the dent on the bumper. 

Tracey's favourite fucks were those with Buttercup when 
the two of them were picked up together and provided 
sexual services to the men for material rewards and to each 
other for pleasure. These were the only time that the lovers 
were ever able to enjoy the flesh and passion of each 
others' bodies, aware also that their mutual lovemaking in 
some peculiar way actually gave pleasure to the men who'd 
picked them up. This slightly puzzled Tracey. She'd never 
seen anything very erotic or exciting about watching two 
men fucking each other, and those few times in Gomorrah 
where she'd witnessed it filled her with about as much 
sexual passion as watching two dogs doing it. But 
somehow men were different that way. And what was even 
more strange was that for doing what she and Buttercup 
liked doing anyway, but usually by themselves, they 
actually got more at the end of the session than if they'd 
just let the men fuck them. This particularly confused 
Buttercup who had no sense of distinction between sex 
with a man or sex with a woman, and thought watching 
anyone else having sex, in whatever combination, was at 
best boring and at worst frustrating.

Sometimes they were driven a distance from the lamp-post 
or wall they'd been picked up from. Usually they were 
driven back after the men's business was done, but not 
always, which was difficult for the two girls in finding 
their way back in a country that was still mostly alien to 
them. These were the only times that Tracey saw more of 
the male world of Gomorrah than just the edges of it where 
women were permitted to wander. The male world she 
could see through the car windows was very similar to the 
world Tracey came from. In fact, depressingly similar as 
they more resembled the run-down estates, unexciting 
shopping precincts and shoddy high streets of the parts of 
her world back home where she actually lived and 
socialised. None of it seemed to have any of the opulence 
and grandeur of foreign cities and resorts that she'd ever 
seen in holiday brochures. And all you could ever see in 
the streets were men. And men dressed almost exactly as 
they were back home. If anything they dressed even worse 
than that, showing even less concern for how ill-fitting 
their trousers were, or how inappropriately coloured their 
shirts or ties might be, or how ugly their shoes were. They 
would be hanging around outside pubs, standing around by 
bookmakers, sitting on walls by off-licences and liquor 
stores, smoking cigarettes, drinking from cans of beer in 
six- or four-packs, and quite often brawling with each 
other. Tracey thought, as she glimpsed these sights, that 
even if these areas weren't out of bounds to women, it 
would be a strange woman who'd want to be out there in 
this male-only preserve. The men looked like trouble. If 
they couldn't rape you then they'd probably want to beat 
you up.

And then the car would be parked somewhere relatively 
quiet where there no men to watch what was going on and 
the man or the men who'd picked the girls up would gain 
the satisfaction they were so keen on. Seats would be 
pushed back, cigarette packets and magazines pushed onto 
the ground and new stains would be added to those already 
splattered on the polyvinyl or velour of the seats' coverings. 
Pricks would go into the mouth, into the cunt and buttocks 
would thrust back and forth while the men grunted, snarled 
or moaned in the way that they always did. And after 
usually not too many minutes, out would spurt the semen 
which was the obvious object of the men's exertions, most 
often on the girls' bodies or faces, but sometimes down the 
throat, in the dark recesses of the cunts or in the tight 
confines of their arses.

For Tracey there was sometimes, but not always, some 
pleasure to be got from all this cock. Not all cock was 
horrible, and some men were better at fucking than others. 
She sometimes enjoyed the familiar warm, hard stiffness of 
the cocks, that jerking spasm as the cocks ejaculated, that 
slow floppiness that the punctuated cocks relapsed into. 
But none of this matched those few snatched kisses or 
caresses she enjoyed with Buttercup if she were there. No 
man could compare to Buttercup for the passion it aroused 
in her and the sheer pleasure of merely touching her, let 
alone the peaks of ecstasy their lovemaking visited on her.

Although compared to most women in the community, 
Tracey and Buttercup were now relatively well-off, Tracey 
could see that it was not bringing her lover nearly as much 
satisfaction as it did her. Buttercup did seem to enjoy the 
company of some men much more than others, but these 
were those few men who would actually talk to her rather 
than just use her as an object of their lust. Tracey's views 
were quite different. She'd rather the men just got on with 
it than bored her with talk about how tedious their jobs 
were, how much they wished it was possible to get to know 
women better, or how they hated the prospect of military 
service. However, Buttercup's patience meant that she 
learnt more about Gomorran life from a male perspective 
than Tracey ever did. And strangely enough, she felt rather 
less contempt for the men than Tracey who minded their 
sexual predation less than her.

