	Escape From Buggery
	===================

	I

Sharon and Tracey were two very close friends. 
They danced to the same music. They liked the 
same kinds of films. They both bleached their 
hair and dyed it the same outrageous blonde 
shades. They even dressed much the same: very 
tight short skirts; tee-shirts or tank-tops 
that clung tightly to their chests; and 
teetering stilettos that threatened to throw 
them off balance. And neither of them ever ever 
wore knickers. 

They weren't the two prettiest girls you could 
ever have hoped to meet, but they may well have 
been the randiest. Every Friday and Saturday 
Night (and other nights besides) was a night to 
score. And if they didn't score much more than 
once, they were terribly disappointed.  What 
were the girls' attractions to the boys who 
came inside them perhaps once or maybe twice in 
their acquaintance? Well, they weren't fat. In 
fact, they might be considered skinny. This 
might have been because of the exercise the 
girls got. Or the cigarettes they always 
smoked. Or because they were always on one diet 
or another. Certainly all the sperm they 
swallowed can't have been that fattening. Their 
skin wasn't tanned at all: it was very pale. 
Nearly white. But of course they didn't 
necessarily wait until they were out in the sun 
till they took their clothes off. And when they 
did, it would be mostly in the heat of the 
action. Their breasts weren't especially large 
either. Sharon's were the largest: shaped like 
apples with rosy pink nipples. Tracey's were 
more pointed and she probably had almost as 
much nipple as breast to support them.

However the girls were pretty much always 
available. They didn't cost you anything, 
though you would probably worry about what 
illnesses you'd picked up (not that that ever 
bothered the girls!) 

The best fun Sharon could imagine was having 
two pricks up her - one in her cunt and the 
other up her arse - and another prick in her 
mouth. She loved the taste and sensation of a 
throbbing warm sperm-secreting prick as she 
took it from the tip of her lips and eased it 
towards the back of her throat. The extra 
sensation in the other two orifices just added 
to the pleasure. 

Tracey preferred just one man after another. 
That way, she would say, you get through more 
men in an evening. And they didn't get worn out 
so soon.

In whatever way, they got their hearts' desires 
most weekends. They didn't care if it was early 
in the evening or late. Whether it was in the 
night club, at the back of the bar, on a bed or 
amongst the rubbish down an alley-way. A good 
fuck was always welcome, and if you were too 
fussed about where you had it, well, then who 
knows what fun you might have missed. 

They found out about the existence of Sex 
Holidays in the Sun in Buggery during an 
evening back at the home of a married man who'd 
just picked the pair of them up. Buggery, as 
they were to find out, was a small country 
squeezed between the two republics of Sodom and 
Gomorrah. 

Their host was just getting into action. His 
trousers and underpants were thrown off and 
lying somewhere near the scattered parts of a 
motorcycle. His prick was fully erect and 
straining in anticipation of fucking Tracey, 
who'd volunteered to go first. Sharon was 
still shagged out after her earlier fuck 
against the toilet cubicle door at the night 
club they'd just been to. She still had traces 
of urine streaks down her legs from when her 
drunken lover had somehow confused the activities 
of pissing and fucking. Tracey had eagerly 
tugged up her tight boob tube and the folds of 
her cunt throbbed with the same eagerness as 
the veins of her host's penis. She wedged her 
arse on the seat of the ragged armchair and 
curled her legs on either side of the armrests. 

The room was in a fairly dingy state. The rugs 
were worn, the ceiling was yellow with 
cigarette stains, and the television supported 
a weight of magazines and ash trays. Not even 
the dusty film posters on the wall and the 
clutter of cheap china ornaments on the 
cupboards added any real relief to the drabness 
of the place. There was no evidence that the 
place had been vacuum cleaned or dusted for at 
least a year. Not that either Sharon or Tracey 
would have thought it at all unusual. They 
didn't bother cleaning up their own flat much 
more often than that themselves.

"Daddy! Daddy!" cried a little girl in a 
stained night-gown clutching a threadbare teddy 
bear. She was standing by the living room door 
rubbing her eyes with the back of her fist. 
"Where's Mummy?"

"How the fuck should I know!" her father 
replied angrily, his penis still sticking out 
and twitching with desire. "Probably out 
fucking drunk again."

"I can't get to sleep!" moaned the girl. "Take 
me to bed, Daddy!"

"What the fuck! What do you fucking take me 
for?" shouted her father. Then remembering the 
two girls and perhaps wanting to retain some 
semblance of gallantry, he said: "OK! OK! Let's 
go upstairs!" He wandered over to his daughter 
with his erection slowly drooping away. "I'll 
be back in a second, girls."

"What the fuck!" echoed Tracey. "My twat's as 
itchy as pepper!" She lifted herself up on the 
armchair and pulled her boob tube back down 
over her crotch. She gazed around the room in 
boredom and frustration and noticed that Sharon 
was reading a tabloid. "Oi! Sharon! What's with 
you! You got all fucking literate or 
something?"

Sharon looked up. "Ever heard of Buggery?" she 
asked.

"Fucking hell, Sharon! What are arses for, 
'cept for shitting and fucking?"

"No, you pillock! The country called Buggery. 
This article here's all about it. There's great 
holidays you can have there. Sex holidays. 
Loads of hunky men all ready and waiting. It's 
true! It's like a fucking fuckathon. And look 
at the fucking price. It's cheap! It's fucking 
cheap!"

"There must be a catch..."

"It says here that there's cock every-fucking-
where! And it's always gagging!"

"Yeah! But there's cock here! What do we need 
to go to fucking Buggery for?"

"Yeh, right! But look at the cock on the hunks 
in these pictures in here. Just fucking look at 
them! You don't get that at the Kaleidoscope on 
a Saturday night!"

Tracey lifted herself out of her seat and 
leaned over Sharon's shoulder to look at the 
article. It featured pictures of fairly 
ordinary girls like themselves in the company 
of some lush naked men with great looking cock. 
And there were some average looking blokes with 
the kind of women you didn't normally see 
except in calendars.

"Yeah! You're right! It looks fucking great!" 

"Well, Tray. What d'you think? Sounds like a 
fucking laugh!"

"Yeah, Shar. Fucking great!" Tracey smiled. She 
looked up as their host returned with a limp 
dick and a cheesy grin. "Well, here's lover boy 
back!"

The subject of Buggery frequently returned to 
their conversations in the following days, and 
the girls soon found themselves planning a 
holiday there in earnest. Their jobs were 
winding up at the call centre, and they felt 
like a good break before looking for the next 
ones. They took some glossy brochures out from 
the travel centre, and with the aid of the 
travel centre staff, they started examining all 
the options. 

Buggery was advertised in the many different 
brochures as variously 'Sperm in the Sun', 
'Cunts in the Country' and 'Specialist Tastes 
Catered For'. The brochures featured tasteful 
pictures of hotels, beaches and fucking. Some 
of the fucking was fairly standard. Some wasn't 
even fucking at all: masturbation, fellatio and 
voyeurism featured highly. The brochures made 
great play of the variety of sexual pleasure 
widely available (particularly homosexual) and 
the constant reminders that under-age sex was 
strictly illegal only made it seem that much 
more prevalent.

The holidays did seem really cheap, although 
there didn't seem to be much that would be free 
when they got there. The enormous hotels were 
equipped with swimming pools, night clubs and 
bars. And the brochures had hardly a picture 
which didn't feature a naked man or woman: and 
the men! Tracey felt hot just looking at the 
pictures. "I want that cock in me!" she 
announced, pointing at the attributes of one 
smooth chested man daintily carrying a drinks 
tray, and wearing a welcoming grin and nothing 
else.

'Don't bother to bring any underwear', said the 
blurb for the 18 to 30 Centimetres Holiday that 
Sharon and Tracey opted for. This was in 
Buggery's most developed resort. Night Clubs, 
Sex Bars, Hard Core Porn Theatre and Cinemas on 
every street. A glorious sun-drenched sandy 
beach. Sexual Couriers and Sex Guides promised. 
The name of the resort was Throb. This sounded 
very promising. 

The girls' normal fucks in the car parks, 
toilets and broom cupboards just lost their 
lustre. They became humdrum and routine, if not 
even dull and characterless. As also did the 
men who did the fucking. They just couldn't 
compare with what Buggery promised. And the 
homes they normally visited, whose fag-end, 
beer-stained floors Sharon stared at between 
her fore-arms while being fucked from behind, 
were just no comparison to the swanky classy 
hotels of Buggery. Instead of the grime and 
mess with which the girls were mostly 
acquainted, they offered twin double beds, 
balconies facing the sea, and the promise of 
constant sex. All this with the bonus of style, 
grace and massive pricks. Tracey grew 
increasingly sick of the sight of stubbled 
chins, beer- guts and drunken boorishness. She 
wanted to be fucked like a lady. And Sharon 
didn't care if she'd never got the imprint of a 
damp brick wall on her arse again.

There wasn't that much severance pay, and the 
girls hadn't saved that much. Night clubs and 
booze didn't come that cheap. But they had 
credit cards and from the sums they did it it 
all seemed affordable at a pinch. The girls 
didn't bother packing any underwear. Well, they 
wouldn't have done so anyway. It was tempting 
not to bother bringing any clothes at all, 
because no one in the brochure pictures ever 
wore very many of them. But, of course, they 
needed clothes just to get to the Airport. 

Which was where they joined other people on the 
morning of their departure. Sharon was feeling 
slightly sick from lost sleep and the booze 
from their last celebratory night out. Tracey 
had already puked up noisily and messily before 
leaving home. Most of the other holiday-makers 
were men and women somewhat older than them and 
seemed generally rather less wasted; but in 
their current state, Sharon or Tracey were 
really not bothered what their companions were 
like. Many of the men were quite clearly gay, 
which would normally have bothered them. No 
opportunities for them there. And some of the 
women were just as clearly lesbian, which 
although both Sharon and Tracey were 
occasionally game, (even, on particularly bad 
nights, with each other), this wasn't really 
what they were after. It was the local talent 
that they were after; or at least that which 
was like what the brochures promised.

There were two Couriers: a very young girl and 
a hunk who the girls were most keen on. He was 
much more like what they were looking for. Both 
Couriers were from Buggery and seemed quite 
game for anything. Big John, the male Courier, 
flirted with almost all the women and many of 
the men. Tracey and Sharon took every 
opportunity to get close to him and revel in 
his sexual aura.

The other Courier wore a very short skirt from 
which her buttocks were perpetually just about 
to pop out as she moved. Her breasts probably 
would have done much the same if she'd been 
better endowed in that department, but she 
didn't have very much on top (or nothing to 
speak of). She wore ineptly applied make-up and 
her hair was tied in a curiously childish pair 
of plaits with bright yellow ribbons tied to 
each. She was very friendly with many of the 
men and some of the women. One apparently 
wealthy woman in her forties indulged in 
tongue-to-tongue kissing with the girl for what 
seemed liked ages.

In fact, most of the girls' fellow travellers 
seemed to be wealthier than either Sharon or 
Tracey. They hung around aimlessly in the 
international lounge feeling out of place 
amongst the expensive shops and restaurants. 
They tottered on their white stilettos, 
flicking ash from their ciggies and stroking 
down their skin-tight skirts as they rode up 
their thighs. They knew they had to kill some 
time, so they headed for one of the many cafes 
spread about the concourse. They were not even 
too sure what all the types of coffee on sale 
might be. They plumped for something that 
turned out to look like oil dripping out from 
under a car and tasted like shit.

When the two girls got on the plane, just from 
the appearances of the airline hostesses, they 
knew they were on a very different type of 
holiday. In fact, half the airline hostesses 
were men, but neither gender dressed much 
differently from each other. All the men wore 
was a little ribbon in the design of the 
Buggery National Flag (a very boring tricolour) 
tied to their penises. The women, who were 
similarly naked, had their pubic hairs cut into 
the shape of the official national emblem of 
Buggery: which was a fairly undistinguished 
leaf, probably ivy or oak. They did wear make-
up however, not just on their face but on key 
parts of their anatomy. The nipples were made 
more aureate by the use of lipstick, and the 
vulvas seemed unnaturally red.

The couriers continued to be very attentive to 
their guests on the flight. They both took 
their clothes off in a very public gesture 
which involved them actually physically tearing 
them to pieces. They then made love which each 
other in a very frenzied way. Big John's penis 
was quite unnaturally large and it had 
difficulty entering little Pussy's cunt, but he 
persevered and made a lot of noise while doing 
so. At the climax, Big John withdrew his penis 
and showed everyone all the semen shooting out 
in a quite beautiful arch. At this stage, one 
of the male hostesses came along and licked the 
remaining stains off his still twitching prick. 
Another hostess cleaned off the traces of come 
off Pussy's face and breasts. She was a woman 
with very large breasts who had earlier rubbed 
them in the face of several passengers on their 
request.

After this entertainment, Big John announced 
that a film would be shown. The lights went off 
and a very explicit sex film was shown. The 
story concerned a young boy who seemed to 
always succeed in getting raped whatever he did 
or wherever he was. He started off going to 
school in school clothes, but first his mother 
and then his father seduced him and he was 
persuaded to have sex with both of them. Then 
on the way to school, a girl who seemed younger 
than him (possibly younger than Pussy) started 
talking with him. This led to full explicit 
sex, involving things that surely such young 
people wouldn't know about. Even if they were 
as the credits declared well over legal age. 
This sexual encounter was joined in by a 
passing policeman. The film continued through 
more scenes of either rape and seduction at 
school and elsewhere, and finally ended with 
quite a long orgy sequence where most of the 
characters reappeared (from where and why it 
was never explained) and indulged in as 
explicit action as was physically possible.

After the on-flight entertainment was over, 
Sharon and Tracey could only congratulate 
themselves for their choice of holiday and 
steel themselves for the pleasures to come. 

	II

When the tour arrived at the King Richard the 
Sixteenth Airport at Throb, they were carefully 
segregated from any local passengers who were 
arriving. They saw very little of the Airport, 
in fact, but felt cheated by having to pay 
Entry Taxes they hadn't anticipated. They were 
then bundled with all the other tourists onto a 
coach which drove them from the Airport to 
their hotel, the Second Honeymoon. 

On the journey they could see through the coach 
windows what Throb had to offer. This was a 
tempting array of long sandy beaches, towering 
marble hotels, ornamental parks and billboard 
advertisements for night clubs and cinemas. The 
people they glimpsed had also, like the girls, 
left their underwear behind. And almost 
everything else from what they could tell. It 
would have been difficult to determine who was 
a tourist and who was a resident in most cases, 
except that the tourists had the tell-tale sign 
of white patches of skin that hadn't got 
properly sun-tanned yet. 

The Second Honeymoon was a grand institution in 
marble which slightly intimidated a couple of 
girls like Sharon and Tracey who weren't at all 
used to luxury. Or anything really 
approximating to it. Without exception though, 
the staff there were naked except for little 
paper hats pinned to the women's hair and 
little tricolour ribbons tied to the men's 
penises. They were met by a young female 
receptionist who had very tanned skin and 
little rings pierced through her pert little 
nipples. She asked them if they wanted two 
double beds or an extra large double bed - "for 
foursomes". Being essentially conventional 
girls, Sharon and Tracey opted for two double 
beds.

"All the staff is at your disposal, including 
myself," smiled the receptionist, "and we all 
swing both ways." 

"Thank you" assured Sharon who wasn't sure she 
wanted to take up the offer, but was very 
attracted to the cute little bum of the porter 
who carried their bags to their room.

"Let's try him out", suggested Tracey as they 
walked behind him.

When the porter had put their bags on the 
shelf, Tracey offered him a tip. "No thank 
you," he said. "We're not allowed to accept 
gratuities. On the other hand," he smiled, "if 
you want sex I am fully at your disposal."

"Well, of course!" giggled Tracey. "But what 
about Sharon?"

"Oh, I can manage the two of you, but you can 
always call room-service if you think you need 
more."

This was the girls' introduction to sex on 
demand in Throb. An introduction they accepted 
with no extra prompting. They had never had 
such a virile and obliging sex partner in all 
their previous life. His prick was rock hard 
and stayed that way for almost all the love-
making, taking both of them in turn and 
together, both front and back, only releasing 
his semen when both of them were fully 
satisfied. Sharon couldn't believe her luck as 
it penetrated her cunt while she lay back on 
the vast bed which she also could hardly 
believe was to be hers on their stay there. A 
sickly grin filled her face and wouldn't leave. 
Tracey took his balls into her mouth as he 
thrust energetically if mechanically back and 
forth into her friend. Fuck! They were hard. 
Like fucking billiard balls. How come she'd 
never licked balls like that before. There was 
no way she could allow her friend to have all 
the fun, so on the first opportunity, she 
positioned herself so that the porter could 
easily slide his prick out of Sharon's cunt and 
transfer it to her own. Wow! It felt good. It 
was only one prick but it filled her like it 
was two. So this is what fucking's really 
about! All the rest of her life had just been 
preparing her for that moment. And what a body! 
Those muscles, the lines of tension on his 
chest, and, above all, the cock. It was big and 
long and throbbed with warmth and potency.

As they lay on the beds afterwards, pale 
viscous liquid trickling from their sore cunts 
and smiles which betrayed they still couldn't 
really believe their luck, he discreetly 
discharged a final and still monstrous globule 
of semen that was distributed evenly on their 
sweaty white skin and glistened in the 
brilliant sharp sunlight that flooded into the 
bedroom; followed by two or three relatively 
smaller spurts. He then carefully replaced his 
blue ribbon on his prick, stood up with a 
polite smile and left the girls exhausted on 
the bed. Their hangovers were now thoroughly 
forgotten and the only pain they now felt was 
as a result of their vigorous fucking.

Although it was far more luxuriously appointed 
than any room they had previously slept in, 
their bedroom was still not quite as perfect as 
the brochure suggested. It faced onto a 
building site where the girls could see some 
men at work, wearing only hard hats and boots, 
and of course the ubiquitous ribbon on their 
pricks. The bedroom balcony looked down from 
several stories onto a wide road along which 
there were many restaurants, a night club 
and a small supermarket.

"It looks like we can buy all the fucking 
groceries we want," commented Sharon, "And I 
fancy the look of those hats. They look fucking 
top."

However, it was sex, not groceries, for which 
the two friends had come so far on holiday. And 
sex was clearly readily on demand. As the 
literature left by the side of the wide screen 
TV made clear, if they wanted it, all they had 
to do was ask. And since the most attractive 
people they saw always turned out to be 
citizens of Throb under instructions to be 
constantly obliging there would never be a 
problem in deciding who it was they fancied. 
There was no doubt in the girls' minds that 
this was a holiday where they would be well and 
truly fucked.

After unpacking their few belongings, they 
ventured out into the hotel foyer to see what 
Throb had to offer them. Quite a few guests 
were already congregated around the hotel 
atrium and the swimming pool who made the girls 
seem positively overdressed in their bikinis 
and sandals. Most of their fellow guests had 
taken a tip from the natives and had chosen to 
wear no clothes at all. In fact, the hotel was 
one mass of naked flesh, some well-tanned and 
some, like Sharon and Tracey, a kind of 
unhealthy pale colour. However, this was a 
shortcoming they fully intended to correct.

Although normally brazen and unabashed at home, 
the class difference between themselves and the 
other guests made the girls feel awkward and 
uncomfortable. The few other guests they tried 
talking to were clearly not that enthusiastic 
about talking to them. Indeed, it was almost 
too obvious that were taking every opportunity 
to avoid conversation, or to keep what they 
felt obliged to acknowledge as short, polite 
and inconclusive as they could. However, there 
was one woman, somewhat older than themselves, 
and consequently with a rather heavier frame, 
who was much friendlier.

"I'm Lil," she told them with an accent that 
betrayed her working class origins. "I'm here 
with my hubby. He's off fucking somewhere, and 
I'm off to do the same. You wanna join me?"

"Fucking A!" Sharon agreed. "A fuck's just 
what's needed."

Although Lil might have been born working 
class, she was clearly not poor. Although 
totally naked, she was nicely tanned, her pubic 
hair was neatly shaved off, and the prominent 
nipples of her heavy round breasts were 
discreetly pierced with gold rings. There was 
also a prominent gold ring through the lips of 
her labia. She sported an armful of silver 
bangles, prominent rings on several of her 
pudgy fingers and her nails were manicured and 
professionally painted.

"We come here every year, my hubby and me. It's 
the best fucking fun in the whole fucking 
world. Buggery's got everything. And the 
fucking. It does my fucking head in, and my 
cunt feels like a fucking motorway it's been 
driven so fucking hard."

The three girls went out together into the 
eponymously vibrant atmosphere of the streets 
of Throb. There were very many other tourists: 
many undressed and most of the others in 
various states of partial dress. Along the 
streets and avenues, there were clubs, bars, 
restaurants and other hotels, where they could 
see naked men and women advertising their 
sexual delights. Lil escorted the girls down 
some narrow roads, past windows where residents 
sat proffering their naked genitals for show, 
up some steps, past a small park and to a large 
club surrounded by palm trees and above which 
flickered an enormous blue neon sign. They 
walked boldly through the door, past naked 
doormen with perpetually erect penises. Sharon 
was pleased to see they didn't have to endure 
the unsubtle interrogation they would have 
expected from plush clubs like that back at 
home. And inside to an enormous dance hall, 
illuminated by bright strobing lights, and 
where there were countless floor shows. 

These were not the tame strip tease floor shows 
the girls were accustomed to at home, although 
there were the poles and bars which were the 
normal accoutrements of such places. There were 
men fucking men. Women with dildos fucking 
women. Men fucking women. And suitably adorned 
women fucking men. There was penetration from 
behind and in front. And even areas where the 
participants were peeing and shitting on each 
other. Sharon and Tracey were spellbound.

Tourists were also joining in the fun. Fat 
women, skinny old ones with drooping breasts, 
men with sagging guts and equally flaccid 
pricks, bald men and scraggy women were also 
fucking or being fucked. And even being peed 
and shat on.

Lil took no time waiting before she joined in 
the action. Within minutes, a prick was up her 
arse and another was in her mouth. Sharon and 
Tracey were more shy. Usually there was a 
little bit more to do before their evenings 
culminated in that kind of action. They sat 
together at the bar nursing their cold beers 
watching with fascination, disgust and a warm 
sexual appetite.

"Hey, girls," said a young naked man whose 
erect penis had a red ribbon tied across the 
middle its length. "Do you want some fun?"

"Do we look like we don't?" asked Tracey. "Give 
us your cock, you darling."

"And I want your little friend!" exclaimed 
Sharon, taking the also erect and pleasantly 
warm prick of a young boy to the side of him 
who could hardly have been more than fifteen 
years old. And all about them throbbed and 
thundered the sound of loud electronic dance 
music accompanied by the flashing swooping 
lights which somehow seemed to keep to the 
exact same rhythm.

The girls were guided, arm in arm with the two 
men, to a darkened room on the floor of which 
was an immense futon-like mattress. And, then, 
with little ceremony they were horizontal in 
the midst of it, surrounded by not only its 
luxurious softness but also the grunts and 
groans of other tourists who were also having 
sex. It was now that they realised that the 
porter whose company they'd only enjoyed a few 
hours earlier was really not exceptional in any 
way. Their two lovers were at least as expert 
and just as completely lush. Sharon grinned 
face to face to her friend: only hers was 
upside down and she could see straight into 
Tracey's nostrils. The men pushed and thrust 
and pummelled at the girls' cunts and then 
their arses, and the girls could only grin (and 
occasionally grimace). This was sex! This was 
what sex was all about!

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" shouted Tracey as her lover 
continued fucking, not lessening the power of 
his thrusts. She let forth a more inarticulate 
yell, sure that the entire night club could 
hear her and was sharing in her joy and 
ecstasy. This was highly unlikely, however, as 
the grinding trance music thundered and rumbled 
at a volume many times louder than she could 
ever yell. And if it were that anyone had heard 
her, they would have assumed it was a sampled 
extract cross-faded into the music by the 
energetic and shadowy disc jockey high above 
the dance floor.

And from then on, the two girls enjoyed an 
almost perpetual orgy of sex with the 
constantly tumescent men around them. Not just 
the other men at the night club who they later 
joined on the mattress, but later that day and 
on the days following. There was the waiter at 
the pizzeria, the coast-guards on the beach and 
a trio of attractive men they met in a bar. 
They soon got used to being fucked wherever and 
whenever an opportunity came along. And it 
wasn't just them who took advantage of this 
cornucopia of copulation. Indeed, a frequent 
sight the girls got accustomed to was seeing 
couples and groups of people fucking all over 
the place. 

Sometimes it was an older man shoving his prick 
up the backside of a small boy. Sometimes it 
would be a group of men buggering each other. 
Sometimes it would be an older woman with her 
tongue firmly inside the mouth of a younger 
woman. Sometimes they would see a man beating 
girls in the street with a stick, whilst an 
assistant held a further choice of sticks like 
a caddie carrying golf clubs. Was there no 
variety of perversion or predilection not 
available in Throb?

However, it did seem a little strange that all 
these encounters featured a tourist and never 
did you see citizens of Throb indulging amongst 
themselves, except for the entertainment of the 
tourists.

Sharon and Tracey became frequent visitors of 
many Night Clubs, not just the one Lil took 
them to, but to many others. Their inhibitions 
dropped sufficiently for it not to seem at all 
surprising for Sharon to be kissing a woman 
while Tracey wiggled her fingers inside 
Sharon's cunt whilst sucking the prick of a 
young boy they'd just met. When they weren't 
having sex, they would be drinking or dancing, 
but even there sex seemed not too far away.

The dance floors were scattered with couples 
and groups people fucking on the ground while 
others, mostly residents from Throb, would 
dance around them and hardly be drinking at 
all.

"How come the men's dicks are always erect?" 
Sharon asked another friend the two girls had 
met. 

This was Pru, a skinny woman in her forties who 
kept her breasts covered although she always 
displayed the worn brown hairs of her cunt. She 
also always wore her turtle-shell glasses and 
kept her greying hair tied back in a bun. 

"I know the answer to that," she said with a sad 
voice. 

"Why's that?" wondered Tracey.

Pru simpered and stroked the coarse hairs of 
her vagina. She wasn't the sort of woman Sharon 
and Tracey would have got to have known back 
home. She seemed quite posh to them, and the 
girls suspected that the reason she came here 
for her holidays was that back home it would 
have been really quite difficult for her to get 
the sex she quite obviously craved.

"I was talking to this boy one evening," she 
explained. "He was a sweet lad. Really quite 
innocent, despite all the sex he'd had. We'd 
had sex in my room, and afterwards we got 
talking. You know how most of the time the 
people here don't talk about much at all. Just 
the weather, and nonsense about how wonderful 
we are. And that's when they can be persuaded 
to say anything. But I like a bit of a talk you 
know. I don't get a chance to talk to such 
good-looking chaps back home, so I like to talk 
whenever I can. I like the sex but I also like 
a talk."

"Well, yeah!" said Sharon, getting bored. "But 
what about their stiffies? What makes them so 
fucking horny all the time?"

"It's drugs, I'm afraid. They take these drugs 
all the time to keep them sexually aroused. The 
women as well as the men. And they get training 
as well. There are many more applicants to work 
here, especially among the chaps, than there is 
anyone here. And judging by how many there are, 
that's a jolly large number of chaps who want 
to be here. And do you know why they're so 
keen?"

"It's 'cos they want to fuck, ain't it!"

"Well, Tracey, it's not just that. It's that if 
they don't make the grade they're off to fight 
in the war. I don't know about the women, 
although there are as many of them as the 
chaps, but the chaps, it's because they don't 
want to die in the war."

"What war?" wondered Tracey, who got most of 
her news from watching television, and then 
only when by mistake she found herself watching 
a news broadcast.

"You must know. Buggery's been at war with 
Gomorrah since forever. Or at least when 
they're not at war with Sodom. It's a pretty 
vicious one by all accounts, though Western 
news crews don't get to film it. Anyway, even 
if by coming here they escape it for a while, 
that's where they all end up when they get too 
old or they can't keep it up or they break the 
rules or whatever."

"What rules?" wondered Sharon. "There don't 
seem to be any fucking rules here. You can fuck 
who you like, how you like, where you want, 
when you want, all the fucking time."

"There are rules. This lad told me all about 
them. There are rules about saying things to 
tourists. There are rules about falling ill: 
they don't treat them if it's bad, they just 
kick them out. There are rules about refusing 
tourists' requests. Or for not being 
sufficiently eager in offering themselves. And 
there's no question about turning down sex with 
someone of the same sex as them. They've just 
got to do it. Up the arse, during a period or 
when they're feeling under the weather. It's 
really quite organised here, despite the 
apparent freedom. And there's another thing he 
told me..."

"Yeah," said Tracey, who wasn't really too keen 
on this conversation. She didn't want her 
holiday spoilt by feeling sorry for people. She 
didn't come all this way just to feel sorry 
for the people of Buggery.

"The way they charge for all of it. None of 
it's free. After each encounter, they have to 
keep a strict tally of what they've done, who 
with, where, etc. It all gets added up and put 
on your bill at the end. Nothing's free here. 
It just gets charged at the end. The night 
clubs aren't free. The alcohol's not free. And 
the sex isn't free either, except when tourists 
do it with each other. It all seems free 
because they never ask for money and they don't 
expect you to carry any around with you. But 
they all seem to know who you are, where you 
come from, what your hotel room is, and 
everything. I don't know how they do it, but 
they do."

"Fuck! You mean they follow us wherever we go?"

"I don't know if they follow us, Sharon. But 
nothing passes them by. And it's a punishable 
crime if someone pretends that there was more 
sex than there was, or, for that matter, less. 
There must be some kind of surveillance system. 
God knows how it works! And it's not as if any 
of the people get anything for it. From what 
this lad told me, they sleep wherever they can. 
They don't have their own rooms or beds. That's 
one reason why they all want to sleep in our 
beds at night. And the food they eat's only as 
luxurious as we ever give them if we feel like 
it."

"Oh fuck!" Tracey exclaimed. "This is fucking 
gloomy! I don't want to think these people are 
suffering. I'm no fucking charity."

"Yeah!" agreed Sharon. "Let's change the 
subject..."

"Or better still," suggested Tracey. "Let's go 
to the pool. There's some real gorgeous hunks 
there I wouldn't mind creaming my cunt, I can 
tell you!"

In their hotel room, there was a wide choice of 
satellite sex channels but only one television 
station originating from Buggery. Although it 
wasn't explicitly advertised as pornography it 
might as well have been as it was more explicit 
in many ways than pornography at home. One 
feature of it that became fairly clear was that 
none of the presenters or fictional characters 
on Buggery Broadcasting Corporation Television 
wore any clothes at all. They were never older 
than their mid-thirties. Not only that, they 
shaved off all their bodily and pubic hair, 
wore very little jewellery and had very long hair 
if they were white women (or shaved heads if 
they were black or oriental). This was only 
strange insofar as the citizens of Throb didn't 
necessarily shave off their body or pubic hair 
and rather a lot of them had pierced nipples, 
vulvas, noses and ears.

The content of the television programs was also 
bizarre. None of the films or programs was
advertised as containing explicit sex, but they 
almost all did. In the children's programs, 
children would be shown how to perform fellatio 
and masturbation. In the interview programs, a 
remarkable amount of sex occurred between 
interviewer and interviewee. The advertisements 
all seemed to have a sexual content, although 
generally the advertisements were more public 
announcements for donating money to the 
government's war with Gomorrah and instructions 
for approved codes of conduct. Sometimes this 
was quite odd, where an advertisement quite 
clearly showing a man's prick up a seven year 
old child's bottom was used to emphasise that 
this was proscribed behaviour - like 
bestiality, genital abuse and sadism, which was 
similarly treated.

The news programs were also very bizarre. 
Sharon and Tracey couldn't easily compare their 
content as they didn't watch many news 
broadcasts at home, but it did concentrate 
rather a lot on the comings and goings of the 
King. He was almost always featured in very 
flattering shots and almost no film was shown 
of what was supposed to be happening, only the 
places where it was happening surrounded by 
large numbers of other people in the shaven 
nudity standard on the station. All other news, 
especially foreign news, took a much smaller 
role and was generally only accompanied by 
still photographs of the head and neck of the 
people involved. Or by a still photograph of 
where it was supposed to be happening. Very 
graphic details were given of the atrocities 
perpetrated by the Gomorrans in the war, and 
this was the only international news items 
where there were any moving pictures of 
anything other than the newscaster. The 
pictures featured the naked citizens of Buggery 
enduring graphic mutilation, and pictures of 
what purported to be Buggery soldiers (although 
they looked glamorous enough to be actors and 
actresses with guns) shooting fairly 
indiscriminately at their targets.

One children's program showed the curious 
standards of Buggery society. In this program, 
a boy was shown getting ready for school but 
being persuaded to have sex with his father 
before leaving. This apparently was not 
proscribed behaviour. After this, which didn't 
appear to be that enjoyable for the child, 
there was further humiliation when the child 
arrived at school late, was diagnosed as having 
had sex from the marks on his rear and was 
further punished by being caned. What moral 
there seemed to be to this tale was not at all 
clear, except that one had to accept arbitrary 
cruelty as an everyday fact of life.

How could the films in the Hard Core Cinemas 
possibly beat that? wondered the girls. They 
had a look at the billings to see what there 
might be, but the cinemas all seemed to 
specialise in specific perversions. There was 
one for bestiality, one for male homosexuality, 
one for female homosexuality, one for child 
sex, and so on. They all promised films 
interspersed by live acts. Sharon wondered what 
would be screened in the cinema specialising in 
bestiality but she didn't really want to find 
out. 

The only times you saw people from Buggery 
having sex with each other were in the live 
acts at the Night Club and in the hotel bar. 
And there were literally no holes barred. The 
sex seemed to go on and on, occasionally 
interspersed by splendid, even artistic, 
flourishes of spurting semen. And then with 
little pause and remarkably prompt recovery, 
the participants were back at it again. Arses, 
mouths, vaginas penetrated vigorously and 
expertly. Positions taken which exceeded both 
girls' imagination and requiring rather more 
physical flexibility than either was capable 
of. A more impossibly energetic or athletic lot 
you could barely imagine! 


	III

To be able to afford their holiday in Buggery, 
both Sharon and Tracey had told several white 
lies about their financial wealth: lies they 
hoped wouldn't catch up with them while they 
were on holiday. Perhaps the lies weren't 
that small, but the girls were somewhat naive 
as to what they were likely to get away with. 
At first these lies didn't worry them while 
they were enjoying themselves so much in Throb.

Throb was an aptly named resort they found, as 
this was exactly what their cunts did all the 
time after each day. They soon got used to days 
of sex on the beach, in the night clubs, in the 
hotel and in the bar. They soon stopped wearing 
any clothes at all: carrying all they needed in 
shoulder bags. There was no theft in Throb, 
which was good as they often had to drop their 
bags wherever they happened to be. Total nudity 
began to seem a little too innocent for two 
such worldly girls, and so it wasn't long that 
like many other tourists and many of the 
residents of Throb they got their nipples 
pierced and rings put through them. It didn't 
stop there. They also had their vulvas pierced 
in several places. Soon little rings dangled 
from between their legs to go with the rings 
through their nipples, the bangles on their 
arms and the earrings. A pleasing jangle 
accompanied every step as they walked around. 
When they raised their arms, a cascade of 
bangles followed in chorus.

Every morning, they'd wake up with at least one 
man sharing their beds, ready for a quick fuck 
before breakfast. Then after that, some more 
sex as the day progressed, wherever and 
whenever it took their fancy. Their vaginas 
were constantly bruised, they always felt like 
they were exhausted, but the sex was so very 
good, they just couldn't turn down any chance 
for more.

One evening, they had two young boys in their 
bed who'd they'd picked up on the beach. "This 
is fucking paradise!" mused Sharon as a penis 
thrust in and out of both her arse and her 
cunt, while Tracey greedily gobbled on the two 
adjacent set of balls. "This can't be real! Sex 
wasn't supposed to be as good as this!" In 
fact, it never had been before. This was real 
fucking: intense, continuous, not a limp dick 
in sight. The men back home just had nothing to 
offer in comparison. They'd never be satisfied 
like this again.

The two boys were expert in sharing the 
attention of the two voracious friends. While 
one thumped away mercilessly at Sharon's arse, 
the other was simultaneously fucking Tracey's 
cunt. And then while the girls were in ecstasy, 
they'd somehow alter positions: the first boy 
taking Tracey's arse while the other 
transferred his attention to Sharon's cunt. And 
then as Tracey gulped in paroxysms of delight, 
the one took his prick out of Sharon and pushed 
it into Sharon's arse, giving her again that 
full feeling she so craved where inside her she 
could feel one prick sliding against the other: 
giving her dual stimulation on the skin 
dividing one orifice to another. She'd thought 
that now, after the fucking she'd got at least 
once every few hours, that by now the pleasure 
would be diminished. That in some way, she'd 
lose interest from familiarity. But, no, it was 
like a drug to her. The more she was fucked, 
the more she craved it. The soreness of her 
arse was lessened by the usage, but the desire 
for it certainly did not. Nor did it for 
Tracey, who took the opportunity to crawl over 
the mattress and apply her tongue to the two 
sets of rock-hard testicles bumping against 
each other as they pushed and pushed into 
Sharon. Before long, it was too much for her, 
as she greedily pulled one boy off her friend, 
and motioned his erect prick into her cunt. And 
somehow, like so many times and so many lovers 
before, the boys knew when they had exhausted 
the girls and released streams of semen which 
spurted onto the girls' breasts and flowed onto 
their bellies.

"I hope we can do this forever!" remarked 
Tracey as they wandered down to the foyer, 
licking traces of semen from their lips. There 
they saw Lil dressed for the first time since 
they'd first met her. At first they didn't 
recognise her in her tight- fitting skirt and 
top, as up to then, they'd only seen her nude. 
She wasn't a nudist, as she'd told them many 
times, and they were keen to reassure her that 
they weren't either. It was just that clothes 
were such an unnecessary encumbrance in Throb.

Lil seemed quite upset. She was standing by 
herself holding an invoice in her hand. "Look 
at what the bastards have charged me!" she 
shrieked when the girls greeted her. "Every 
fucking drink, every fucking night club and 
every fucking fuck. All on the bill. Nothing's 
escaped them at all! How'd they know all this?"

She showed an itemised bill, which went on for 
several pages. It listed every drink she'd had, 
every night club she'd entered and every meal 
she'd eaten. In addition, it included an 
itemised account of every sexual encounter 
she'd had. So much for oral sex, so much for 
vaginal sex, a bit more for anal sex and a lot 
more for having someone to spend the night with 
her. Group sex and lesbian sex were charged at 
a further premium. Tracey gasped with shock as 
she glanced at the total and made a rough 
estimate at what it meant converted back to 
their home currency. Not only was it a large 
sum, far more than she'd ever expected, a 
little extra arithmetic (not something for 
which she had a native skill), told her that 
Sharon and she had actually been rather more 
active and indulgent than Lil (despite her 
boasts) and that their bill was likely to be 
several times larger.

"And it's not just what I've been doing, we'll 
get charged for. My hubby's been enjoying 
himself. I don't know the details but from what 
he's told me we're gonna have the world's most 
fucking horrendous headache paying for all 
this. We might be well-off, but haulage don't 
make millions. I don't think we'll be able to 
afford another holiday here for a lo-ong 
while."

"Are you leaving now then?" asked Sharon.

"Yeah! We are. Another day here and we'd have 
to re-mortgage the house. I can't believe the 
bastards. Every fucking cock and every fucking 
cunt! I'm surprised they didn't charge us by 
the weight of sperm. And there weren't no hint 
of this till we settled up. The fucking smile 
on that bastard girl's face." She nodded 
towards the demure but naked receptionist, who 
with a broad imperturbable smile was serving a 
bill to another white-faced couple. "I bet she 
enjoys stinging the fucking tourists! That's 
how this country makes it money, I reckon. They 
get us in with a promise of dawn-to-dusk sex 
(and then a bit more!) and nothing passes them 
by. Not a single fucking tiny insignificant 
orgasm. What fucking cheek!"

"What are you gonna do about it?" wondered 
Tracey with genuine interest.

"There's fuckall we can do. We'll just have to 
pay by credit card and hope the limit's big 
enough. Hey, here comes hubby!"

Her husband, a large man in a suit and tee-
shirt wandered towards them carrying a small 
case and holding his bill in his hand. His 
stubbled face did not look well pleased. 
"Fucking cunt bastards!" he exclaimed, 
mirroring his wife's comments. "That orgy on 
Friday cost us nearly a month's income!"

Tracey and Sharon retreated to the beach, the 
only place they knew where they wouldn't be 
charged for going, and spread themselves out, 
naked as always except for the jewellery that 
adorned them . They stared towards the sea 
where the waves crashed onto the shore and 
where several other tourists were fucking and 
being fucked on the fine-grained sand.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Sharon, 
knowing full well why Tracey was so untypically 
quiet.

"I don't think we can afford the bill."

"Yeah, but we got plastic. That'll cover it, 
won't it! What the fuck's plastic for, anyway?"

"Yeah, we got plastic. But we also got, - 
whatchayoucallit? - credit card limits. That's 
the most you can put on plastic. The absolute 
tops."

"Yeah, well?"

"Yeah, well. It's not gonna be enough. Not 
nearly fucking enough! Those cunts have got us. 
You saw what Lil's paying. And you saw what 
she's paying for. Not even half a dozen fucks a 
day."

"She always said she'd done more than that."

"Well. She's old, ain't she? She can't do it as 
much as we can. And anyway, she ain't had our 
practice. I always thought she were a bit 
light-weight. We've done two, three, four, I 
dunno, much more fucking than her."

"She can't take it, can she?"

"Yeah, but least she can pay for it. We can't! 
We're fucking screwed! I don't know what the 
fuck we're gonna do!"

"Yeah, so what! It's on plastic, ain't it?"

"Course it is. But when we come to pay, our 
plastic's gonna bounce. It's gonna bounce worse 
than a fucking beach ball. It's gonna bounce. 
And we're gonna be well and truly fucked."

Sharon frowned. She stroked the rings in her 
labia, the cost of which she was now bitterly 
regretting. "So, what they gonna do to us?"

"They're gonna lock us up and throw away the 
fucking key. We're gonna spend the rest of our 
lives in some fucking jail. And the fucking 
ambassador's not gonna bail us out. Not a 
couple of tarts like us."

Sharon's face visibly paled in the sun. She 
chewed on a fingernail. "I'm scared, Tray. You 
think that's what they're gonna do?"

"Well! What do you fucking think? This ain't 
home, is it? They can do what they fucking like 
here. I don't fancy our chances at all."

After further discussion, they decided that the 
only option open to them was to try and make a 
quick get-away from Throb to avoid paying the 
bill. It wasn't a thought uppermost in their 
minds the last week or so, but now it seemed 
like the only sensible option. It wouldn't be 
the first time they'd absconded without paying, 
but this looked like being the most risky. 
However, before planning an escape, they first 
had to survey the lie of the land. One thought 
they had was that if they left from a different 
border from the one they arrived they might get 
away without the Royal Government of Buggery 
demanding the money that would soon be owing. 
How to get to this border was the big question. 

Throb was not that large a resort. It was 
perhaps ten miles along the coast and went two 
miles inland. Inside the town's perimeters, all 
was sex and sun. Hotels, night clubs, bars and 
beach. However, the two friends found that if 
you walked far in any direction you came across 
a wire fence guarded by fierce looking men or 
women with curious rubber truncheons and 
snarling dogs. Even the furthest reach of the 
sandy beach was lined with a row of sharp 
spikes and barbed wire to keep tourists in. And 
possibly, also to keep other people out. 
Beyond, this was a kind of wilderness with 
battered shacks and the odd grazing goat. 
Although this containment seemed strange to the 
girls, it essentially meant that it was nowhere 
as easy to leave Throb as it might at first 
have seemed.

"So, do you know of a way out?" Sharon asked 
Pru in the bar that evening, after having 
explained their dilemma. She seemed extremely 
uncomfortable with her knowledge of the girls' 
circumstances, if not even rather embarrassed.

"Well, in any normal place, I'd suggest you 
just come clean," she answered, "but, here, and 
don't ever tell anyone I suggested this to you, 
have you ever thought of going on a day trip? 
At least you can get out of Throb and maybe you 
can find your way to another border from 
there."

It had never crossed the two girls' minds to 
leave the holiday resort. After all, everything 
they wanted was close at hand. Why go anywhere 
else? Sharon and Tracey couldn't care less 
about ruins or museums or anything cultural. 
They couldn't think of anything more piss-poor 
boring. But reluctantly, and with a little help 
from Pru, they had a look at what day trips 
were available. These were all displayed in a 
quaint looking Tourist Information Centre near 
the beach.