"Gomorrah might be a country for men, run by men and for 
the interests of men," Buttercup mused, as the two walked 
back to the community laden down with the spoils of their 
activities, "but I don't think it's really what men want."

"That's fucking crap!" retorted Tracey. "Those cunts vote 
for it. That's what they say they want. And that's what they 
fucking get."

"It might be what they think they want. But it's not really 
what they want. They've sort of trapped themselves. By 
denying women of any say or any rights, they've made a 
society where the only sex they can have is sex they pay 
for, and the only love they ever get is that they get from the 
friendship of other men. And men together don't seem very 
good at dealing with their feelings or their wants. They go 
on about things like cars, booze, sport and fighting in the 
war, but there's no space in their life for other things."

"Like fucking what?" sneered Tracey. "Flowers and nature 
and things?"

"Well, yes. Or anything like that. It's like they're only half 
people, with only half lives."

"Well! Fuck them! They're not that much better back home 
where they've got no fucking excuses. And here it's not like 
they treat as well or anything. They've fucking raped us 
when they couldn't get what they want with cigarettes or 
whatever. They treat us like fucking shit. They treat all 
women like shit. They're the ones with the fucking power. 
It's for them to make their lives fucking better. Or the lives 
of us women better either. Men are just fucking pigs!"

"That's not true," Buttercup protested mildly. "Some of the 
men I've met are quite gentle. If they could have 
relationships like we have," she squeezed Tracey's hand 
tight and leaned her head onto her shoulder, despite the 
weight of the plastic bags she was carrying, "then there's no 
reason why they wouldn't be better."

"I know what it's like," spat Tracey angrily. "Remember I 
come from a normal country. Not some fucking wierdie 
place where women have to go round starkers all the time 
like here. Or stick rings in their bald cunts like in Buggery. 
I come from a normal place. And men ain't got no fucking 
excuse. And they're still fucking horrible!" Tracey heard 
herself speak, and paused abruptly. "Fuck! I'm beginning to 
sound like some fucking dyke feminist or something. I'm 
not gonna be burning my bra. Not that I've got one to burn. 
Men are men. You just can't fucking expect them to be 
better."

"I just don't believe that," said Buttercup optimistically.

Tracey reflected. She loved Buttercup. She didn't want 
there to be an inch of difference between them. "Yeah, 
you're right! I guess it's 'cos I've been in this fucking hell 
hole too long. I can see why the women here hate the men 
so much. But I guess even back home there are some men 
that aren't such fucking pigs. And there'd be a lot fewer 
pigs here if the men didn't run things the way they do."

Buttercup let her bags drop. She could see what an effort it 
cost Tracey to do any reflection or thinking outside her 
normal confines. Although she loved her tourist lover 
deeply, she recognised the girl's intellectual shortcomings 
and the fact that even in the land of plenty, she'd not had 
quite the plenty that others living there had. She put both 
arms around Tracey, and drew her close to her breast and 
kissed her all over the cheek, chin and eyes.

"As long as we have each other," Buttercup declared 
between kisses, "I'm happy. Whatever indignities the 
bastards heap on us. However awful the sex and however 
humble our lodgings, while I have you I'm happy and 
contented."

Tracey wept with pleasure and desire at Buttercup's 
declaration of love, but she knew that in truth her lover was 
not happy and contented. Although life was better as a 
prostitute than as a factory-worker, and the sex, if anything, 
less humiliating, Buttercup could never be happy and 
contented in the lifestyle she was leading. And for her, the 
cost of her beauty in a country where it merely attracted 
more attention actually outweighed for her its actual 
benefits. And she felt at an even deeper level, that in a real 
sense she wasn't really worthy of the love of such a 
beautiful woman. Would it last a moment back home 
where Buttercup could more easily compare her to other 
people?

But for the moment, she had no complaints, as the two 
girls sunk onto the grass under the moonlight, their bodies 
against each other and despite the tears that smeared 
Tracey's face the familiar rhythms of true passion rose in 
their mutual embraces.



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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