Almost all the day trips were to parts of the 
country where the main raison d'etre was the 
sex that was on offer when you got there. One 
which seemed suitably remote and seemed 
comfortably close to Sodom, with which Buggery 
was not at war, was a small place called 
Pederasty. Besides the promise of "immature 
love", there was a medi‘val castle and a 
particularly large monument to King Peter the 
Fourteenth, the current ruler of Buggery.

The two girls left almost all they had at the 
hotel, except money, jewellery, passports and 
bikinis for the airport which they tucked into 
their bags. They didn't want to arouse 
suspicion by taking things out of their room 
like toothbrushes or clothes. They got on to a 
bus full of other tourists heading to 
Pederasty, which mostly consisted of middle-
aged or older men. Many of them were still 
clothed, but one or two had got into the spirit 
of life in Buggery and wore nothing but hats to 
keep the sun off their eyes. These were the men 
with the most leathery skin and the most lined 
faces.

There were only two other women besides 
themselves. One was a tourist in her late 
thirties wearing only glasses and red skin 
peeling painfully from exposure to the sun. She 
told Sharon and Tracey that she was keen in 
getting a boy one-third her age inside her 
cunt, as it was a life-time ambition of hers. 
"I've got a son that age, and I often wonder 
what it's like. What about you?" 

Sharon lied that she also thought that little 
boys' pricks were the best. "Oooh! I just can't 
get enough of them!" she exclaimed 
unconvincingly, although she'd always preferred 
her pricks as thick and long as possible.

The other woman was a travel courier and barely 
a woman at all. She was perhaps thirteen and 
her breasts were mere bumps with puffy nipples. 
She wore nothing but a little flower in her 
cunt which she encouraged the other tourists to 
tweak. She waggled her bum as she passed by and 
giggled appreciatively if anyone pinched it. 
After sucking off a man just opposite them on 
the bus, Tracey ventured to ask "If we really 
like it in Pederasty, can we stay the night?" 
The girl, who called herself Little Pussy, 
wiped the semen from her mouth and looked a 
little alarmed.

"Are you likely to do that?"

"It sounds like a paradise on earth to us, this 
Pederasty place, dearie. We'd just love to stay 
all night."

Little Pussy, who had been hard selling the 
underage delights of Pederasty, was put in a 
difficult position. "Well, it sure is a 
wonderful place, but are you sure you won't 
want to go back to Throb?"

"Can't we just book into a hotel and come back 
on a bus later, dearie?" suggested Sharon.

"I'll check with Big Hunk", Little Pussy said 
referring to the driver.

This came back with a reserved affirmative, but 
both Little Pussy and Big Hunk seemed very 
uncomfortable with the two girls from then on. 
Little Pussy was very insistent on having sex 
with the two girls in the apparent hope of 
changing their minds, but although Sharon let 
her, and had to admit she was very good at it, 
that couldn't have been sufficient. In any 
case, although she liked the attention of 
Little Pussy's fingers and tongue on her 
vagina, not to mention her nipples and mouth, 
it was men she preferred. Both she and Tracey 
had always preferred a good cock: though given 
the choice between the pleasant firm body of 
the little girl and the flabby, unpleasant 
looking bodies of the male tourists they were 
with, she couldn't be sure that her interests 
were really so gynaecological rather than 
aesthetic. She took pleasure, as she lay back 
on her seat next to Tracey, with the small girl 
between them, fingers and tongues sharing their 
sunburnt bodies equally, at the stares she was 
receiving from the other tourists. Fuck you! 
She thought with pleasure as she saw one 
overweight man uncomfortably stroking his tiny 
penis, trying to get more life into what little 
of it there was.

Certainly, the girls became aware that although 
in terms of sexual activity they had a freedom 
impossible at home, their freedom was 
circumscribed in other ways. As they passed 
through the town limits of Throb, the guards 
were very insistent in looking at passports and 
at the things the girls were carrying. "Why the 
bikini?" asked one border guard, a very 
muscular woman wearing leather boots and 
shoulder pads but nothing else but well-built 
muscles. 

"Too much sun", suggested Tracey. The guard 
sniffed. It was the couriers, not the tourists, 
who got most attention from the guards and none 
of it very friendly. Little Pussy had her legs 
prised open while one guard shoved his fingers 
inside her cunt as if he were looking for 
something. She smiled weakly at the rest of the 
bus during this obvious humiliation, while the 
guard licked the come off the fingers of one 
hand, but continued probing with his other 
hand. 

It was a relief for the girls, but even more so 
for Little Pussy, when the bus finally drove 
out of Throb and travelled through the 
countryside of Buggery. This was the first time 
the girls had seen so much of Buggery outside 
of Throb, and it was not especially beautiful. 
The countryside consisted mostly of parched 
farmland with pot- holed roads, lined at 
intervals of every hundred meters by large 
posters of King Peter XIV. In fact, there were 
rather more reminders of his rule outside Throb 
than they'd ever seen inside. Every small 
village had a statue of him and of previous 
monarchs. Every lamp post and every telegraph 
pole had a portrait of him attached to it. The 
impression given from the pictures and statues 
was that he was a genial and dignified person. 
His favourite pose was to stare into the half-
distance, with a grim smile, surrounded at his 
knees by a coterie of seated attractive naked 
women whilst brutal looking men stood just 
beside him looking towards him with proud 
admiring gazes. 

In the fields were peasants in various degrees 
and types of undress. They stopped briefly at 
one village, which appeared to operate entirely 
for the benefit of tourists, where they were 
allowed to stretch their legs and buy drinks 
and snacks from some makeshift stalls. This had 
an ambience very similar to the small markets 
of Throb, but didn't offer nearly enough other 
distraction to encourage anyone to stay.



	IV


It was after several hours of bumpy roads and 
undistinguished fields that the bus eventually 
arrived at Pederasty. This was no more 
prepossessing than anything else they'd seen, 
being a small walled town surrounded by dirt 
and rubble, beyond which stretched interminable 
miles of country lanes and fields of naked 
labouring peasants. Little Pussy stood up and 
opened the bus door. "Welcome to Pederasty. The 
little joys and desires you've always wanted to 
sample are here for you. The rules which 
usually bound behaviour in Buggery are totally 
removed here: so it doesn't matter how young he 
is, just go ahead!"

The passengers filed out into a town full of 
little boys. At first it looked like there were 
little girls there as well, and that the boys 
were just the naked ones who were sitting 
indolently around. But some of the apparent 
girls in their pretty plaits, ribbons and 
little dresses pulled up their dresses to show 
that not only were there no knickers there but 
that they were in fact also boys as well. The 
passengers were soon surrounded by willing 
crowds of boys who dragged them willingly away 
to whatever it is they wanted to do. The 
middle-aged woman was one of those who opted 
for the attention of one of the boys dressed as 
a little girl. She stood by the road side and 
enjoyed him stroking her well-worn cunt.

"I'll escort you to the hotel," announced 
Little Pussy to Sharon and Tracey before they 
disembarked. "And can you sign this document to 
say that you're not coming back today otherwise 
the police will be very unhappy to see that the 
numbers leaving Throb aren't the same as those 
returning."

They signed the document and then walked with 
Little Pussy towards the hotel. This was just 
outside the walls of the town and had the 
appearance of a converted monastery. 

"Aren't there any little girls here?" asked 
Sharon.

"Goodness no!" said Little Pussy, a little 
aghast. They passed by one of the tourists who 
was buggering a boy and in turn being buggered 
from behind by another boy. "If you wanted 
little girls, you should have gone to Tight 
Rim. There's lots of little girls there - most 
of them younger than me! They'd give you the 
treat of your life and they don't care what you 
do! If that's what you want I can arrange it 
for you. Or if you don't want to leave Throb, 
we can arrange for a little girl to come to 
your room at the time of your choosing."

Sharon declined the offer. She wasn't too sure 
she even really wanted sex with a little boy. 
She was beginning to think there was something 
slightly distasteful about all these boys 
running around shoving their fingers up their 
bums and wiggling their little willies.

Little Pussy left them at the reception desk of 
the hotel. "I'd love to stay longer, but I've 
got to look after the welfare of the others. It 
always gets difficult rounding them up at 6 
o'clock, so don't be too surprised if you find 
that some others decide to stay here." She 
didn't really sound like she believed that, but 
it was clear that the Petit Garcon Hotel had 
its fair share of guests. They were mostly 
elderly men, but there were a few younger 
couples sitting in the hotel bar. The staff 
were all young boys, and a fair proportion was 
dressed like chambermaids and waitresses. In 
fact a chambermaid could be seen with his prick 
firmly up the anus of a waitress who was lying 
on his back with his legs hooked by his arms. 
This seemed to be for the entertainment of the 
people drinking in the bar. 

The receptionist was another boy dressed to 
look like a girl with very thick lipstick and 
pendulous earrings. He looked at the girls' 
passports and copied the details into his book. 
"How long are you staying?"

"Tomorrow?" suggested Tracey. 

The receptionist nodded and wrote this down. "A 
boy each, is it?"

"Sorry, love?"

"You can have a boy for each of you or one 
between two. A boy each?"

"One between two," said Sharon, who wasn't too 
keen. "And make him, erm, sixteen."

"I'm afraid fourteen's the oldest we've got. 
I'm fourteen. Fancy me? Or do you want to see 
the selection?" He presented the girls with 
brochure in which there were photographs of 
many naked, or near-naked, boys with details as 
to their sexual preferences. "We've got a boy 
for every taste. But if you don't see exactly 
what you want, I'm sure whoever you choose can 
be precisely as accommodating as you wish.

Sharon and Tracey absent-mindedly pointed at 
the glossy photographs of one little boy from 
the selection, and as they'd seen about as much 
as they really wanted to see of Pederasty, they 
went straight to their bedroom.

"We'll leave tomorrow with our passports!" 
announced Sharon, as soon as they got there. 
"That little boy's hardly got a prick at all! 
What do we expect him to do? Stick it in our 
ears?"

In fact, Bum Fluff, as he was called, was quite 
ingenious with what he could do. He looked 
younger than his years, though, partly because 
the hair on his groin had been plucked out and 
partly because he was rather short. His prick 
was quite a respectable size after all, but 
after the double, and sometimes triple, entries 
the girls had got used to in Throb it was only 
by keeping the jewellery in place in their 
vaginas that they managed to gain anything like 
the sensation they'd got accustomed to. He 
seemed quite relieved when the girls didn't use 
the sex tools that were provided by the hotel 
to bugger him from behind. It was a bit of a 
shock to Sharon, but when he rolled onto his 
stomach after squirting his sperm into Tracey's 
cunt, she could see a little bit of dried blood 
congealed at the bottom of his anus just by his 
little testicles.

"Did you hurt yourself love?" wondered Sharon 
stroking his buttocks.

"Occupational hazard," smiled Bum Fluff.

"There're some rough sorts here, aren't there 
love?" confided Tracey, who was thinking more 
of the lads back home.

Bum Fluff didn't compromise himself further by 
commenting, so the girls didn't pursue the 
subject. The girls kissed him gently on the 
cheek, and let him lie on the bed beside them. 
Sharon turned on the television. There was good 
old Buggery Broadcasting Corporation which was 
showing a program on the correct way to shave 
around the penis. "Remember, use tweezers - 
never a razor-blade," came the advice from a 
very sweet young lady who was tugging out hairs 
from a very tumescent penis.

The other two channels were showing videos: 
both featuring under-age sex. "One side's boys 
and the other's girls," explained Bum Fluff.

"You mean boys dressed up as girls."

"No, the real thing! It's the only place we 
ever see little girls. I'd like to fuck one." 
He turned the television channel from the one 
showing a boy being fucked by a boy from behind 
in turn being fucked from one behind him, to a 
program showing a girl of ten who was sitting 
on an older man's lap with a prick right up her 
vagina.

Bum Fluff, Sharon and Tracey watched this film 
which was the story of little girls between 
eight and twelve who made love with each other, 
were buggered by older men or had objects 
pushed up their orifices. "Sometimes you see 
them with dogs and donkeys," explained Bum 
Fluff a little too excitedly. "I often wish I 
was one of those donkeys!"

After the film had finished and Bum Fluff had 
excused himself, the girls didn't stay much 
longer to savour more of the delights of 
Pederasty. In fact, when Bum Fluff left the 
room, Sharon felt somewhat disgusted with 
herself. She wasn't used to feelings of moral 
guilt or regret, but somehow this was 
different. The children here were not as good 
at appearing to enjoy themselves as the 
residents of Throb, and, in any case, child sex 
had never been one of Sharon's fantasies. 
Nothing was better than a good long stiff prick 
and a real man's body. The other tourists 
rather disgusted her. Indeed, they'd probably 
have disgusted her anyway. Older men and fat 
men and patently unprepossessing men had never 
attracted her. She felt genuinely sorry for the 
boys who had to endure their predatory 
attentions.

"I dunno," said Tracey, when Sharon confessed 
her feelings. "It's us we gotta look out for. 
These kids'll get fucked whether we're here or 
not, but it's our own fucking skin we gotta 
worry about most."

Before the afternoon shadows shortened, Sharon 
and Tracey sneaked out with their passports 
(which they'd pretended they'd left at Throb to 
avoid leaving them at reception) and carried 
their meagre possessions in their beach bags 
and uncharacteristically avoided the sexual 
advances of the staff. 

"I know exactly what you can do tonight," 
suggested the receptionist as they strolled 
past him. "Ever tried four at once! Each! It 
can be done you know!"

"We'll be alright dearie," assured Tracey. 
"We'll find plenty to get on with."

It wasn't that easy getting out of Pederasty, 
although there weren't guards surrounding it as 
there were in Throb. The entrance to the hotel 
was surrounded by idling boys who were 
advertising what they had to offer. "Up my 
bum!" called out one languorously. "Me and my 
mates!" called another, turning his backside to 
the girls and pushing his middle finger right 
up his arse. 

"Bit shagged out love," explained Sharon 
unconvincingly.

One of the sights available to the more 
discerning tourist was a small dilapidated 
castle, known by its original name of Mons 
Regis. This was just outside the town's 
castellated walls. As they had no better idea, 
Sharon and Tracey decided to walk in that 
direction in the hope of finding a bus-stop and 
catching a bus that might be headed towards the 
Sodom border. They felt sure they had enough 
money on them to be able to afford the bus fare 
and even a cheap flight home from the Sodom 
airport (perhaps on stand-by). This was because 
whilst at Pederasty, they'd hardly touched the 
cash they'd changed at the airport and had been 
mostly relying on plastic to settle their 
accounts.

The walled perimeter of the town of Pederasty 
and the towers of the hotel receded behind them 
as they walked along in their beach sandals 
along the parched and uneven dusty road. They 
wore nothing else, not even the bikinis they'd 
packed, as they felt that wearing clothes 
somehow attracted attention to them. As 
everyone else was naked, how could they dress 
any different? Even so, their beach bags bulged 
with even the few possessions they had: a 
decidedly miscellaneous collection of cosmetics 
and knickknacks. 

As they walked, the castle got steadily bigger 
and the town steadily smaller until all that 
could be seen of Pederasty was some old ruins 
in a field that had once been a thriving 
township laid waste in an earlier war with 
Sodom. A goat was tethered by a tree and there 
was a small monument scattered with flowers and 
ribbons.

"There must be a fucking bus-stop somewhere!" 
exclaimed Sharon. "People here can't walk 
everywhere."

"Well, they don't seem to use cars or anything. 
We ain't seen nothing since we left the hotel. 
Any my feet are already fucking killing me!"

They came to a cross-roads. One way pointed 
towards the capital city of Buggery, 
Petersville, named after the King. The other 
pointed towards the castle and somewhere called 
innocently Newtown. The girls decided to take 
the third option, away from the city of 
Petersville on the basis that that was probably 
the direction to Sodom.

"If anyone stops us we can say we got lost," 
Tracey said: not sure why anyone should stop 
them. Or judging from the mostly empty 
landscape, if there was anyone who could. 

The girls seemed to have been walking for 
hours. The sun was still high and the girls' 
feet were getting increasingly sore. "I've got 
fucking blisters on my fucking blisters!" 
complained Tracey. Not only their feet were 
suffering, but the weight of the jangling 
jewellery from their cunts chafed against their 
thighs and they were getting increasingly 
annoyed at the clanking sound that followed 
them around. In Throb, they enjoyed their 
presence, as it said to the world that they 
didn't fucking care about a fucking thing. And 
fuck you! There was no way that this was how 
they felt now as it became more and more clear 
that each bed in the road was only followed by 
another bend. That the only features in the 
terrain were the gently sloping hills which 
obscured where they were going. That the only 
landmarks were either parched trees or piles of 
rocks, sometimes stacked on each other and 
painted crudely in a fading peeling white.

And still, they saw no bus-stops. Not even 
that: there were no cafes, no villages and no 
shops. Where could they get food from? They 
knew there must be some food, because they 
could see the odd peasant working in the fields 
and on one occasion a donkey-drawn cart passed 
them by. The donkey was a wretched specimen. 
Flies hovered around and inside its drooping 
ears and nasty scabs scarred its back. The 
woman on the beaten-up wagon dressed much the 
same way as the peasants in the field, which 
was slightly more modest than Sharon and Tracey 
were used to. No ribbons on penises, or flowers 
in vaginas or the healthy demeanours of the 
residents of Throb. She wore a very short slip 
or jacket which came to less than half-way down 
her chest and then nothing till you reached the 
knees where she wore battered plastic sandals. 
Like the other peasants, her hair was rather 
short, but she sensibly wore a straw hat to 
keep the sun off her eyes. Like the peasants, 
she seemed intent on ignoring the girls, 
pretending they weren't there and then 
deliberately forced her donkey to trot by 
faster so she couldn't be hailed.

It was nearly evening before anyone spoke to 
the girls. With sweat pouring down their still 
pale skin, and dirt and dust on their knees, 
they had as good as abandoned hope of ever 
finding a bus-stop, They weren't used to 
walking back home, and normally when they did 
it was along better road surfaces and not in 
such intense heat. Their feet was sore, and 
there were scratches and bruises on their legs 
and knees where they had stumbled onto the 
dusty rocky road, exhausted by the heat and the 
unfamiliar exertion of so much walking.

They noticed a large tree by the road-side 
which would give them some shelter from the 
early evening sun. This was a rare sight in 
itself in the barren rocky landscape, so it 
took no persuading for them to take advantage 
of its shade. In fact, for they didn't know how 
many miles, this had been the destination of 
their plodding, stumbling, aching tread. The 
only pleasure they got and the only distraction 
from their pains was to see the tree grow 
steadily larger as they proceeded. Tracey 
occasionally licked her sore tongue over her 
cracked dry lips. This was the worst! She 
moaned to herself, barely able to strain her 
voice into articulation. This was the fucking 
worst! She'd never known that walking could be 
so fucking tiring. And the country was so 
fucking horrible. No wonder she'd never gone 
for walks in the country back home. What she 
wouldn't have given to be back in her bed at 
the hotel just lying on the bed. She'd just lie 
there, soaking up her exhaustion.

The shade of the tree offered none of the 
luxury they'd got so used to recently. The bare 
earth offered none of the bouncy softness of 
their mattresses, and there was nothing 
remotely like the soft cooling breeze of the 
air conditioner to blow off the sweat that  
plastered every inch of their skin. They sat on 
the crackling dry grass, pushed aside some of 
the sharp rocks, and lay down on their backs. 
As soon as they did, their legs, arms and feet 
throbbed with release after their unaccustomed 
exercise, and their skin burnt from the sun 
from which their factor 8 sun-screen had 
offered such poor protection. 

"What the fuck do we do now!" gasped Tracey.

Sharon didn't really have the energy to reply. 
"I dunno," she murmured, as much to herself as 
Sharon. "I dunno. I don't fucking know!"

What little energy they had wasn't sufficient 
to stir them, despite the discomfort of the 
ground and the constant attention of the little 
midges and flies which congregated around them. 
Insects crawled into the girls' hair, into the 
corners of their eyes, skimmed over their 
sweat-drenched skin and crept past the girls' 
vaginal jewellery onto the lips of their cunts. 
The girls lay flat out, staring at the sky 
through the leafless branches of the tree. 

"I'm not so sure it was such a great idea doing 
this," moaned Sharon repeatedly. 

"Just give me food and water," echoed Tracey. 
"I don't fucking care what the bastards do to 
us! I just want something to eat!"

"Are you tourists?" suddenly came a voice. The 
girls opened their cracked eyelids to see that 
they were being looked down on by three girls 
with neat shoulder- length hair, wearing white 
blouses to just below their breasts and a naked 
body down to the knees where they wore little 
black shoes and knee-high socks.

"Of course they are!" another insisted. "Only 
tourists look like that: look at all the 
jewelry. And why don't they cut their hair?"

The girls can't have been much more than 
fourteen years old, but their vaginas were cut 
to a half inch stubble in different shapes. One 
was in the shape of a royal crest, another a 
star and the third a little diamond. The 
jewellery they wore consisted of a single small 
ring pierced over the entrance to the vagina 
from which dangled a little chain.

"What do you think of Buggery?" one girl asked 
them. "Is it like this where you come from?"

"Come on girls, what's going on?" came a  
school-teacherly voice. A woman in her late 
twenties loomed into view. Like the girls she 
wore nothing from below her breasts to her 
knees, but what she did wear were smart leather 
boots and a very neat jacket with a silk scarf. 
Her long hair was tied back in a long plait to 
her waist. "Oh I see," she remarked seeing 
Sharon and Tracey.

"Please miss, we've found some tourists. Shall 
we report them to the police?"

"Don't worry about that. I can look after them 
now. I'll get the police if need be. Now you 
run along." She produced a cane which she half-
heartedly beat against the buttocks of one of 
the girls. 

"Yes, miss. We will, miss" they said as they 
ran off giggling.

"Well," said the teacher looking at Sharon and 
Tracey. "You are in a pickle. Well, don't 
worry, security's relatively lax round here and 
no one really reports things to the police: 
people don't appreciate being raped or 
humiliated for the pain of being a good 
citizen. However," she smiled grimly, "I'd 
better take you along with me if you don't want 
to die of exposure or dehydration."

Sharon and Tracey didn't realise how weak they 
were until they stood up and then they almost 
immediately fell down. 

"Come along girls," the teacher said cheerfully. 
"I'll take you to the cottage I live in. I share 
it with two other women: both teachers like me. 
One teaches in a Royal College and the other 
teaches in a Police School. Me," she sighed, 
"I teach in a normal secondary school."

The teacher escorted the girls for another mile 
along some paths through fields and over some 
stiles until they got to her cottage. Sharon 
and Tracey supported each other and grew more 
and more annoyed by the chafing of jewellery on 
their thighs. Each step was an increasing agony 
of bursting blisters, and more cuts on their 
ankles and knees when they stumbled and fell 
onto the unforgiving harsh dry ground. 

After what seemed the longest mile of their 
lives so far, they came to a tumble- down 
cottage outside of which rested an old bicycle 
and the scattered remains of a disused plough. 
A well stood underneath the shade of a dead 
tree, and chickens ran around in the yard. A 
few small trees were gathered into an excuse of 
a copse where a donkey was desultorily chewing 
on a carrot.

The teacher took the girls inside, laid them 
down on a very hard straw-filled bed, and with 
no ceremony removed the girls' shoes and 
unthreaded the jewellery from between their 
legs. 

"You just lie here and relax," she advised, as 
if they were likely to do anything else. "I've 
got afternoon classes to attend to. If the 
other teachers are back here before me, my name 
is Primrose."

"That's a nice name," commented Sharon weakly 
with what remained of her battered senses.

"We're all named after flowers round here," 
smiled Primrose as she was about to leave. 
"It's the law." 



	V


"Who the fuck are you?" were the words by which 
the two girls were woken just a few hours 
later. They raised up their weary heads from 
the hard straw pillows which had come to seem 
so incredibly comfortable and blearily focused 
on the towering figure of a woman dressed only 
in leather boots and shoulder-pads. This in 
itself made the woman a formidable and 
intimidating sight, but this was reinforced by 
a body which was more muscular than either 
Sharon or Tracey were sure a woman's body 
should ever be. But she was clearly a woman, 
and one who shaved her vagina as well. Although 
nearly naked, rather a lot of heavy iron and 
leather decorated her, dangling from pierced 
nipples and vagina. She wore a leather belt 
around her waist from which dangled a long 
holster for a truncheon and a collection of 
buckled leather bags.

"We're friends of Primrose," explained Sharon 
wearily.

"They're tourists, Tiger Lilly dearest," added 
Primrose who entered the room at that moment. 
"I found them lying under the baobab, 
absolutely exhausted and suffering from heat 
stroke. I don't know how they'd got there, but 
it was obvious they couldn't stay there 
forever. So I thought I'd bring them back home 
to keep them away from trouble."

"By bringing trouble here to our fucking 
cottage, you mean!"

"Tiger Lilly, what harm does it do? As long as 
they're on their way soon we'll be alright."

"It's not for us to harbour foreigners. They 
might be fucking spies or something! We should 
hand them in to the authorities so that they 
can be properly processed."

"Like processed meat, you mean, Tiger Lilly. Do 
you want then to be raped and humiliated by the 
police? It's obvious they're not spies. They're 
just ignorant tourists. They probably just got 
lost going to the beach." Primrose smiled 
indulgently at the pathetic sight of Sharon and 
Tracey's peeling sunburn and raw red marks on 
their upper chest. "I mean, I know you're 
police yourself, but if we took them in you 
don't think your colleagues won't give you a 
bit of rough interrogation as well. Once the 
police get their hands into anything, they 
usually leave more battered bodies and corpses 
around than there were to start off with. 
They'd suspect the heir apparent if he happened 
to be passing by. No, Tiger Lilly sweetheart, 
things'd only get worse if we took them to the 
authorities. Leave them to relax. No one'll 
tell the police, and you know it."

Tiger Lilly snorted reluctantly and let 
Primrose escort her out of the bedroom, leaving 
the two girls slumped on the bed. Sharon was 
feeling ever so faintly sick and Tracey had a 
persistent burning sensation on her shoulders 
and on the top of her bum which just didn't 
seem to want to go away. Within seconds, they 
collapsed back into a feverish sleep, their 
naked bodies intertwined to stop themselves 
falling off the edges of the single bed.

It was about an hour later that Primrose 
returned to the bedroom with a faint smile. 
"We'd best get you two tidied up!" she said, 
handing the girls sleeveless white cotton 
blouses which would come down to the base of 
their breasts and no further. They had no 
chance to put them on, as she then produced a 
small tin bowl in the warm steamy water of 
which was floating a large sponge. Then with no 
evidence of ceremony, Primrose started 
vigorously scrubbing Sharon's face, body and 
limbs. It was like scrubbing a floor dry. Every 
few seconds she would squeeze out the moisture 
from the sponge into the bowl, and then began 
scrubbing other parts. As soon as she'd judged 
that Sharon was clean, she started scrubbing 
Tracey with just the same vigour. When her 
attention came to the area between Tracey's 
legs where all her rings were dangling from her 
reddened and sore stubbled vagina, she paused 
as if in thought. She then leant forward and 
briefly kissed Tracey's pierced clitoris.

"That's a lovely ring!" She said smiling. "That 
would cost me more than a month's wages."

"Is it?" wondered Tracey, who had actually 
thought it remarkably cheap compared to how 
much such jewellery would have cost back home. 
Of course, she'd not actually paid for it, but, 
even taking into account the cost of the 
piercing, she knew it was substantially cheaper 
than any of the countless fucks she'd had in 
Throb.

"It's beautiful!" Primrose continued, picking 
up the sponge and proceeding to scrub the dust 
and dirt off Tracey's legs. "But you tourists 
just don't know the value of things do you? At 
least that's what we hear. That you're all 
stupid and sex-mad, but ridiculously wealthy." 
She paused thoughtfully. "Is it true, that? I 
mean, that you're wealthy?"

"What do you fucking think!" snorted Sharon. 
"Do we look like we're rich?"

"I don't know," said Primrose sadly. "I don't 
know what rich people look like. I've never 
seen one in my life."

Primrose finally finished her cleaning and 
squeezed out the filthy water into the tin 
bowl. "You're clearly pretty naive, aren't 
you," she continued. "Things in Buggery are 
quite different to wherever you come from, I 
can see that. I'd better give you a bit of 
advice on what to wear here. It's very 
important you do, otherwise you'll be picked up 
by the police, and, believe me, that is the 
very last thing you want to happen. In fact, it 
could well be the last thing that does happen 
to you. Fortunately, the police are relatively 
lax in this district, but you've still got to 
be pretty careful about your appearance. If you 
look too much out of place, you'll be arrested 
and then ... Well, I don't know what, but when 
the police get hold of you, it'll be lucky if 
you'll survive their interrogation. You mustn't 
wear anything from the knee to the midriff. The 
punishment for non-observance is arbitrary and 
cruel. So, if I were you, put on these old 
blouses of mine and, if you don't want to 
attract attention keep your jewellery down to 
just one ring about here." She fingered the 
ring she had joining the two flaps of her 
vulva.

"Who decides what people wear?" wondered Sharon 
as she detached her earrings and nose-stud, and 
placed them on the rickety bedside table. She 
glanced around the room, having recovered 
sufficiently after her scrubbing to comprehend 
things. Not only was it very small, but it was 
very bare. The only decoration was a faded 
portrait of the king.

Primrose followed Sharon's gaze. "Him, of 
course. The King. And he changes his mind all 
the time! Not long ago, people were allowed to 
wear shorts or little skirts as long as they 
covered less than two inches of inside leg. But 
then he decided we all had to have little cunt-
rings, and to make sure we were wearing them we 
were proscribed from wearing anything down 
there."

"What happened to all the shorts and skirts?"

"Oh they were publicly burnt. There was a big 
festival, which everyone had to attend. 
Everyone had to express their love for the King 
and his wisdom and burn their clothes. If the 
police suspected that you were holding back on 
any clothes, then you risked having your house 
burnt down and your genitals mutilated."

Primrose stroked the tangled hairs of Tracey's 
cunt. "My gosh! This has been well used!" she 
commented looking at a cunt torn inside out 
after years of promiscuity. "You'll have to 
keep this cut short too. They don't like pubic 
hair obscuring anything. That's also illegal."

"Should we shave it all off like you and Tiger 
Lilly?" wondered Sharon who quite fancied the 
idea.

"Well, we're teachers and we're expected to 
shave our pubes. Different classes and statuses 
have different rules, you know. Most peasants 
in this country are never allowed to shave 
their pubic hair, and no way could you pass off 
as a peasant. You're too well-fed for a start, 
and there are no calluses on your fingers. And 
you obviously wear shoes most of the time, 
judging from your tender soles."

After the girls had put on the blouses, which 
were slightly too tight, Primrose took them 
down to the small dining room where they met 
Tiger Lilly again, and Chrysanthemum. She was 
the other teacher who lived in the cottage. The 
two teachers were watching the flickering black 
and white pictures on a small television. It 
was, of course, screening Buggery Broadcasting 
Television.

Chrysanthemum was stunningly beautiful, but she 
wore no clothes, her straight blonde hair 
reached to her bottom and like the others she 
had shaved her pubic hair, but also everywhere 
else as well. When she stood up, she revealed 
that she was quite tall and sported an 
unbelievably perfect set of teeth. 

"Welcome to our humble home," she smiled broadly 
and reassuringly. 

Tiger Lilly was holding Chrysanthemum's hand, 
but looked rather less beautiful than her 
lover. She had a broken nose and long crooked 
scar across her stomach. She smiled with rather 
less warmth than either of the other two. 

"What do you think of Buggery?" she asked.

"The television's funny," commented Sharon.

"That's almost entirely for the benefit of the 
Royal Academy," laughed Chrysanthemum. "The 
moral centre of our society, if you like. It's 
only at the Royal Academies and their grounds 
that anyone is ever really like the people on 
television in the way they dress. And nowhere 
in the Kingdom is real life like what they 
show."

"It's all a fantasy world," added Primrose, who 
was aware of the girls' confusion. "It's just 
to tell us what the ideals of our society are 
supposed to be. Nobody's really like that!"

"But what about the people who appear on it?"

"What about the people who service tourists at 
Pederasty and all the other tourist centres in 
this country?" retorted Primrose. "There are a 
lot of different trades and professions. Some 
of those like acting, or serving at the Royal 
Palace, or working for the police force, or 
entertaining tourists, are so specialised that 
they have different schools, different ethics, 
different places to live, different 
expectations and so on."

"Like teachers," suggested Tracey. 

"Well, almost," conceded Primrose. "I can only 
teach in the kind of school I was taught in, 
though I do have the unusual freedom to mix 
with people who teach in different schools, and 
who were themselves taught in those kind of 
schools."

"Most of the people round here in this borough 
are what you might call ordinary people," 
smiled Chrysanthemum. She was always smiling. 
Tracey felt a curiously warm feeling and was 
wondering whether she was already falling in 
love with the woman. "This is a very ordinary 
area."

"80% peasant, of which 50% are given the 
opportunity to progress at school to the extent 
that they will always be dissatisfied with 
their lot. 20% middle-class, of which 50% will 
be automatically demoted to peasant if they 
aren't seen to conform sufficiently. Within 
each group, slightly different standards of 
dress and behaviour so you know exactly what 
you're standing is in society."

"That's all fucking well, Primrose," sniffed 
Tiger Lilly. "What are we going to do with 
these tourists? Chain them down and rape them? 
Tether them to fucking stakes?"

"Don't be so vulgar, Tiger Lilly dearest," 
exclaimed Chrysanthemum, but with an indulgent 
smile. "I'm sure the girls will be quite happy 
to have sex with you without being forced to."

"We'll just give them a night's sleep and set 
them off to Gomorrah," explained Primrose.

"Gomorrah!" gasped Sharon. "Isn't Buggery at 
war with Gomorrah?"

"Who fucking isn't!" expostulated Tiger Lilly.

"If you go back to Throb, you risk being 
arrested, raped and mutilated for straying out 
of the tourist areas. If you stay here, you'll 
eventually be found, arrested, raped and 
mutilated for being terrorists. If you try to 
get to the Embassy districts, you'll be 
arrested, raped and mutilated as spies. You're 
probably going to get killed whatever you do! 
Buggery's not a very good place for foreigners. 
The Royal Government doesn't want the rest of 
the world to know what the country is like, 
except where it attracts tourism, and then 
almost exclusively to sell sex. They'll kill 
you to prevent you telling anyone what it's 
like here. They would prefer to continue to be 
criticised for the questionable nature of the 
sex on offer, than for how most people live 
here. If you get to Gomorrah, you might at 
least be protected as a propaganda weapon by 
the Gomorrans."

Sharon shivered. This was worse than she'd 
feared. "Is it really that bad?"

Tiger Lilly smiled grimly. "I don't know what 
you thought Buggery would be, but Paradise it 
fucking well isn't!"

The teachers prepared a dinner for the five of 
them which consisted mostly of vegetables and 
rice. "All local produce!" announced 
Chrysanthemum proudly.

"Well, actually local produce is all we can 
buy," qualified Primrose. 

The television was left on with the sound 
turned down. It was screening a scene of a man 
masturbating into a cup: an exercise somehow 
associated with a cookery programme.

"I teach at the local Secondary School," 
Primrose went on, "so I get the best selection 
of local produce from my pupils. They seem to 
think that if they give me things, they might 
do better in their exams; but since they all 
bring me things, none of them could possibly 
have an advantage over another."

"What's the school like?" wondered Tracey, who 
hadn't really attended school very much when 
she was a schoolgirl. She'd spent most days 
playing truant with the boys, with whom she'd 
wander the streets or go somewhere to indulge 
in drink, drugs, cigarettes and sex.

"It's a fairly ordinary school, by Buggery 
standards. But I imagine it's quite different 
from where you come from. The central doctrine 
of Buggery society is that all the people of 
Buggery be in a state of humiliation imposed on 
them by the King. It is an expression of the 
people's utter obedience and servility to the 
Crown and is instilled from the earliest age. 
Part of the humiliation of course is that it is 
progressive, so before the children come to 
Secondary School they have never known sexual 
humiliation or indeed cruelty of any kind.

"Primary schools in Buggery are kept quite 
separate from the rest of society, and no 
adults (except teachers) are ever allowed 
there. Most of us can only ever remember them 
distantly, and as we start secondary school 
education at eight our memories of them become 
disjointed. All I know is that children who 
leave Primary School are totally unprepared for 
Secondary School. Not everyone joins Secondary 
School, but those who do are well and fit. When 
they leave Primary School they are allocated to 
'parents' according to eugenic principles. 
Nobody really knows who their real parents are, 
as breeding centres, like Primary schools, are 
hidden away somewhere out of sight.

"The 'parents' send them to Secondary School 
and are obliged by law to give the children as 
much care and attention as they can. The 
'parents' are officially only allowed a certain 
degree of parental abuse (but that's one of the 
few things that isn't very well enforced) and 
these must only take place at certain 
festivals. The children stay at school until 
they are in a position to either graduate, in 
which case they leave the district, or to be 
turned to work. Most (perhaps 80% of them) will 
become peasants in this area and in turn become 
assigned 'parents'. If they become pregnant, 
they will be sent to the breeding centres, and 
as often as not they never return. 

"School children must dress according to strict 
dress conventions, which must reflect the 
general dress code of the district and their 
position in class (which is often different to 
those of their parents). The main criteria of 
distinction are clothes, hair- length, pubic 
hair and jewellery. Girls and boys are dressed 
and treated identically. No allowances are made 
for their different sexuality, even during sex 
classes. In my school, and I'm sure there are 
similar rules elsewhere, the higher grading a 
child has then the longer the hair, the shorter 
the pubic hair, the more clothes and jewellery. 
The top pupil then has very long hair, no pubic 
hair, plenty of jewellery and the maximum 
amount of clothes permitted within the rules of 
this district. The lowest grade pupils, of 
which there are several, have their heads 
shaved, an untidy bush of pubic hair, no 
clothes and only a large steel cunt-ring. 

"The pupils are evaluated according to a number 
of factors which include physical appearance, 
physical fitness, academic brightness, good 
behaviour and sexual performance. The top 
pupils are granted special privileges such as a 
more generous food allowance, exemption from 
certain of the daily humilities such as arse-
licking and orgy practice. The lowest pupils 
would almost consider such humilities as 
privileges. They can be, and are, treated badly 
by all pupils with the teachers leading by 
example. They are to be shat on, pissed on, 
buggered, beaten up, whipped, etc. The 
justification is that this is to encourage 
these pupils to pull themselves together. 
Instead most leave the school altogether and 
some kill themselves. This is not considered to 
be a cause for much regret or sorrow. 

"As teachers we are obliged to conduct the 
daily humiliations, which include random 
buggery, cold showers and the ritual tearing up 
of pupils' clothes. Any excuse for punishing 
the pupils must be taken enthusiastically, and 
punishment will only stop after the requisite 
amount of blood has been shed. Pupils try to 
avoid punishment because if their physical 
beauty is impaired in any way they may drop a 
grade and begin the long slide towards the 
bottom.

"The reason for all this humility is to show 
respect towards the King. This is best 
illustrated during the festivals on national 
and local holidays, which can be quite frequent 
when the country is deemed to be doing 
particularly well at the war. Otherwise, they 
mostly mark birthdays and anniversaries 
associated with the Royal Family. For each 
festival, there is usually a specific ceremony 
or rite which must be performed. In many cases 
these are just species of orgy. In some cases, 
pupils have to demonstrate their sexual skills 
to other pupils, which may include being 
buggered by fellow pupils or giving blow jobs 
to members of staff. One not very pleasant 
ceremony to mark a victory over the Sodomites 
in the last Sodomite War involved pupils eating 
each others' turds and drinking their piss. 
There was a lot of illness the following day; 
and inevitably some of it was fatal.

"The King is praised during formal ceremonies 
at five intervals during the day. On arrival at 
school, the pupils must close their eyes and 
masturbate the pupil nearest to them to show 
their desire for the King. The next occasion is 
when the pupils listen to a Television 
Broadcast given by a representative of the King 
which outlines any new duties and 
responsibilities. They must meditate on this. 
The third occasion is the arse-licking ceremony 
where after cleaning their bottoms, they must 
lick clean the arse of another pupil. This 
demonstrates the need for thorough arse-
cleaning. Some pupils are not popular for the 
state of their arses. The fourth occasion is 
the school orgy, where selected pupils have sex 
with each other and the rest of the school 
observe. This is important for the pupils, as 
their grading depends on their sexual 
performance. The fifth observation at the end 
of the school day is to kiss the penis of the 
statue of the King outside the school as they 
leave. Some to show their greater love, will, 
of course, insert their anuses or vaginas over 
the penis.

"The academic classes are much like those in 
the schools in your country I imagine, though 
the pupils are obliged to take their clothes 
off in Regal Studies, Physical Education, Sex 
Education, Games and Biology. Regal Studies is 
where they learn about the events in the King's 
life, the history of the Royal Family and are 
taught about his great wisdom and sayings. 
During this class, the students have chains 
attached to their cunt-rings which are attached 
at the other end to the teacher's cunt- ring. I 
can tell you this is a very uncomfortable 
lesson for me to have to teach."

"The contrast with the Royal Academy where I 
teach couldn't be greater," smiled 
Chrysanthemum. "The girls, (and they are all 
girls) are taught to worship the King, but are 
not taught humiliation. Merely obedience. The 
world the Academy girls are told about is one 
like that of the Buggery Broadcasting 
Corporation TV programmes. In fact, the only 
place that I know of where life at all 
resembles that shown on television is at the 
Academy. All the girls at the Royal Academy are 
groomed for future work at the Royal Court and 
consequently they are amongst the few people in 
this country who stand much likelihood of ever 
seeing His Majesty in the flesh. As opposed to 
on the many billboards and in the form of 
officially approved statues and portraits.

"According to the strict Eugenic practices of 
Buggery society, enforced rigidly from birth, 
only the best girls are ever likely to go to 
the Royal Academies. Even the primary schools 
they attend are segregated from the rest of the 
country. The girls in the Royal Academy know 
nothing about the rest of Buggery, beyond what 
they see on television. I don't think they'd 
like it if they did see it, but it's unlikely 
they would ever miss it. The school grounds 
where they live are very large and very 
beautiful. Most people in Buggery never get to 
see such beautiful woodland, fields, lakes and 
gardens as those surrounding the Academy. And 
although the girls are prohibited from passing 
through the Academy's perimeters, very few of 
them are ever likely to be tempted to do so.

"School at the Royal Academy is made as 
pleasant as possible. The girls are kept 
innocent of many things that might seem bizarre 
to you foreigners. They know nothing about 
clothes and as you can see from watching 
television they wouldn't know about clothes 
from there either. They all have very long hair 
and they all shave their pubic hairs. Only the 
very few pupils of black or oriental origin 
shave their heads (and this is mandatory) but 
they are not discriminated against and are 
treated very kindly. If not indulgently.

"The girls are taught academic subjects, 
physical education and Regal studies just like 
at other schools in Buggery, but Sex Education 
is always only conducted between themselves. 
That is, the girls are expected and very much 
encouraged to make love with each other. The 
incentive for this is a certain competitiveness 
to gain prestige and a good reputation, but 
this is not reflected by any difference in how 
the girls are treated. Certainly not in the 
brutal way they are at Primrose's school. The 
black and oriental girls are particularly 
popular for sex games because of their 
curiosity value.

"As a teacher I am expected to make love to the 
girls. This I have to do several times a day: 
usually outside in the gardens and always with 
other girls watching. I also have to make love 
with the male members of staff. These are the 
only men the girls ever meet. The men are not 
permitted to have sex with the girls and are 
solely there to demonstrate heterosexual sex, 
without which the girls would really have no 
idea what to do when they attend the Royal 
Courts. I have sex with a man, in a variety of 
different positions, at least twice a day, with 
the girls watching and clapping. Unlike 
Primrose's school, there's not much anal 
intercourse but I do have to provide the 
occasional special performance. Although the 
men are not permitted to have sex with the 
girls, they are expected to have sex with each 
other as well as the women teachers. I can't 
complain about the men. They are all very 
attractive and they are all very good at making 
love. They are not allowed to do anything else 
and they sleep well away from the girls. The 
reason for this is that the girls must be 
technically virgins: at least in the sense that 
their maidenheads must remain intact when they 
leave the school and go to the Royal Court.

"It's a very pleasant life for the girls at the 
Royal Academy. I really cannot complain about 
the privilege I have of working there. It's 
also of course the kind of school I went to. I 
don't know what happens to the girls when they 
get to the Royal Court, but they are certainly 
well-groomed for the status they are expected 
to maintain."

"It's not so nice at the fucking Police 
School," commented Tiger Lilly. "Not at all so 
fucking nice. Not even as nice as Primrose's 
pissing nancy school. The pupils, girls or 
boys, come straight from primary school and 
then we make them. We give them a body they're 
going to be fucking proud of," she flexed her 
own muscles, "we teach them respect for the 
King and how to get others to respect the King.

"When I'm in the classroom, the pupils have to 
do what the fuck I tell them. If that means a 
few bones get broken or your skin gets torn, 
well fuck it! The pupils have to accept I'll 
fuck them whenever I went, wherever I want, 
whether they're boys or girls." Tiger Lilly 
waved her plastic truncheon which Sharon could 
now see was in actual fact a double-ended 
dildo. "I expect a good fuck from each of my 
pupils. There are no fucking grades at Police 
School. You're either in or you're fucking out 
and fuck you!

"We show them how to be good police. The ways 
to fuck people and fuck them up if they're any 
fucking trouble. We show them torture and we 
teach them the law."

"It's by having a brutal police force," 
Primrose explained reassuringly, "that people 
in Buggery learn how to support the Royal 
Government. You put a toe out of line and 
you're tortured, mutilated and, if you're 
lucky, killed."

"Fucking right we're brutal," agreed Tiger 
Lilly proudly. "No fucking bastard can say no 
to me. I'll fucking tear out his or her 
genitals and eat them in front of them. I've 
done that before now. I'll shove this thing so 
high up their rear end it pops out their 
fucking mouth. I'll kick them and beat them so 
fucking hard and then get them pleading for 
more. You can't keep people down without a bit 
of brutality."

"Don't worry about Tiger Lilly," smiled 
Chrysanthemum. "She's not going to torture you 
two, but, on the other hand, if she wants sex 
with you I wouldn't argue."

"Too fucking right you won't!" Tiger Lilly 
agreed.

"There are other kinds of schools," elaborated 
Primrose. "There are schools for actors, which 
are much more like Chrysanthemum's school than 
mine. There are schools for tourism. In fact, 
there's one not far from Pederasty where you 
were, which teaches all the boys there how to 
do their trade."

"What happens," wondered Sharon, "to these boys 
if they didn't feel like having sex with a 
tourist? You know because they feel a bit off 
or something?"

"I'd be surprised," said Primrose a little 
grimly, "if there are many occasions they 
actually do want sex with a tourist. It's just 
what they're trained to do and if they don't do 
it well then they're out."

"What happens to them then?"

"Nobody knows. I don't know what'd happen to me 
if it was decided I couldn't teach anymore. All 
we know is that people eventually vanish. They 
get arrested by police, they go to the breeding 
centres, they get called up to fight in 
whatever war there is, they go to hospital. And 
then they never come back. We don't know what 
happens, but all the rumours are fairly 
unpleasant."

Sharon didn't like the sound of any of these 
accounts of life in Buggery, She glanced at 
Tracey, who was nervously clasping and 
unclasping her fingers, and looking rather 
depressed. Her head was down and her eyes 
seemed to be focused on the ragged edges of the 
rug on the cottage floor. Sharon faced 
Primrose, who she thought was the most 
sympathetic to the girls' plight. 

"What are we going to do?" she pleaded.

"You're not fucking staying here," said Tiger 
Lilly bluntly.

"I'm afraid that's true," agreed Primrose. 
"You're going to have to get moving. And soon! 
It'll be dangerous though. If you get caught by 
the police you'll almost certainly be as good 
as dead so you'll have to avoid being seen by 
them at all costs."

"Should we go disguised as something?" Tracey 
asked. "Are there people who can wander 
anywhere in this country?"

"Well, yes," considered Primrose. "The Sodomite 
Pilgrims can wander anywhere in this country 
and they're never troubled." 

"So, should we dress as Sodomite pilgrims?"

"What a fucking joke!" chortled Tiger Lilly.

"I wouldn't," shuddered Chrysanthemum. 
"Sodomite Pilgrims come from Sodom. They come 
here to visit the sites in this country which 
are considered significant in the history of 
Sodomy. This is usually as a result of their 
various wars with Buggery over the centuries. I 
don't know much about Sodom. And I don't think 
anyone in Buggery does. Sodom doesn't even have 
the tourism you find in this country. But if 
the Sodomite Pilgrims are anything to go by, 
Sodom is probably an even more unattractive 
country than this.

"Sodomite priests are almost all women but some 
are men. They wear no clothes but chains which 
are threaded into their noses, genitals and 
other places. Their heads are shaved and they 
have tattoos on their faces which seem to 
indicate their status. They travel from town to 
town, village to village begging for food as 
they go. When they arrive at a place of worship 
they lie face down to the ground with their 
bottoms to the air. They then invite passing 
people to bugger them or to insert things into 
their anuses.

"Sodom must be a very brutal country. The women 
have their vaginas sewn together so that 
nothing can enter them, and when they piss it 
squirts uncontrollably down their legs. Many of 
their rituals seem to involve drinking each 
other's urine and eating their faeces which 
they mostly do when people are watching. No one 
has ever heard them speak because they all have 
their tongues torn out, and in certain cases 
they have their hands removed so that they only 
have stumps at the end of their arms. It's 
thought that this is done so they can't tell 
anyone what they've seen in Buggery (and if 
they can write, not to write it down), but of 
course it also means they can't tell anyone in 
Buggery or elsewhere about Sodom.

"They seem to have a cult of violence. They 
always seem to be beating and whipping each 
other. If it wasn't for the baldness, tattoos, 
nudity and chains, a Sodomite pilgrim would be 
identified by the broken nose, broken teeth, 
missing fingers and toes, and all the horrible 
scars. Many of the scars seem to be on the 
buttocks which they seem to be very 
enthusiastic about beating with whips and 
sticks. They often seem distressed when people 
from Buggery don't bugger them when they are 
covered in blood, piss and shit.

"So, I wouldn't recommend you cut out your 
tongue and so on to pretend to be a Sodomite 
Pilgrim. Nor, for that matter, would I suggest 
visiting Sodom. Not many people cross the 
border except Sodomite Pilgrims and I think 
they do because however awful Buggery might be, 
Sodom must be much worse."

"You'll have to dress as an ordinary citizen 
from Buggery," recommended Primrose. "This 
means we'll have to do something about your 
hair and I'm afraid you won't be able to wear 
any jewellery except a single cunt ring."

"What'll happen to all our bangles and rings?" 
wondered Tracey, who despite the pain they'd 
given her today had grown rather fond of them.

"We'll keep them," announced Tiger Lilly 
brusquely.

"I'm afraid we will. They're no use to you. And 
you don't want anyone finding them on you." 
Primrose concurred.

After dinner, Sharon and Tracey sadly discarded 
their jewellery, leaving a row of small holes 
in their nipples and labia. Primrose let the 
girls keep the blouses she had lent them, but 
she still insisted that they take not put them 
on yet. These had been left to her by school 
pupils who had been demoted and therefore had 
no further use for them. Chrysanthemum brushed 
their hair to a less wild state and attached a 
little chain to a small plain ring she threaded 
into the vulva. The two girls were given cloth 
bags to carry their few possessions in, which 
Primrose said would be much was less 
conspicuous than their beach bags.

The reason neither girl was allowed to put on 
their clothes was because Tiger Lilly was 
insistent that she had sex with the two of 
them. Chrysanthemum and Primrose agreed to 
watch, but said that they'd had too much sex 
already that day to feel inclined to 
participate themselves.

"I'm so sore!" complained Chrysanthemum, 
"otherwise I'd fuck you like a real expert."

"I am a fucking expert," snorted Tiger Lilly 
proudly.

"But a bit rough, dearest!" complained 
Primrose. 

And Tiger Lilly was indeed rough. Far more so 
than the boys at home. She slapped them about 
the face and buttocks. Pushed her fist right 
up their cunts. Pummelled their anuses with 
thrusts of her muscular middle finger. Bit 
the nipples on their breasts so hard that the 
girls wondered whether they might be bitten 
off. All the while, Tiger Lilly grinned and 
occasionally plunged her fingers into her own 
moist and cavernous cunt. Except for the odd 
grunt and the occasional barked command, she 
said nothing to the girls: especially anything  
that could be construed as comforting. Then she 
tied the dildo around her waist and buggered 
the two girls so hard that they were pleading 
for her to stop. 

"Fuck no!" Tiger Lilly retorted. "I've only 
fucking started." 

And indeed she had. When she had finished, 
Sharon's nose was bleeding and ne eye was 
swollen with the start of a bruise. Tracey's 
bottom felt so red and sore, that she wasn't 
sure how she could ever sit on it. The 
girls were then tied to a tree outside the 
cottage, just by the well, near the goat who 
was desultorily chewing on some hay. Their 
hands were tied together behind them and their 
arms pulled up to a branch. One end of a 
flexible rubber dildo was pushed 
unceremoniously into each girl's cunt and their 
feet were tied together. It was cold outside, 
but the girls had to stay in this uncomfortable 
position for an hour or so. They were told to 
keep their tongues deep inside each others' 
mouth on pain of being hit. By this time, they 
were so bruised and battered that they gladly 
engaged in tiring tongue kissing just to avoid 
the physical penalties which Tiger Lilly was so 
keen on. 

Eventually, Primrose came out of the cottage. 
She smiled weakly while she untied them and 
then brought the two girls into the house. She 
nursed their wounds and kissed the girls 
tenderly. "Don't worry about Tiger Lilly. She's 
used to being a bit rougher than that, but if 
she hadn't liked you I don't think you'd be 
alive now."

Sharon fingered her bruise. "Won't this mean 
we'll be noticed even more now?" 

"Nonsense," Primrose laughed. "We've got you up 
as fairly ordinary if relatively privileged 
natives, and a few bruises and scratches are 
hopefully going to make you look rather less 
remarkable. After all, tourists don't normally 
get beaten up in this country so no one's going 
to think that's what you are."

"How far is it to Gomorrah?" wondered Tracey 
who was wishing this day had never begun.

"Not near enough for you, I'm afraid" smiled 
Primrose sadly. She left the two girls naked on 
the bed where they were left to feel the warm 
ache of their bruises and pains and the  
moistness of their tears as they gathered in 
damp patches on the pillow by their slumped and 
battered faces.



	VI


Sharon and Tracey left the teachers the 
following day, although they had hardly begun 
to recover from either their trudge through 
Buggery or their beatings by Tiger Lilly. 
A dark blue (nearly black) bruise had swollen 
up around Sharon's eye, and both girls' legs 
were criss-crossed with scratches and 
discoloured by more bruises. They could barely 
stand up as they tottered by the door to the 
cottage, in the unfamiliar flat plastic sandals 
they'd been given in exchange for the shoes 
they'd worn the day before. Despite their 
looks, the two girls were showered with 
affectionate kisses from Primrose and 
Chrysanthemum. Somehow this in no way fully 
compensated for their treatment from Tiger 
Lilly. Tracey was almost sure that she would 
never want sex with anyone ever again, and 
Sharon certainly didn't feel like it today.

They took with them a cheap printed map of 
Buggery that Primrose lent them. It was one 
which she had in stock for her Geography 
lessons and was an official map of the country. 
It showed roads, woods, rivers, lakes, towns 
and villages; but large patches of the map were 
left suspiciously blank: lacking all colour or 
contour. No clues were given by the map as to 
what they were, but nearly one quarter of the 
map was left like this. Chrysanthemum explained 
that although it was impossible to be sure, 
most of these blanked out areas represented 
the private lands of the monarchy and the rest 
of the aristocracy, though it was possible that 
they also included areas of military 
significance and the mysterious breeding 
centres. Of the parts of the map that was 
clearly outlined, the most distinct were the 
capital city and the Tourist spots. However, 
there weren't many of the latter on the road to 
Gomorrah. 

"Although the boundary line signifying the 
border with Gomorrah is very clearly marked on 
the map, I wouldn't really trust it," warned 
Primrose. "During a war the border is bound to 
shift as one side makes advances and the other 
retreats. After all, territorial advantage is 
what it's all about. However, I don't know for 
sure, but I believe the border might actually 
be significantly nearer than the map says. Of 
course all the official news we get from the 
front says that Buggery's really doing well, 
and making significant gains which bring closer 
the promise of final victory and the settling 
of the nation's grievances. However, from what 
few signs we get, and this is only speculation, 
I don't think things are going that well. The 
good news is generally unsubstantiated and 
implausible. There's rather a lot more about 
Gomorran atrocities than about Buggerian 
advances. And you may have noticed that there 
aren't many men about."

"Indeed," corroborated Chrysanthemum with a 
broad grin. "Almost all of them are out on the 
front, fighting for King and Country; leaving 
us poor helpless girls to fend for ourselves 
and to make do with whatever we can."

"I think that your walk to the front will be 
rather less than the one hundred kilometres on 
the map," continued Primrose, "but before you 
get there you'll have to cross a war zone and 
that'll include some sort of no-man's land 
where you could very easily get killed. But put 
it into perspective. Although you might get 
killed crossing the front, the longer you stay 
in Buggery the more chance that you'd get 
killed anyway."

This was scarcely comforting news, but it was 
this news that the girls took as they walked 
away from the teachers' cottage. Their advice 
was to avoid walking along the roads where they 
could be easily picked off by the police. In 
fact, the road to Gomorrah took them away from 
the dry barren plains of the district where the 
teachers lived to a more hilly landscape where 
there would be more than enough woodland for 
the girls to walk out of sight of the main 
road. Or at least to dodge into if they saw 
them. It was unlikely, Primrose reasoned, that 
the disappearance of two tourists from 
Pederasty would have gone unnoticed for very 
long. Already everyone who'd seen them would 
have been interrogated, and possibly tortured, 
by the police. Tracey shivered thinking of 
the young courier, Little Pussy, and the young 
boy they'd had come to their room. However, 
although the police were brutal, Primrose 
explained, making sure that Tiger Lilly wasn't 
within earshot, they were remarkably inefficient 
at actually doing anything other than intimidate 
people. As an investigative police agency, they 
were absolutely hopeless. They had had no impact 
at all on the smuggling of hard drugs and guns 
that happened around the country's border. And 
they had had no capacity to deal with the many 
deserters that kept away from the towns and 
villages. The semblance of law and order was 
only held by the fact that no one who was 
caught was ever likely to re-offend. 

Their breakfast of fruit and orange juice was 
really not enough to sustain Sharon and Tracey 
on their long walk. In fact, being fairly 
exhausted before they'd even started walking, 
they were certainly no better after an hour or 
more of trudge along the featureless dry roads. 
If they'd seen any police there was nowhere to 
hide as there were no trees or even bushes to 
retreat to. After a while, however, their walk 
took them up a steep incline and soon they were 
in the very welcome shade of some woods. The 
goal which comforted on their despairing walk 
was the small town of Butterfly Grove they 
could see marked on the map, and finally to 
the delight of their sore feet, they could 
see in reality. 

It was not a very picturesque town, despite its 
name. Although surrounded by a thick forest of 
trees, it was a dry unprepossessing place 
composed mostly of small hut-ike houses with 
a small market in the middle. They walked 
towards it with the hope of something to eat, 
or at the least something to drink. They soon 
found that the Buggery Dinar went considerably 
further in Buggery than it would have done in 
Throb, and much further again than it would 
have done at home. In fact, they found that 
they were carrying a relative fortune around 
with them. 

It wasn't that easy to find anything edible to 
buy though. Both of them had mostly subsisted 
on take-aways and microwaveable dishes at home 
here, and the only thing on sale they knew what 
to do with was the battered and unappealing 
fruit. But they managed to buy some apples, 
oranges, a packet of tasteless biscuits and a 
couple of bottles of distilled water on which 
the King's face was prominently displayed. 
There was no Coke. Or even Pepsi or Dr Pepper's. 
There were no hamburgers, pizzas, hot dogs or 
doner kebabs. Not even a pasty or a bag of chips. 
But what they had was undeniably food and it 
certainly filled some of the hole they could 
feel in their stomachs.

What was even worse, as they discovered to 
their cost, was that there was nowhere selling 
any ciggies. Not only were they no decent 
ciggies like 5th Avenue or Edinboro's, but not 
even rollies like Gold Cup or cheap tabs like 
Old Street Plain. They had half a packet of 
Windsor & Maidenhead's Silk Tip between them, 
but it was clearly not going to last them very 
long. The days were definitely going to stretch 
ahead now they had to cope with withdrawal 
symptoms as well as hunger.

The townspeople of Butterfly Grove dressed much 
the same as all the people they'd seen in 
Buggery. What few clothes they wore were fairly 
skimpy and did not cover the crotch at all. 
Despite having got so accustomed to the sight 
of genitalia in Throb, it still seemed strange 
to see all these naked crotches and even the 
occasional dangling penis. It was clear that 
the men and women generally dressed in exactly 
the same clothes with very similar hairstyles: 
but there were so few adult men, it took the 
girls a while to be sure of this. 

"How come there are so few blokes?" Sharon 
asked the woman at the stall who served them 
the distilled water.

"Do you have more men in the district where you 
come from?" wondered the woman, as she gave the 
girls their change. "I thought it was the same 
everywhere. It's the war. It's so difficult to 
find a man that you have to share those you can 
find." 

This didn't sound much fun to Sharon or Tracey, 
who were already missing the cock they'd got so 
used to in Throb. This did not sound like a 
good place to be man-hungry. However, they had 
a long walk ahead of them, so despite their 
weariness, they shouldered their bags and 
returned to the road which thanks to the shade 
of the thick forestry made their walk somewhat 
less arduous than when they were exposed to the 
sun. Nonetheless, they weren't used to any kind 
of walking, and soon they were stopping to rest 
for longer than the time they spent walking.

Fortunately every few miles there was another 
town or village they could stop at to replenish 
themselves. None of them were any better than 
Butterfly Grove. Indeed, they were generally 
rather worse. There seemed to be a pattern that 
the more picturesque the name, the worse the 
places were. Leafy Vale was bare of any 
vegetation at all. Paradise Hill was pretty 
filthy and was distinguished by the foul smell 
coming out of the chimneys of an ugly factory. 
Bluebell Dell was the most miserable tangle of 
derelict houses they'd ever seen. 

Nowhere were there shops as the girls 
understood them from home: just market stalls. 
The homes were constructed as square shaped 
concrete flats or were thrown together from 
corrugated iron, mud and cardboard. Very few 
roads were paved, and then only for a few 
hundred metres at a time. 

Sharon and Tracey soon got to recognise the 
police from a distance. It seemed that the 
police were everywhere. In every village, in 
every town and between each of them. 
Fortunately, however, they didn't seem to pay 
much notice to the girls, so Primrose's advice 
as to what to wear had seemed to bear fruit. 
However, to be on the safe side Sharon and 
Tracey kept as respectable distance between 
themselves and any police-woman (or 
occasionally police-man) as they could. 
Primrose's warnings had frightened the wits out 
of them. Although the police wore no more 
clothes than anyone else, what they wore was 
aggressive and in leather. They made no attempt 
to hide their dildo-shaped truncheons, and some 
of them even carried submachine guns. 

They soon became aware that they weren't the 
only ones avoiding them. Almost everyone kept 
apart from them. People crossed the road, or 
even turned around and walked the other way 
whenever the police came into sight. It was 
early evening, when the girls were even more 
exhausted and even now wondering where they 
would sleep the night, they saw two or three 
police-women marching through the market where 
they were buying some more snacky groceries. 
All the other people cleared out of the 
police's way as they wandered into their midst. 
As they walked, the police took things from 
market stalls without bothering to say anything 
or acknowledge the stall-holders, let alone 
offer to pay for what they'd taken. 

Then one stall-holder must have said or 
gestured something to which the police-women 
took exception. From their vantage point 
several stalls away, they saw the police pile 
onto the stall-holder. She was punched, kicked 
and then, when she'd fallen onto the ground, 
they took turns to bugger her. Her cries were 
loud and agonised as they roughly forced the 
dildos they'd tied around their crotches into 
her arse and pushed her against the piles 
of clothes and sandals she'd been selling. 
Neither Sharon nor Tracey felt like staying 
around too long to see what ultimately happened 
to the stall-holder or whether they'd focus 
their attention onto some other unfortunate.

The two girls took Primrose's advice not to 
sleep in any of the towns. But as the evening 
descended, and they got more and more tired, it 
was difficult to see anywhere that they could 
sleep. They were looking for a barn or a 
deserted home outside the towns and villages to 
sleep in, but although they'd seen a few like 
that during the day, when they actually needed 
it, there didn't seem to be any around. They 
were getting progressively more exhausted and 
were resting more often than they were walking. 
The night was drawing in, and it was obvious 
that they needed to stop somewhere. They 
eventually settled on a broken-down barn 
some ten metres from the road, and settled on 
the ragged-looking straw. This was not a 
pleasant night. They found straw creeping up 
their bare vaginas and were frightened when 
some animal sniffed inquisitively outside, but 
they were so exhausted that they were asleep 
within minutes, after sharing every small grain 
of their last W&M's Silk Tip.

Unusually for them, the two girls awoke on the 
first rays of light and, more from the 
discomfort of all the straw, they got walking 
again almost immediately, following the route 
which led on their map towards Gomorrah. For 
girls who never went anywhere at home without a 
taxi or bus, it was not easy getting used to 
walking quite long distances every day 
following the winding roads on the map. Their 
walks gave them an appetite which was not at 
all satisfied by the fairly basic food provided 
by the next market they got to. No coffee, no 
chips, no chicken fritters. Only boiled eggs, 
fruit and bottles of distilled water. 

Their route took them through woods which 
skirted near an area which was marked as 
forbidden, but all they could see of it were 
high brick walls crowned with broken glass and 
barbed wire. Sharon couldn't help wondering 
what was on the other side, but the height of 
the walls, let alone its unwelcoming 
ornamentation put her off any inclination she 
might have had of clambering over to 
investigate. The forbidding walls betrayed no 
clues as to what there was behind them that put 
them out of bounds. However, Tracey noted that 
where there were forbidden areas, there would 
almost certainly be police nearby, so the girls 
kept as reasonable a distance between 
themselves and the walls as they could, while 
keeping them in sight. Otherwise, they would 
get totally lost. The paths through the woods 
were quite narrow and winding, probably marked 
out by wild animals (of which they only saw the 
odd deer or rabbit). At times it was hard-
going, but they kept on going despite their 
increasing discomfort, weariness and pain.

There were not many people to be seen wandering 
about the woods or along the road when they 
rejoined it. The woods were empty of any sign 
of continued habitation, although they saw the 
odd derelict cottage or out-building. Even 
along the road, they passed very few other 
people. Most of these seemed to be going to 
work in the fields or going to school. 

The only real travellers they passed that day 
were what they judged from Primrose's account 
to be Sodomite Pilgrims. They were travelling 
in a group of less than a dozen individuals, 
and the girls found them to be a very 
distressing sight. It was possible that 
underneath the scars, bondage and tattoos, some 
of the Sodomite Pilgrims might have been quite 
pretty. As Sharon and Tracey approached, the 
Pilgrims stopped walking, and stood by so the 
two friends had more than enough opportunity to 
appraise them. Some of the Sodomites turned 
round and bowed to the girls with their bottoms 
facing upward. It was an extremely disturbing 
sight. The female sodomites had their vaginas 
threaded together very crudely with leather or 
metal stitches. The men had their genitals 
removed and wore them strung around their 
necks. It might have been true that all the 
Sodomite Pilgrims had had their tongues torn 
out (although there was no way of being sure 
without a closer look) but quite a few had had 
their hands amputated. Sharon winced at the 
sight of these stumps. 

When later, they passed some other Sodomite 
Pilgrims in the next village, they found that 
even the native people from Buggery found them 
a disturbing sight. They were making diversions 
around these pilgrims rather than experience 
the discomfort of having to see them more 
clearly. At this village, there was a shrine 
which the Sodomite Pilgrims were prostrating 
themselves in front of. This was marked only by 
some very crude scratches on some scattered 
rocks. 

After this, they soon spotted other similar 
shrines that seemed to be scattered fairly 
randomly about the Buggery countryside. After 
their small unappetising snack in the village, 
they passed another shrine in the wood, where 
they also found two Sodomite Pilgrims whipping 
each other with barbed wire whips which were  
raising blood on their welted backs. This 
annoyed them because the shrine was by a 
deserted cottage that Sharon and Tracey had 
spotted from a distance and had been so hoping 
to rest at. The sight of these two Sodomites 
definitely persuaded them to change their mind. 
It would not be at all pleasant to sleep or 
rest near girls as deformed as these. One 
Pilgrim's leg was missing from the thigh and 
there was a hole in the eye-socket where the 
eye should have been.

Another shrine they saw surrounded by Sodomite 
Pilgrims prostrated or beating each other was 
probably of significance to the citizens of 
Buggery. This commemorated a battle fought 
against the Sodomites in a war some two or 
three centuries earlier. There was an extremely 
partisan inscription on the plinth which 
described in detail the atrocities the 
Sodomites had committed. On top of this was the 
statue at the top was of a naked man with long 
hair buggering a bald man whilst also taking 
the opportunity to slice off his genitals with 
a sword. The sculptor had seen fit to sculpt 
very realistic globules of blood in the marble.

Most of the many monuments in Buggery the girls 
saw, however, were of a generally more 
contemporary nature and by far the majority 
featured the King. He was a grand, 
moustachioed, undeniably handsome, man with the 
most gorgeous raiments and long hair flowing 
over his shoulders; always in a classic heroic 
pose. His features could be seen on billboards, 
statues or just portraits in prominent 
positions in shops or above the doorways of the 
homes. There was often text associated with 
such images which praised the King for his 
heroism in fighting the Gomorran barbarians, 
his sagacity in his dealings with the outside 
world, his generosity and kindness towards his 
citizens, his love of justice, his lust for 
knowledge and, in one place, his sexual prowess.

Later in the afternoon, Sharon and Tracey were 
in a larger town. This was the largest town 
they'd seen since Throb, but in comparison it 
was relatively small. While shopping in the 
market for more food (which was of a greater 
variety than they'd seen for a while), they 
couldn't help noticing a slightly nervous air 
in the village market. At first, they thought 
it was to do with them, but it soon became 
clear that they were not the only visitor to 
the town. A dignitary was also passing through 
the village. This was announced by a shrill 
scream of sirens and then, through a cloud of 
dust, the sudden emergence of a thundercloud of 
motorbikes driven by police, who showed no 
concern that anyone might be in the way. In the 
middle of this cavalcade was a stretch 
limousine with darkened windows. And then, as 
soon as it had arrived, the visitor was gone 
without a pause or any evidence of noticing the 
village and its banners and flags which had 
been put up to welcome the dignitary's visit. 
There was, in fact, an air of relief from the 
townspeople as they now started to remove these 
spurned items from around the town.

The two girls wandered back into the woods just 
beyond the town which according to their map 
promised to be the shortest route to Gomorrah. 
The map was rather unhelpful at this stage, 
showing wood but also large areas which were 
left totally blank. At first Sharon thought it 
was some reservoir or lake, but, no, the area 
was coloured by purple rather than blue. More 
forbidden territory.

They found this wood somewhat harder to get 
through than the woodland they had been through 
earlier, because the clearly marked path was 
obstructed by trees that had recently fallen 
and left to rot. So they decided to make a 
slight detour into the thick of the wood. It 
was after only a few hundred metres of walking 
as parallel to what they judged to be the 
right route when they heard a low moaning. 

"Ignore it," said Sharon nervously. "It's 
probably some Buggery animal. A bird or 
something."

"Fucking funny bird," commented Tracey. "I'm 
sure I heard it say something. A word of some 
kind."

"What word?"

"I don't fucking know!" Tracey said walking 
towards it.

"It's probably some Sodomite praying or 
something," commented Sharon. She nervously 
paused by a large elm, but seeing her friend's 
determination she then reluctantly followed 
Tracey, who had clearly found someone or 
something in a clearing in the wood ahead of 
them. 

The girl they found sobbing softly in the shade 
of the trees wasn't a Sodomite, but she was 
still in a wretched state. She wore no clothes. 
Her hair was totally shaved. Her face was 
covered in bruises, and there was a nasty cut 
on her forehead above the eye. There was a 
large bruise on her thigh and another one just 
under her breast. A thin trail of blood was 
dripping from a badly split lip, and a few of 
her teeth were missing. Judging from the blood 
on her cheek, this may well have happened quite 
recently. There was also a slight smell about 
her which Sharon and Tracey guessed from the 
slight gleam on her skin was because she'd been 
pissed on, and probably by quite a few people. 
There was a patch on her buttock which might 
have been mud: but on such a dry day was more 
probably shit. She sat with her head down and 
her legs open pulling at her pubic hair and 
they could see that amongst the hair was brown 
stuff and dried blood which must have 
resulted from some quite brutal penetration.

"Are you all right, love?" asked Tracey 
sympathetically, bending down and placing a 
hand on the girl's bare shoulder.

The girl looked up at them with the frightened 
gaze of a wild animal. She was about fourteen 
or fifteen years old, with perky young breasts 
and a very slender, ill-fed body. Her slim 
legs were just a little too bony to be 
attractive. Nor did her broken nose enhance her 
looks in any way. She shrunk back at the sight 
of the girls. 

"Are you going to beat me, too?" she asked in 
a resigned voice.

"No, of course not love," Sharon commented, 
feeling a curious sense of mutual sympathy and 
even warmth towards this victim of abuse. "Why 
should we do that?"

"Everyone else does."

"And why do they do that?"

"Because I'm Z grade," sobbed the girl. 
"They're always picking on me. Buggering me. 
Shitting on me. Kicking me. Pissing on me. 
Pulling out my teeth. Sticking things into the 
back of my throat and long things up my arse. 
Punching me. All the time." 

"Who do?" wondered Tracey.

"All the girls at school. All the A grades and 
B grades and C grades and all the other grades. 
And not just them, but lots of other people. 
It's to punish me for not being good at school. 
Because I don't do well at sports. Because I 
don't do well at lessons. It's not fair. I 
don't get the chance. The teachers only give me 
jobs like licking the messy girls' arses clean, 
or drinking their piss, or carrying shit in my 
hands to the fields for fertiliser. I'm always 
the one who gets given the whip during the 
festivals. I've had two of my teeth torn out by 
pliers by the headmaster on one of those. And I 
get buggered at least three or four times a 
day. And if there's a speck of shit on their 
pricks, I have to do duty in licking it off. 
God! I hate the taste of shit. Dry or wet, it's 
all disgusting. But sometimes it's all I get to 
eat all day."

"How did you get to be Z grade?" wondered 
Sharon, who like Tracey had never been remotely 
near the top of their classes when they were 
children. They may even have been at the bottom 
of their class for all they knew, but they 
never really bothered to attend school to find 
out for sure. School was just a place for 
meeting boys and something to do on wet days.

"I haven't always been Z grade! Once I was C 
grade. OK. Not A or B, but C's pretty good. I 
had long hair halfway down my back, I wore 
these wonderful red trousers with really nice 
seams and I had a little plastic bracelet (that 
was really expensive). I didn't have a broken 
nose, and I'd hardly ever tasted shit." She 
sniffed sadly at these memories. "And then, I 
don't know, things seemed to slip. It wasn't 
that one day, I was C and the next I was Z. No. 
Things weren't like that. I'd even thought I 
stood a chance of graduating to B! I had quite 
a good body and a lot of teachers said my oral 
was really good. It still is ..." She looked up 
at Sharon with a sad smile. "Do you want some 
oral?" 

Sharon shook her head firmly and sadly.

"Anyway, I didn't do too well on this test on 
ancient history. I thought I'd answered it well 
enough, but I always confuse our past kings, 
and apparently I'd said that one king was a 
good king when he had really been a bad king. 
And also I'd mixed up Our Blessed and 
Magnificent King's mother with his disgraced 
Aunt: the mother of the past deposed Most 
Despicable and Damned King. Then it all started 
a decline. My hair was cut shorter and shorter. 
I wasn't allowed to shave my pubic hair. My 
bracelet was taken from me and given to another 
girl: a grade A (and I bet she's never tasted 
any shit in all her life!) When I got down to Q 
grade, my blouse was removed and I was 
forbidden to wear clothes ever again. When I 
got down to W grade, I was told never to appear 
in public without having all my hair shaved 
off. And now I'm in the lowest grade of all. 
And I don't think I'll be allowed to stay there 
long."

"How long have you been Z grade?" wondered 
Tracey.

"Two weeks. Maybe three. It's been so horrible, 
I just can't say. I'm not even allowed to do 
sex rota for even M grades, let alone A grades. 
I have to stand in all my lessons. I'm not 
allowed to sit. And I have to do stocks on 
Friday, where you get things thrown at you."

"Stocks?"

"Well, someone's got to do it. That's how my 
nose got broken last week. It's not just shit 
and semen that gets thrown at you. Someone, 
probably an X grade or a W (they're the worst), 
threw something heavy at me. But they didn't 
take me down even with all the blood gushing 
out and the pain. It was horrible. And I got 
beaten up this evening too."

"We can see," said Sharon sympathetically.

"It was four or five H grades. Two of them 
boys. It was horrible. I can't even remember 
what they shoved up me. I just know it really 
hurt. And all the shit and piss! I couldn't see 
through my eyes. They were so caked up for so 
long! And I bet they did me permanent damage. 
Hell! I wish I was dead!"

"It sounds horrible."

"And I'm going to get beaten up and buggered 
and shat on when I get home to punish me for 
having got into this state. And when I get to 
school tomorrow, I'll be beaten up for the 
bruises and having lost another tooth. And I'll 
fail shit inspection because there'll be blood 
in my stools."

"This can't really be happening to you," said 
Sharon sadly.

The girl stood up beside Sharon and Tracey, 
revealing a scar along the side of one breast 
and gazed at the two girls through the black 
and blue swelling around her left eye. This 
contrasted badly with her other eye which was 
merely red with tears. "It is," she said 
philosophically. "I won't see my sixteenth 
birthday at this rate. Either I'll be sent to 
the Gomorran front with the mine clearance 
corps where I'll be dead in a week or I'll be 
dead like the X grade girl who was found 
impaled on a pole through her arse with a dead 
rabbit stuck in her mouth. She'd been accused 
of trimming her pubic hair." She looked at the 
two girls, gulped slowly. "You've been very 
kind to me. I promise I won't report you for 
not beating me up and for listening to me. I 
must go, or I'll be beaten up for lateness."

She then turned away and hobbled away on her 
bruised legs with a limp that had probably been 
caused by her beatings. Her back was covered 
with scars that covered her to her skinny 
buttocks which themselves were also latticed 
with fine scars. Sharon and Tracey watched with 
a certain degree of disgusted fascination as 
she disappeared out of sight amongst the 
darkening shadows of the trees.

"If I'd been born in this fucking country, I'd 
have fucking given everything to avoid an 
education in it!" commented Tracey.



	VII


The woods went on and on, broken only by the 
odd deserted cottage and broken stonework 
which must have represented some old temple 
or other. The two friends found very little 
to eat, but resourcefulness was a new skill 
they'd learnt: they'd actually prepared for 
this long walk by buying more food to take with 
them than they could eat in a single sitting. 
And fucking heavy it was too. As they plodded 
along, they wondered whether there might not be 
some wild animals in the wood, but the fiercest 
animals they saw were feral dogs who seemed as 
frightened of them as the girls were of the 
dogs.

Their route ran parallel to a tall wall, some 
twenty feet high, which delineated the purple 
area on the map. They walked close by the wall 
for a few hours, as it was a sure way of 
ensuring they didn't lose where they were on 
the map; but then they caught sight of some 
police marching along the edge of the wall in 
the distance. They were striding aggressively 
forward in leathers, carrying sub-machine guns 
and wearing dildos strapped around their 
waists. They were making no effort to avoid 
being seen, but even so Sharon and Tracey 
thought it would be unwise to encounter them. 
They'd learnt enough from Tiger Lilly what 
police attention might entail. 

So, while the police were still several hundred 
metres away and loudly talking to each other, 
the two girls took the diversion of a lesser 
path through the woods that was clearly enough 
marked, and from which could still be seen the 
shadow of the wall. They hid behind a tree as 
the police marched by, trembling slightly at 
the thought of being discovered. It was only 
when they were sure the police had gone, they 
emerged and continued their scrambling, 
stumbling walk through the shadows of the 
forest; all the while being able to glimpse the 
unwelcoming grey and granite brickwork of the 
wall through the snatches of light through the 
trees. 

The two girls continued their walk through the 
forest for all the rest of the day, often 
regretting the comfort of the ciggies they'd 
finished and missing the familiar taste of 
chips and burgers. It was a dispiriting day's 
walk. The woods went on and on, with only the 
occasional gap in the trees where they could 
rest in the sun on the slightly damp moss, 
amongst weeds and the occasional small flower. 
Their legs attracted stings and scratches which 
left unhealthy bluish colours amongst a lattice 
of small reddish lines and the occasional 
reddish or even yellowish blemish. At least it 
wasn't so hot, but they still didn't risk 
putting on any more clothes than the small 
blouses Primrose had lent them. They worried 
about the midges and other small insects that 
nestled in the growing hair of their vaginas, 
but the odd sting between the thighs was as 
nothing compared to the constant ache of their 
legs and the far more unpleasant stings that 
their bare ankles seemed to especially attract. 

As they walked, the only evidence of their not 
being lost was the wall, and the only 
recognisable land-mark on their map; so 
whatever they did they didn't stray too far 
from it. But the penalty of walking through the 
woods were even more scratches from the odd 
brambles, bruises, stings; and now they were 
getting red marks on their shoulders as a 
result of the weight of the food pulling down 
on the shoulder straps of their bags. Sharon 
had a nasty scratch from a tree that trailed 
across one of her breasts. Tracey had a bruise 
just above her eye where she had hit a branch 
which was beginning to swell up and was 
starting to challenge the prominence of the one 
Tiger Lilly had bestowed on Sharon's eye. 

They had an uncomfortable night's sleep in the 
shadow of the trees, heartily tired of the food 
they had brought to eat, gasping for ciggies, 
as nicotine withdrawal began to really kick in, 
and finding it impossible to find a patch of 
ground where there were no insects, mulch or 
brambles. They had seen no one during the day 
except the brief sight of the police, and no 
evidence that anyone lived anywhere near where 
they were. On the map, the purple patch 
delineated by the wall stretched on for dozens 
of kilometres, whilst in the other direction, 
the green which marked the forest they were in 
seemed to stretch even further in all 
directions. But eventually, the map showed both 
forest and purple enclosure coming to an abrupt 
end by an area of light blue, which must be a 
lake or reservoir or something.

The following day was no less dispiriting, as 
Tracey and Sharon continued their bare-arsed 
walk through the woods. They were no less 
tired, and irritable, and found even the 
smallest conversation more and more difficult. 
Sharon comforted herself by swearing 
constantly, while Tracey found that she was 
somehow unable to stop herself from a miserable 
kind of sobbing. Whenever it was necessary to 
talk to each other, it was in monosyllabic 
grunts relating to practical things that had to 
be done. Both of them feared the consequences 
of vocalising the increasing desperation they 
were feeling. They were lonely, hungry, tired, 
aching and anxious. 

Despair was steadily growing at the sight of 
yet more imposing trees and the monotony of 
green, with no human company. And then they 
came to a clearing in the woods lit by a golden 
beam from the sun which burst through the 
shadows of the trees and illuminated some blue 
and yellow flowers that flourished in the glow. 
And there, like a dream or an illustration in a 
fairy tale, was probably the most beautiful 
girl that either Sharon or Tracey had ever 
seen. 

She was walking about uncertainly and seemed 
as glad as Sharon and Tracey to be in such a 
relatively beautiful part of the forest. She 
had golden hair that cascaded to her waist. 
She had a beautiful slender figure. Her breasts 
reflected in the sun with contours normally 
only seen in classical sculptures. She wore no 
clothes at all; and the lightly tanned flesh of 
her skin radiated a faintly golden glow. 
Neither Sharon nor Tracey had spoken to anyone 
for nearly two days, but they were both struck 
by a sudden shyness. Was it reluctance in 
meeting a stranger? Or perhaps it was the 
feeling of being utterly outclassed.

The girl looked in their direction with no fear 
and no similar shyness. "Hello there," 
she announced, smiling broadly and welcomingly. 
Her teeth shone in the dappled sunlight with a 
whiteness the girls had only ever seen before 
on toothpaste commercials. "My name's Buttercup. 
What are yours?" 

"Tracey," announced Tracey, dropping her bag 
and feeling a strange burning warmth creep up 
from her breast to her forehead.

"And I'm Sharon," said her friend, who 
approached the girl and took note of just how 
different she was from all the other people in 
Buggery they'd seen since they'd left Throb. 
Just like the people they'd seen on Buggery 
television, she was totally naked with no hint 
of any tan-lines or clothing. Similarly like 
everyone on television, all her pubic and other 
bodily hair was shaved off, although a trace of 
stubble betrayed a couple of days of neglect. And 
there was the ubiquitous small ring dangling from 
the lips of her vagina.

"Where am I? Am I near a town?" Buttercup asked 
innocently.

"No fucking way," said Sharon. She pulled the 
map out of her bag and opened it up on the 
ground. Buttercup knelt down and looked at it 
with a quizzical air. She frowned as if trying 
to comprehend what she was looking at. "It's a 
long fucking way to the nearest town, I'm 
afraid," Sharon continued, circling a finger 
over the approximate area that they were. "How 
come you don't know? Don't you live round 
here?"

Buttercup looked at Tracey and Sharon with a 
frown, as if she were only just beginning to 
realise that the girls were not themselves 
local. She examined their faces and smiled 
broadly at Tracey, who still stood several 
metres back, perhaps aware of the curious 
affect she was having on the girl. "Can't you 
guess?" she asked. "Isn't it obvious? Don't you 
know who, or what, I am?"

"No," Sharon answered bluntly, looking up from 
the map. After showing the map, she was more 
concerned by the fact that although she knew 
that on the map they were in the green bit 
around the purple bit, they had no idea how 
much of the green bit they still had to walk 
through. She hoped it wasn't too much more.

"We don't come from this country," offered 
Tracey as a sort of explanation. "We're 
tourists."

"Really! I can't believe it! Are you really?" 
asked Buttercup, looking at Tracey's friend for 
confirmation. Sharon nodded. "I suppose it must 
be true if you say so. But what you doing so 
far from the tourist resorts? At least, I 
didn't think there were any tourist resorts 
near here."

Tracey spoke and was surprised by how cracked 
her voice was and how thick it was with an 
emotion she didn't really understand. "We were 
on holiday in Throb. And we couldn't pay our 
bill. So we done a bunk. And we've been walking 
to Gomorrah." 

"Even though there's a war?"

"Apparently, we stand a much better chance than 
by going via the normal channels. And anyway 
there's only the sea or Sodom to choose between 
otherwise."

"No choice at all," admitted Buttercup. "Unless 
you're very good swimmers." 

"We've had a fucking awful time since we left 
Throb," Sharon elaborated. "It's been so 
fucking hard. We got beat up by a fucking 
teacher. And we've had nothing decent to eat. 
And we ain't even had any fucking ciggies. 
Buggery's a fucking awful country. No fucking 
disrespect meant. It being your fucking country 
and all. But it's one fucking shitty, pissing 
awful place. There's been fucking nothing to 
recommend it to fucking anyone."

"So you're fugitives," smiled Buttercup warmly 
as Tracey nervously walked towards her. "I'm a 
fugitive too, you know. From the Royal Court. 
Well, not quite the Royal Court: but from 
behind the Big Wall. I've just escaped."

"How did you manage that?"

"It wasn't easy. But I used to make love with 
one of the guards quite often and I managed to 
steal her keys. I had to kill her, though. It 
wasn't pleasant and it certainly wasn't easy, 
but when you've been behind the wall that's not 
so difficult. There was so much blood though. 
She took so long to die! But she'd have been 
killed anyway when they'd found I'd escaped. 
And I've been free for two days now. No food. 
No people. Nothing. But free!"

"Was it so fucking awful behind the wall?" 
wondered Sharon. "It's been so shitty on this 
side of the wall, we just couldn't imagine it 
being worse on the other side."

"It is hell! You just can't believe! And you 
foreigners probably can't believe it anyway. 
I'd never believed it possible. Like all my 
classmates I'd been brought up to believe in a 
much more pleasant world than this. Like all 
the other girls in my school, we'd been 
prepared as sacrificial virgins. We were taught 
how to love, and never even knew that clothes 
ever existed. We watched Buggery television: 
and as far as we knew that's what real life was 
really like." 

Buttercup sat down cross-legged, and the two 
other girls sat down beside her: Tracey 
stretched out on the ragged grass and Sharon 
with her knees pulled up to her chin. "I 
enjoyed school. I was good at lessons and was 
always amongst the best girls in the sex 
lessons. We all looked forward to the day when 
we'd go to the Royal Court and meet His Royal 
Highness. Our only dreams were to be fucked by 
the King and maybe his Queen. We masturbated 
every day in Regal Studies over his image and 
believed that he would be the greatest lover in 
the world.

"When we were fifteen, just two years ago, our 
school years were over. Most girls (the ones we 
didn't think were so lucky) were taken out of 
school to become teachers, actresses or sex 
hostesses for the tourist industry. We thought 
we were the blessed ones as we were packed 
together in luxury carriages in such a frenzy 
of excitement to head to the world behind the 
wall."

Buttercup sighed, and then smiled broadly at 
Tracey. "Oh! It's so good to meet some friendly 
faces. I've not met anyone since I escaped. I 
thought I'd never meet anyone. How long have 
you been in the woods?"

"Too fucking long!" grunted Sharon.

"What was it like behind the wall?" asked 
Tracey, somehow too shy too use pejoratives as 
freely as her friend.

"We'd been told what to expect. It would be 
such a glorious place to be and above all we 
would have the privilege of serving at the 
Royal Court. We'd lose our virginity, and then 
we'd live in a world of luxury several times 
greater than that we'd been used to.

"At first when we'd arrived behind the wall, it 
seemed that it was true. The degree of luxury 
the nobility enjoy is incredible. As we were 
driven along we saw enormous palaces, gardens, 
swimming pools, gold statues everywhere. It 
seemed like we'd died and gone to heaven. The 
carriage stopped and we were escorted out of 
the carriage by women wearing clothes. It was 
the first time in our lives any of us had ever 
seen clothes. And it was a shock. The entire 
concept of clothing had just never occurred to 
us. The idea was so totally foreign. In actual 
fact, these women weren't wearing that many 
clothes and what they were was all made of 
rubber. They certainly didn't cover their groin 
or breasts, but they were skin-tight. They also 
wore make-up (which we'd seen on television 
but not applied so thickly and unnaturally). 
Each of us was chaperoned by a single woman 
who took us away from our friends. I've never 
seen any of my friends from school ever again. 

"The woman who took me was quite rough. She 
took me into a chamber and started making love 
to me in a loveless way I'd never had love made 
to me before. When she'd finished, she washed 
me with soap and cream in the most solicitous 
way. Then she announced that I was officially 
classified as a Beta Plus. 'What does that 
mean?' I asked. 'It means, my love, that you 
won't have your virginity taken by the Royal 
Family. And certainly not by His Magnificent 
Royal Highness (May He Live Forever)!' At that 
time there was a different King. He certainly 
didn't live forever. 'Only Alpha Plus girls get 
that privilege.' she said. 'But you're still 
very lucky. You're assigned to the Minister of 
Agriculture and Forestry, His Grandiloquence, 
the Baron of White Flower.' And indeed that's 
where I did go. And nobody ever told me that 
sex could be so horrible!"

Buttercup paused and smiled again. Tracey was 
sure she was smiling at her, and she felt 
herself blushing. What was happening to her? 
She smiled back at Buttercup, feeling her face 
crack in a newly unaccustomed way. When did she 
last smile? "What do you mean: he was 
horrible?"

"He was with me for about two hours with two 
other girls who'd also just graduated. I was 
slapped, beaten, buggered, and had my 
maidenhead taken. And in the most brutal and 
careless way. Nothing like the pampered 
sensitive way I'd been told it would be. 
Afterwards I was covered with bruises! I had 
raw red marks down my back where he'd beaten me 
with a stick. But at least I hadn't had a chair 
broken on my head like one girl who was knocked 
unconscious and had her nose broken. And I 
didn't have one of my hands sliced off with a 
carving knife like the other girl. There was 
blood everywhere! And while this was all 
happening, we were watched by an audience of 
the Baron's court and friends. And they all 
applauded his most gross actions. The most foul 
and disgusting, the more they were cheering 
him. I was so humiliated and bewildered. No one 
had told me it would be like this!"

Buttercup sighed deeply as she remembered these 
painful hours. Despite herself, Tracey found a 
small tear drip out of the corner of her eye. 
Who could ever treat such a beautiful girl so 
badly? 

"Perhaps it was because I was so violently 
sick. My vomit was everywhere. And I'd even 
shat from fright. Would I be the next one to 
lose an arm? Or worse? Maybe it was because the 
Baron had had his fill with the other two that 
I came off relatively lightly.

"When I went to bed after my first night, I 
just cried and cried. I was assigned a pleasant 
enough chamber which I shared with the other 
two girls who'd been with me and the Baron. The 
girl with the broken nose just lay there with 
her eyes closed and shivered. I wondered if 
she'd ever wake up. The other just sat on a 
chair with her eyes wide open staring at her 
bandaged bloody stump, shaking backwards and 
forwards. And backwards and forwards. And from 
that moment, I swore I'd do whatever possible 
to escape from that world."

"Do you want to come to Gomorrah with us, 
then?" Tracey asked.

Buttercup looked deep into Tracey's eyes with a 
directness and a love which melted her away to 
her core. Was she falling in love with a woman? 
She coughed nervously. No woman, however 
beautiful, could be better than cock. "Can I, 
please?" Buttercup asked. "I don't want to be a 
burden."

Tracey could hardly answer. She nodded her head 
under Buttercup's spell. It was left to Sharon 
to answer. "The more's the merrier," she said 
supporting Tracey around the waist. "Of course 
you fucking can!"

Buttercup knelt in front of the two girls and 
stretched an arm out onto Tracey's knee. The 
hand was warm and firm, and Tracey shuddered. 
"I'd be so grateful!" Buttercup pleaded, her 
hand stroking up and down Tracey's thigh which 
burned from the feel of it (or was it from all 
the scratches and bruises she had?) And then, 
sensing a lack of resistance, Buttercup leaned 
further forward and with her other stroked 
Tracey's arm, while her first hand slid towards 
the battered and bruised and itching vagina. 
And then, Tracey didn't know how, Buttercup's 
fingers were firmly grasping her cunt, while 
Sharon's arm was around her back, and 
Buttercup's lips parted slowly and sensuously. 
And then they were on her mouth, and a warm 
melting liquid kiss melded itself on her own 
passionate kisses.

Sharon sniffed as she watched Buttercup make 
love to her friend, taking her arm off Tracey, 
as the two girls sank onto the grass. Three, or 
was it four, days since they'd had sex, 
suddenly here was Tracey getting all fucking 
soppy with a girl they'd only just met. It was 
by no means the first time she'd watched her 
friend having sex with someone else, even a 
woman, but she couldn't recall her being so 
weirdly soppy and awkward about it. But there 
was no way she could deny how beautiful 
Buttercup was. She felt strangely hot herself, 
but she reminded herself it was cock she 
preferred. She wasn't a fucking dyke. Even when 
Buttercup's other hand somehow found its way to 
her own cunt, and she too, despite her 
tiredness and exhaustion, melted into a 
sensuous pleasure that no one had given her 
before. No one at home. No one in Throb. Not 
even the man on the beach with the ten inch 
prick with the slight kink in it. Nor the two 
men at the club who'd fucked her for well over 
two hours. And none of the women she'd had, 
even Tracey (in fact especially not Tracey) had 
made her feel like this before. She gasped and 
panted as the three girls stroked and licked 
and grappled with each other in the dappled 
light of the forest clearing, her cunt burning 
with a heat that was only matched by the fury 
of her orgasm as it erupted unprompted from 
inside her. She choked and coughed and then 
collapsed onto the ground, watching through her 
slightly opened eyes as Tracey and Buttercup 
dry humped each other amongst the bluebells and 
mossy dew.

Eventually, after the most blissful rest either 
of the friends had had since Throb, intertwined 
amongst each other, it was necessary to start 
walking. Which they did silently and somehow 
overwhelmed by the change of circumstances. 
Tracey and Sharon led, following the route 
indicated so indistinctly on the map, with 
glimpses of the wall visible in the distance. 

It was Buttercup who broke the uneasy silence 
and asked the two girls all sorts of questions 
about the holiday experience that they had 
enjoyed before absconding. 

"It was fucking magic!" exclaimed Sharon, 
remembering the men who'd fucked her and their 
days of luxurious depravity.

"It's a bit like that behind the wall in a 
way," Buttercup explained, pushing aside a low 
hanging branch that threatened to scratch her 
face. "Only there, it's done wholly for the 
benefit of the aristocracy and favoured 
ministers. And by all accounts, their tastes 
are somewhat more depraved than you ever saw on 
your holiday. It's all very sadomasochistic and 
violent. The boys are the ones who get the 
roughest treatment, I think. There's a kind of 
homosexual bias amongst the inner court. The 
lifespan for a servant is not very long. And 
almost everyone who's not related to royalty is 
a servant. All you've got to do is attract 
someone's attention by being too attractive, 
growing old, having an injury, or just being 
there, and then you'll just somehow disappear. 
It might be after some sex game or other. Or 
you might just get sent off to the front. It's 
the men who get the worst of this, and so there 
aren't many men behind the wall."

"Are these Barons and Lords and so on really 
rich?" wondered Sharon who had always been 
fascinated by the lives of the rich and famous. 
At home she'd often read magazine articles 
about the eccentricities and depravities of 
millionaires and rock stars.

"I got to know a little about them while I was 
there, from talking to people. And although 
luxury's all I've ever known really, I'd say 
that they must be very rich. The nobility have 
gardens, mansions, palaces and so forth which 
are truly astonishing. There's so much of it. 
It's quite easy to get lost in the grounds and 
never get found. There are rumours of whole 
communities that do that. They just hide under 
the very noses of royalty in the depths of 
their estates. And the luxuries of private 
cinemas, enormous swimming pools, monstrous 
cars, private armies, private helicopters and 
yachts. It's too much!"

Tracey might have been poor at sums at school, 
but she had a vague idea what the value of 
money was. "Where'd they get their fucking 
wealth from? I mean, this is a poor country!"

"Yeah!" agreed Sharon. "In comparison to most 
people we've seen here we're like fucking 
millionaires. I mean this country's got 
nothing. It doesn't make cars. It doesn't sell 
much food. I've never seen anything back home 
with 'Made In Buggery' written on it."

Buttercup smiled at the idea of something being 
labelled 'Made In Buggery'. "Buggery makes its 
money from sex," she answered.

"Sex?" wondered Tracey, frowning quizzically.

"Yes," agreed Buttercup. "I've only heard about 
this. But what I've heard is that Sex Tourism 
is really big business. That's why there's so 
much of it in a country where most of it is out 
of bounds to foreigners and where everything 
behind the wall is out of bounds to even people 
from Buggery. Of my friends at school, a lot 
ended up in Sex Tourism. I don't know what 
they're doing now, of course. And there are 
even schools and colleges that specialise in 
teaching it. The art of sex tourism, I'm told, 
is to exercise no discretion at all in what 
sexual relations you have."

"Like prostitution?" suggested Sharon, who'd 
once seriously considered this as a career 
option. After all she was always just giving it 
away. Why not get a bit back from it?

"What's 'prostitution'?" wondered Buttercup. "I 
don't think I've ever heard that word before." 

"Is it just sex tourism that makes money?" 
wondered Tracey, who decided to rescue her 
friend from having to provide a complex 
explanation.

"No," said Buttercup, pushing a strand of golden 
hair out of her face and directing her 
sparkling eyes at Tracey in a direct way that 
still unsettled her, even after their last 
couple of hours of walking together. "It's 
substantial but not crucial. Buggery is the 
leading supplier of pornography and sex related 
entertainment in the world. Apparently (and 
Buggery is proud of this) it is the premier 
supplier in terms of quality and explicitness 
as well as quantity. I don't know the exact 
statistics, but over 95% of all the world's 
snuff movies come from Buggery. The film 
industry produces some 40% of the world's sex 
films, and some of the biggest porn stars are 
from Buggery. The country also supplies a 
substantial proportion of hard core 
pornographic books and magazines, and so much 
pornographic television that the country's 
national television station is just a 
pornographic propaganda machine."

"Is sex really enough for these people to get 
so rich?"

"I'm sure there's reinvestment as well. But 
it's not just the royalty that has to be 
financed, there's also the war with Gomorrah. 
It's an expensive war. And it's only 
sustainable because Buggery tolerates a very 
high death rate."

"A high death rate?" asked Tracey. 

"I don't know more than that," Buttercup 
admitted. "But behind the wall, it's the main 
reason why there aren't too many men there. 
They just go to the front to fight against 
Gomorrah and never return. Mind you! They're 
maybe the lucky ones. The ones that got out. At 
least they're no longer going to be mutilated 
by the nobility just for their perverted 
pleasure."

"Like your friends you were telling us about?"

"Yes, that's right," sighed Buttercup. "I was 
soon the only one left in that room, although 
other girls joined me later. The girl who'd had 
her hand cut off had one more session with the 
baron, who apparently likes amputated stumps 
stuck up his anus and other places. She didn't 
survive. The girl with the broken nose was 
reclassified as an Epsilon, and either left for 
the sex industry or the war. She would never 
have appeared on national television with a 
broken nose. That sort of thing's never 
allowed, but she might've appeared in a violent 
sex movie perhaps, where apparently there's a 
preference for beautiful girls with small 
defects.

"And I was a survivor. And that's what I've 
been ever since. I've avoided having sex with 
the baron, which probably explains some of it. 
I've been fucked by the baroness a few times 
and one of their children took a fancy to me 
when he was just eleven. On the whole, though, 
I've just been one of many on the Baron's 
estate who're supposed to have regular sex with 
each other. It's an ambience he apparently 
enjoys. 

"My instructress explained my duties to me. I 
wasn't just to stay there in luxury, I was 
told. Besides unquestioning sex with whoever 
would so chose, which was fairly frequent, (but 
I'd been trained for that) I was to work in the 
garden. My school results showed that I had an 
inclination towards biology and horticulture. 
This was true, but I'd never had the ambition 
of tending flowers and grass all day and every 
day. But at least I was out in the open air, 
and in a position much less exposed to the 
attention of nobility or whoever. I was never 
to wear clothes. Only certain privileged people 
like the instructresses and nobility and police 
have that privilege. I was to remove all bodily 
hair, and, as a gardener, to look as natural as 
possible. Not all girls have such favourable 
conditions. Some had to shave their heads. Some 
had extensive body piercing. Some had very 
peculiar things done to their body. All 
according to their roles in the Baron's estate. 

"My instructress had a very limited part in my 
life from then on. Her task was to prepare new 
girls for the Baron's pleasures and then tell 
them what to do next. I was just a gardener who 
worked with other girls and one or two men and 
a couple of eunuchs."

"Eunuchs?" wondered Sharon, thinking about what 
a waste of cock this would be.

"Yes," sighed Buttercup. "This was another 
taste of the Baron's. In fact, he liked to 
conduct the actual castration. Apparently that 
was a sport he particularly enjoyed." Buttercup 
glanced towards a patch of wall which could be 
seen in the distance, and then said with a 
touch of bitterness: "In comparison to most 
people, I've spent most of the last two years 
in relative comfort in amongst the Baron's 
herbaceous borders."




	VIII


Buttercup's skills extended far beyond the 
sensual as Sharon and Tracey became 
increasingly aware as they continued their 
tramp through the woods. It was she who told 
them how to orientate their progress on the map 
by reference to the position of the Sun and its 
height in the sky. This meant that they were 
able to get further away from the wall, which, 
as Buttercup reminded them, was probably not 
very safe when there was almost certainly a 
hunt being organised for her. "They wouldn't 
like to encourage others to escape, if they 
knew they could get away with it," she 
commented. Despite their desperation, 
Buttercup's presence somehow lifted both the 
girls' spirits, although it was clear that she 
responded positively to Tracey's more 
unambiguous attraction to her. She took 
Tracey's hand in hers (something no man or 
woman had ever done in her all her years of 
love-making) and squeezed it occasionally in a 
reassuring way as they walked under the 
overhanging branches and avoided nettles and 
bracken. Sharon accepted this reluctantly, but 
as she reminded herself as she watched her best 
friend and her new lover gaily swinging their 
arms from clasped hands, it was cock not cunt 
she relished. Even when she responded with a 
faint tingle when Buttercup occasionally 
touched her arm or kissed her encouragingly on 
the cheek.

The trek through the woods seemed to go on 
longer than either Sharon or Tracey had 
anticipated, but then neither of them had had 
much experience of, or previous inclination 
towards, either map-reading or walking. In 
fact, it was clear that they were actually 
making faster progress with Buttercup than they 
were before. They were having fewer rests and 
they seemed to have gained new energy to stride 
forward faster and further than previously. As 
the night drew in, they actually found a 
deserted cottage which seemed suitable for them 
to rest the night. This would be luxury 
compared to where they'd been sleeping the last 
few nights, even though it was in a very 
dilapidated state. Half the cottage was totally 
collapsed and less than half of its roof was in 
any sense intact. However, it kept the night 
chill away from the girls' bare flesh: 
especially Buttercup who didn't even have as 
much as a blouse to keep her warm. They made 
space for themselves in the weeds and rubble of 
what were once rooms and watched the shadows 
lengthen as day came rather abruptly to a 
close.

It was now that Buttercup's skills as a 
gardener came to the fore as she somehow 
managed to locate some potatoes, carrots, 
turnips and other vegetables that were still 
growing in the abandoned ruins of what had once 
been a vegetable garden. Many of these were 
vegetables neither Sharon nor Tracey would ever 
have considered eating before. They looked so 
bland and not usually found on pizzas or inside 
burgers, but now they seemed like the most 
perfect food in the world. Soon all three girls 
were resting together in the shadows of the 
trees cast by the half moon, sitting down in 
front of a fire of twigs and small branches 
started by Tracey's cigarette lighter in which 
roasted the vegetables that Buttercup had 
tugged out of the ground and had prepared with 
some sharp stones. Sharon sat slightly to one 
side enjoying the warmth given off by the 
flames, while Tracey and Buttercup lay 
together. 

When the food was ready, it tasted better to 
the girls than the most delicious fried chicken 
or doner kebab had ever done before. Better 
even than a chicken chow mein with sweet and 
sour sauce, or a chicken vindaloo. It was also 
probably the plainest food they'd ever eaten. 
No ketchup, vinegar, mayonnaise or even salt. 
But after such a poor diet to which they'd 
become accustomed, Sharon and Tracey felt 
somehow invigorated and energised. And it was 
clear from the bright sparkle in Tracey's eyes 
that this new vigour and energy was to be 
directed towards one particular object.

Buttercup, as always, needed no prompting. 
After allowing sufficient time for the food to 
sink into their system, she crawled on her 
hands and knees towards Tracey, who was 
grinning in a curiously stupid fashion, and 
gently pinched the folds of her vagina with the 
forefingers of her right hand. Tracey moaned in 
a strangely full- throated way, and gracefully 
parted her legs so that Buttercup could swivel 
round and engage more fingers and her tongue on 
the scarred and embattled terrain of her cunt. 
She sank back onto her elbows, her head back, 
staring up at the half moon through the tangled 
shadows of the overhanging trees, while 
Buttercup expertly massaged, licked and 
caressed her sensitive and, oh so tender!, 
erogenous zones towards further gasps of 
unrestrainable pleasure and near ecstasy.

Sharon sat cross-legged watching her best 
friend make love to someone else. Not for the 
first time, of course, but usually it had been 
some hairy-arsed, winnets- blessed man, with 
saliva dripping from his lower lip and a prick 
that usually either came to soon or never got 
really stiff enough. Sharon was aware that she 
was beginning to get jealous of the growing 
friendship between her closest friend and this 
beautiful naked girl, but there was no denying 
that Buttercup's presence was undoubtedly a 
good thing. She was helping the two friends 
navigate through the woods, keeping up their 
otherwise dejected spirits and was decidedly 
more practical-minded than either of them 
was. 

Sharon watched as Tracey responded to 
Buttercup's advances and returned them by 
crawling beneath  her body and taking the 
lips of Buttercup's vagina in her teeth. Tracey 
had never experimented with this sexual 
position of mutual oral sex before. Blow jobs 
usually just led to fucking. No blokes, until 
she'd come to Buggery, had ever shown any 
interest in putting their tongues to her cunt. 
Perhaps it was the smell of fish and piss that 
put them off, she wondered. But now this 
wonderful woman with a supermodel body was 
tonguing her liked she'd never been tongued 
before, and as she climaxed urgently, 
passionately, and loudly, she knew that her own 
reciprocation had really been clumsy and 
awkward. She definitely needed more practise. 
She collapsed in exhaustion. All the passion 
had exhausted her small reservoir of energy, 
and she huddled in Buttercup's comforting sun-
tanned arms.

Sharon smiled at the two of them, too tired and 
disorientated to resent Tracey's sexual 
selfishness. And anyway Tracey had been gagging 
for it all day. Sharon was still a little 
uneasy about making love to a woman. Where was 
the cock in that? Buttercup smiled back at 
Sharon and ran her tongue over her lips, 
clearly advertising her continued availability. 
Sharon was just not interested, which was 
unusual for her. 

Somehow or other, conversation began about 
Tracey and Sharon's life before they'd come to 
Buggery. Buttercup listened to their account of 
life back home, and seemed to find it 
tremendously exotic and even bizarre. The very 
concept of night- clubs and pubs took some 
explaining. The girls' accounts of their sexual 
exploits didn't impress her at all, however. 
Buttercup didn't find anything very adventurous 
or exciting in their tales about making love to 
several men at the same time, having both anal 
and vaginal intercourse simultaneously, losing 
your knickers on the train or being found by 
your parents with a boy's prick in your mouth.

Indeed, some of her comments rather shocked the 
girls, like: "Didn't you ask your parents to 
join in?" or "Why didn't you make love with 
girls more often?" or "Is it true that you're 
not supposed to show your vagina in public?"

"Don't you ever get to find out about anything 
in the world outside of Buggery?" wondered 
Sharon getting a little exasperated by 
Buttercup's show of ignorance.

"You've seen our television stations, haven't 
you?" Buttercup responded sweetly. "When I was 
at school I genuinely believed that the real 
world was like that."

"But since then... When you were behind the 
wall... Didn't you find out more?"

"A little more. But not much. They've got 
another television station which is relayed by 
cable behind the wall, which is a bit different 
to what you can see at the tourist resorts. But 
it's no better for finding out what's beyond 
Buggery's borders."

"What's that station like?" wondered Sharon. 
"Does it have sex in it? Or is it a normal 
television station?"

"It's more normal than what you've seen, in 
that people wear clothes (or some clothes) on 
it. But it's no better for information. And 
it's horribly cruel and violent. And that's 
because it suits the depraved tastes of the 
Buggery aristocracy."

"What could be more depraved than what we've 
already seen!" snorted Sharon. "This whole 
country is just one bunch of pervie bastards. 
There's nothing sane or normal here!"

"Well! There's a lot of violence. And a lot of 
sex. There are a lot of sports and game shows: 
and they're not the nice sports like you told 
me you see on tourist television. There are a 
lot of gladiatorial sports. There's one sport 
which is basically where two men armed with 
knives have to fight to castrate the other. The 
winner is the one who (by whatever means) 
manages to slice off his opponent's testicles 
and to hold them aloft. That's pretty 
disgusting. And often, of course, one or both 
of them die. There are others which are just 
fights to the death, where the loser survives 
at least long enough to see that he or she has 
lost. And when it involves disembowelling and 
live organ removal, just how they lost in 
gruesome detail.

"There is wrestling: but the only kind of 
wrestling you see is where the aim of the 
exercise is to anally fuck the opponent. It 
looks really odd as two men who have to keep 
their penises as erect as they can (so they're 
always masturbating themselves as they fight) 
have to try and get their opponent into a 
position that they can force their prick into 
the other's arsehole. There are team sports 
too: but many of those also involve death, 
castration and sodomy.

"Another game is where a person has to run away 
from others, including dogs, whose task is to 
rape him or her. This might take place in a 
maze, where the victim has no idea who or what 
might be around the next bend or corner. In 
this case the victim has to be able to both run 
quite fast and to be able to fight off the 
attackers. The victim is considered to have won 
when he or she has reached wherever the end 
point is and to have escaped anal intercourse. 
And, for a woman, vaginal intercourse as well. 
It's quite possible for a victim to win because 
she's only been fucked but not been buggered."

"It can't all be sport on television?" wondered 
Tracey who'd never really followed sport much 
at home, although she liked watching wrestling 
for the pleasure of watching the men's bodies.

"There are films as well. These must be made 
for export in most cases and some are very 
well-made. But they're very violent too. And 
I'm sure the violence is real. When characters 
are slowly mutilated to death, or repeatedly 
beaten, or have parts of their body removed 
then you can be sure it's the real thing. And 
there's usually some rape involved in it. It 
seems that it's impossible to kill or harm 
someone without having sex with them. Often the 
victims are restrained by ropes or manacles. 
Sometimes they are just beaten into 
compliance."

"The actors can't have a long career can they?" 
wondered Tracey. 

"Not if they are deemed to be villains or if 
they are one of those to be attacked early in 
the films. But even those who are considered 
the heroes or heroines are not that nice. They 
seem not to care if they gouge out the eyes of 
their victims, or castrate them, or slice off 
their limbs, or disembowel them. Even if they 
are supposed to be acting on behalf of goodness 
and decency. And they are just as likely to 
rape their victims. The main difference is that 
the good characters will always survive. 
However, there was one character whose descent 
towards her final death started off with her 
being considered a heroine. But in the process 
of that film she had both of her arms severed 
just below the shoulders. Her suffering was 
grotesque and genuine, as near the start of the 
film her arms were cut off with a knife while 
being raped. She spent the rest of the film 
having to adapt to her new physical deficiency. 
Something which was treated relatively 
sympathetically. She was a very beautiful girl. 
Somehow or other she managed with the 
assistance of others in bringing her attackers 
to their own gross and disturbing deaths, 
inevitably including their own mutilation. Then 
I saw her in another film where this time she 
had her legs cut off with an axe just below the 
hips and spent the rest of the film hobbling 
about as just a torso. Not surprising the last 
film I saw her in she was repeatedly gang-raped 
and then tortured until her death. This film 
had very little pretence of a plot. And I can't 
imagine she could have enjoyed even the 
smallest part of it."

Sharon didn't enjoy the idea of Buggery 
television very much. "Can't we change the 
subject," she suggested. "Look at the sky!"

She pointed up at the half moon through the 
lattice of branches in the wood. Overhead there 
was a faint roar of an aeroplane going by. The 
two friends watched the aeroplane's tail lights 
sadly.

"That's where we ought to be!" Tracey said. 

"I'd do anything to be watching a normal game 
show on television," Sharon mused. "To go in a 
pub and get a pint of lager. Get really pissed, 
and get fucked by some fat greasy slob with 
spew down his tee-shirt."

Buttercup sighed. "I'm sure we'll get there. I 
see on your map that we can't be too far from 
the front with Buggery." 

"It's still fucking thirty miles. And it's not 
all fucking woods," Sharon elaborated. 

"Two days!" mused Tracey leaning her head 
wearily on Buttercup's shoulder, long hair 
brushing against her face. "At fifteen miles a 
day, we'll do it in two days!" 



	IX


The girls had been in woods for many days now 
and had become rather accustomed to their 
remoteness from the civilised world. Sharon 
commented that at home they'd have been bound 
to meet someone walking in the woods, but as 
Buttercup pointed out from the map there were 
just no places near them where people would be 
likely to be coming from. As she elaborated, 
people in Buggery didn't have the leisure time 
to be walking in the woods for no purpose.

However, they did at last come across someone 
else, as they emerged out of thick wood into a 
clearing. It was a woman gathering dried wood. 
Typically for this country, she was naked with 
a shaved head. As they had seen no one for so 
many days, it seemed sensible just to girls 
stay quiet and still in the hope that they 
wouldn't be noticed while she was working. 

"You don't have to hide you know," the woman 
called out to them. "I know you're there." She 
picked up her bundle of twigs and branches and 
walked towards where they were.

Sharon, Tracey and Buttercup emerged nervously 
from the shadows and stood in the speckled 
sunlight. The woman stared at them with a 
quizzical expression, passing her eyes from one 
girl to another and back again. She had 
probably been very attractive once, and she was 
probably not much older than thirty. Most of 
her teeth were missing. Her nose was broken and 
slightly twisted. A jagged scar disfigured one 
of her breasts. "My! You're a funny crowd! Are 
you on the run?"

Tracey nodded her head. "We're on our way to 
Gomorrah."

"Gomorrah!" exclaimed the woman with an amused 
smile. "Well, you've got to have somewhere to 
run to if you're running away I suppose." She 
dropped her bundle to her feet and hobbled 
towards them with the faltering step of a much 
older person. "You'll be pleased to know that 
it's not far to go now. The war zone's really 
close to here. It used to be a lot further 
away. Many kilometres away. But it's been 
getting steadily closer as the war's gone on. 
Bit like the tide coming in, I guess."

The girls felt strangely awe-struck by the 
disfigured woman. She was so skinny, with the 
outline of her ribs and hips showing clearly 
through her tanned bare skin. Her feet were 
flattened and rough. Her toe- and finger-nails 
were crooked and broken. Many of her teeth were 
missing, particularly at the front. Back home, 
Sharon and Tracey had never seen anyone in such 
a bad way, except after a good scrap in the pub 
car park. And then it'd be mostly patched up 
when the hospital had got them to them.

"You're a strange lot. I've never seen anyone 
like you before. We get a lot of runaways round 
here. Mostly to seek a better life in Gomorrah. 
Or anywhere really. But you're the strangest 
yet. I suppose you're worried about being 
caught and sent back. And that's why you're 
wandering in the woods."

"There's a lot of police about!" Sharon said.

"Well, that may be so. But there's no reason 
here why they'd be bothered about you lot in 
particular. Law and order sort of starts to 
disintegrate round here. No one can be bothered 
to enforce His Majesty's Justice when you spend 
all your time dodging bullets and things. And 
that's why I live here."

"Why? Because there's no law and order?" 
wondered Buttercup.

The woman didn't really answer. She looked at 
Buttercup's beautiful naked figure with a 
horrible lascivious leer. "My! You're a pretty 
one!" she exclaimed. "You're the prettiest one 
I've ever seen! I'd love to have you suck my 
cunt!" The woman scratched her chin 
contemplatively with a hand from which two 
fingers were missing. 

The woman walked right up to Buttercup and 
stood right in front of her. Tracey had become 
sufficiently sensitive to her new lover to 
notice her flinch ever so slightly as the woman 
approached. She answered Buttercup's question. 
"No, sweetheart. Where there's no law and 
order, then you can survive. It's the law which 
kills people. In most of Buggery you can't live 
at all when you lose your looks. Or like me get 
brutally and violently raped by the police. You 
don't stand a chance in most of Buggery. You 
last as long as you can, and that's only so 
long as the police don't take an interest in 
you for one reason or another. Or you don't get 
called up for fighting against the Gomorrans. 
Round here no one gives a fuck. There's no 
eugenic policy - official or otherwise." 

The woman raised her other hand, which still 
had a full set of fingers, and without ceremony 
or introduction stroked Buttercup's breasts. 
"You'll want some food, won't you? Something to 
eat. You can't buy it round here. You can only 
grow it, steal it or sell your body for it."

"Can't you buy anything at the villages?" 
wondered Tracey. 

"Villages!" sniffed the woman. "You're only 
five kilometres from the front. Villages can't 
survive here. They get bombed to pieces. You 
have to live in a bunker to survive round here. 
There are no villages anywhere around her! The 
nearest you have to a village must be 
Tranquillity. That's a real hovel which 
supplies sex to the soldiers before they head 
off to fight in the war. And probably die. You 
could buy sex there, but not any food. You can 
buy sex here if you want. And you can sell it 
too. It's a lot less precious than food, I can 
tell you! If you want food you're going to have 
to follow me. And you're going to have to pay 
for it! But not with money! What could I do 
with money round here?"

The woman looked at the girls. "Well! Are you 
coming with me or you going to stay in the 
fucking woods forever? And is any one of you 
going to help me carry these fucking twigs?" 

Sharon nodded and reluctantly stepped forward. 
"Yeah! We'll come. At least you're not police!"

The woman smiled grimly. "And you can call me 
Joy by the way. That's what I'm called, but 
that doesn't necessarily describe me."

She picked up the bundle that lay on the 
ground, which was tied together by more 
flexible branches, and lunged it over to 
Sharon. She gasped as she took the weight off 
Joy. Fuck! They were heavy! She swung them over 
her shoulder, feeling the rough branches 
against her skin through the blouse, and 
followed Joy as she hobbled ahead of them 
through the woods. Fortunately, Tracey and 
Buttercup took turns in helping her carry the 
bundle, so it wasn't so bad. But even five 
minutes at a time was more weight than she'd 
ever carried before. They walked in single line 
through a tortuous route that seemed to follow 
no obvious paths, stepping over fallen logs and 
ducking under tangled bracken. Now that Tracey 
was carrying the bundle and cursing every 
fucking twig while she did so, Sharon  
noticed for the first time that Joy had a bit 
of a limp, and that half of one of her buttocks 
was missing. 

Also for the first time, as they stumbled 
along, the girls began to appreciate just how 
close they must be to the war zone. They passed 
the rotting hull of a crashed aeroplane, parts 
of which were still hanging from the branches 
of the trees. And they passed a few holes that 
Tracey at first thought had been dug, but which 
Buttercup pointed out were more likely to be 
craters caused by falling bombs. 

And then, for the first time in days, they were 
out of the woods and found themselves on a road 
which stretched away from the wood across open 
fields into the distance. The three girls 
paused in the unfamiliar, open space. They 
could see more than several yards ahead. And 
the bright rays of the sun in the open air was 
overwhelming after the speckled light and dark 
shadows they'd become accustomed to. 

Joy did not appreciate their pause. "Fuck's 
sake!" She yelled. "It's fucking dangerous 
here. You don't want to get shot, do you? And 
don't wander around randomly. There are mines, 
unexploded bombs and all things round here. So 
just follow where I go and don't even think of 
making a fucking detour." She turned round with 
a grimace, and hobbled on as the unforgiving 
sun beat down on her and on the girls. Sharon's 
skin burnt in the bright light and the sharp 
pain of the heat became indistinguishable form 
the sharp pain of the branches she was 
carrying. But, from the advice she had been 
given, she was able to see the landscape in a 
new light. The many holes which dotted the 
uncultivated fields had definitely not been 
dug. They were too shallow and too strangely 
smooth. And the rusted hulks she could see in 
the distance were almost certainly not the 
tractors and cars like you'd expect to see in 
the country back home. They almost certainly 
served some military purpose.

After a mile or so of trudging through the 
desolate fields, Joy led them to what looked 
like some kind of a settlement. It was in fact 
the bombed remains of a tinned fruit factory, 
with a large commercial sign pointing to the 
foreman's office and industrial machinery 
scattered about. 

As they approached, they were able to see the 
other inhabitants of this place. Like Joy, they 
were all naked with shaved heads. Some were 
even young children: which was something Tracey 
and Sharon hadn't seen before in Buggery. But 
the vast majority of the people were other 
women. Very few were men. Nobody seemed to pay 
them any attention as they approached. Everyone 
seemed busy in their own affairs amongst the 
ruins of the factory, which still had 
inappropriate signs scattered about the place, 
pointing towards places like Reception, Head 
Office and Exit. 

Joy stopped by a sign reading Technical 
Services. "This used to be the main 
agricultural district of Buggery," she 
commented. "During the war with Sodom, this 
area was very prosperous, as all trade that 
didn't go by sea had to go via Gomorrah. So, a 
lot of people came to live round here. Nowadays 
nobody lives here except old people like me or 
people with more to fear from Law and Order 
than from living off all this shit."

"What sort of people?" wondered Sharon.

 "Men, for instance," Joy continued. "Not many 
men in Buggery. They all get sent off to the 
war if they can't be used in the sex and 
tourism industry. People with physical 
disabilities - like that girl there." She 
pointed at a very pretty girl of about sixteen 
who certainly didn't appear disabled. "She's 
deaf. She'd be dead as well anywhere but here. 
Deafness isn't tolerated. It's a wonder she 
didn't have her womb torn out like I did. But 
she's had a couple of little children. And 
they're not deaf."

Joy led the three girls down what had once been 
a corridor, but now without a roof over their 
heads seemed like just the gap between two 
buildings. She arrived at a hatch on the floor 
which she crouched over, lifted up with some 
effort with both hands and revealed a flight of 
metal steps descending into the dark. "Down 
here. But be careful! A lot of rungs are 
missing."

This was true, and Buttercup complained at the 
sharpness of the edges of the rungs on her bare 
feet. It was also very dark, so the three girls 
were quite frightened as they descended. Before 
they got to the bottom, however, the shaft was 
lit up by a light from below as Joy lit a 
candle with some matches. They now got a view 
of where they were. It was in fact a room that 
had once been a food store. All about the place 
was scattered an untidy miscellany of rugs and 
rubbish, which betrayed no sense of order, even 
to Tracey and Sharon who were used to relative 
disorder. In the corner of the room, there was 
a ragged mattress on which lay another woman, 
whose appearance was not nearly as decrepit as 
the first woman.

"This is Sweetness, my lover," announced Joy. 
"Sweetness is blind, so the only use she has to 
the world is to make love. Isn't that so, 
darling."

"I fuck all the time. To whoever's willing to 
pay us food for it," Sweetness explained. "Are 
you going to give us food for sex? I'm about 
ready for a fuck." Sweetness was a slim, in 
fact emaciated girl, perhaps only fourteen 
years old, with long, terribly matted, black 
hair which reached to her waist. Like everyone 
else though she was totally naked.

"Not tonight, Sweetness," Joy explained. "It's 
these girls who are going to give me pleasure 
today."

In fact it was more Buttercup than Sharon or 
Tracey who provided that honour. The two girls 
were deeply depressed by their environment, 
horrified by the physical appearance of their 
host, but nonetheless ravenously hungry. 
Buttercup, however, seemed to have no 
discriminatory faculties and more than 
satisfied Joy's lust, while Sweetness sat 
silently and disconsolately to one side. Tracey 
felt a mixture of disgust and jealousy as she 
watched Buttercup indulge in wild and 
passionate love with apparently just as much 
pleasure as she'd ever shown to her. But 
although Buttercup might have the energy, she 
reflected, somehow all the energy seemed to 
have sapped out of her. The relative calm and 
peace that had fallen upon her these last 
couple of days since they'd met Buttercup was 
being angrily consumed with the heat and rush 
of jealousy and hatred, as she watched 
Buttercup lick Joy's half-buttock and allowed 
Joy's tongue to push through the gaps in her 
teeth into the beauty of her vagina. Tracey 
could imagine every caress and every thrust and 
every nibble as if it was happening to her. As, 
of course, it had not so long before.

And Joy's appetite for sex was ravenous and 
ugly. She probed every orifice in Buttercup's 
body: her nostrils, her ears, her mouth and 
arse. She demanded that Buttercup push her 
tongue down her throat, into her anus, and to 
pay particular attention to the ripped and 
jagged edges of her torn labia. Every scar had 
to be licked, every wound and every part of her 
had to be treated as if it were a source of 
pleasure.

Only after Joy was fully satisfied, after 
several hours of fumbling, groping, penetration 
and nibbling in the candle-light, was the food 
at last prepared. And it really was not very 
pleasant. It was just a tasteless meat and 
vegetable stew on white rice. But nevertheless 
the friends launched into it with an appetite. 
As they ate greedily and voraciously, Sharon 
began to see more the advantages of having 
Buttercup in their company. Unlike Tracey, she 
had been able to watch Buttercup and Joy 
without too much jealousy. And, even, after 
having watched Tracey and Buttercup together, 
with a guilty feeling of having gained a kind 
of revenge. Sharon wouldn't have chosen to make 
love to such a disgusting (and smelly!) wreck 
of an individual like Joy. Nor was she too 
excited by the sullen, skeletal appearance of 
Sweetness. And now that Tracey had seen what a 
promiscuous slut Buttercup was, despite her 
obvious physical beauty, maybe she would lose 
her so obvious dykish obsession with the girl.

However, when the candle was about to be 
extinguished, Sharon found that there was 
actually a shortage of mattresses and that the 
two mattresses there were both in a filthy and 
sordid state. Tracey and Sharon shared the 
mattress with Sweetness who clung to them with 
a tenacity that had nothing do with any sexual 
passion and more to do with a desperation for 
their bodies' warmth. Sweetness occasionally 
stroked and caressed the two girls' bodies 
seemingly unconcerned by their unresponsiveness. 
This was almost comforting in the bleakness of 
their sleeping arrangements. Sharon had never 
slept so tightly against Tracey's body before, 
and she was dreading not only Sweetness' dyke 
intentions, but those that her best friend might 
be developing. Joy and Buttercup slept on the 
other mattress where they very soon resumed 
making love together as the night hours 
stretched ahead in the total blackness of the 
abandoned store-room.



	X


Sharon eventually got to sleep after tossing 
and turning in the dark fetid heat, crammed 
between Sweetness' and Tracey's own hot bodies, 
and long after the moaning and gasping ceased 
from the mattress where Buttercup was sleeping 
with Joy. When she awoke, it was on a lumpy 
mattress sodden with sweat and the strange 
sensations of a slobbery tactile probing in her 
vagina. As she blinked in the dark, her legs 
were wide open and she was enjoying the 
sensation despite herself. What was the 
feeling? It wasn't a prick. Not unless it was a 
peculiarly small and versatile one. And it 
wasn't fingers - the feeling was quite unlike 
that. As the sensation spread up her labia to 
her stomach, she established that it must be a 
tongue. No man had ever sucked her there 
before, and it was a pleasure she felt peculiar 
about enjoying. But who was it? There was no 
light at all in the dark store-room; no 
silhouetted figures, nothing but a frightening 
absence of sight.

"Tracey. Is that you?" Sharon wondered, 
thinking that her friend had perhaps mistaken 
her for Buttercup.

"You what?" answered Tracey in a sleepy voice. 
"What you want?"

"Are you fucking licking me?"

"What the fuck do you think? I'm your mate, not 
your fucking whatsit."

Sharon leaned up and groped at the head of 
whoever's head it was between her legs, 
secretly hoping that it was Buttercup (though 
why she wasn't sure).

"Ooh! That hurt! That's my eye!" shrieked 
Sweetness.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Don't you like it?"

"Don't fucking ask! Just get the fuck off me!" 
Sharon yelled into the dark.

A match was struck, and a candle lit. Joy stood 
up in front of them, with a strange leer. 
"Don't you like my darling Sweetness?" she 
asked with amusement.

"I'm no fucking dyke!"

"In this world, you get what you fucking get 
and you've got no fucking choice!" Joy said. 
"However, it's time me and Sweetness went to 
work."

Buttercup was still asleep on the mattress, but 
Joy rudely shook her awake. "Come on, my 
darling. We need to get some daylight!" After 
some very minor preparation, Joy led the way up 
the store-room rungs to the world outside. 
Actually, it was Sweetness who really led the 
way, bounding up the rungs, knowing exactly 
where to place her bare feet. She pushed up the 
hatch, Joy extinguished the candle she was 
carrying, and the girls were exposed to the 
harsh bright light of the morning sun through 
the slats of the bombed roof.

In the light, Sharon was at last able to see 
Sweetness more clearly. She was very thin, her 
ribs showing clearly through the stretched skin 
of her chest, and her pointed nipples prominent 
on otherwise uncontoured breasts. Her dark 
brown hair was matted and fell over her sharp 
angular shoulders, and unlike almost everyone 
else they had met she had no stud in her cunt. 
Her eyes had a haunting vacancy about them, the 
pupils and cornea spooky and undefined, and she 
never faced whoever it was she was speaking to 
or whoever it was speaking to her. She had 
prominent pinched cheeks and clearly defined 
cheek-bones, which gave a strangely puckered 
look to her mouth.

It was Sweetness who rushed ahead, clearly 
familiar with every bend and contour of the 
corridors in the ruined factory, with Joy and 
the three girls following. On the way, they 
passed other figures in the half-dark who 
looked up at them without much curiosity as 
they went by. They seemed to be preoccupied in 
other business which was mysterious and 
unidentifiable to Sharon and Tracey, but 
presumably had some purpose.

"What does everyone do here?" Tracey asked Joy 
as she dashed onward.

"Fuck knows! Stitching clothes. Grinding wheat. 
Rolling tobacco. How the fuck should I know? 
You do what you fucking can out here!"

"And what does Sweetness do?" Sharon found 
herself wondering, the sensation of liquid 
tongue still a vivid memory between her legs.

"She fucks," snorted Joy. "Or more precisely 
she gets fucked. We've got a stall, and when 
I'm not out scavenging in the woods, she takes 
whoever wants to take her."

"So she's a prostitute, then?"

"I haven't the smallest fucking idea what that 
is. Whatever you want to call it, it's all 
Sweetness can fucking do. But she's fucking 
good at it. Aren't you, Sweetness? You're a 
fucking good fuck, aren't you?"

Sweetness turned her head round and gazed 
sightlessly at Joy. "I do my best."

The girls soon exited the factory, and found 
themselves in a broad area where other people 
in the settlement were busy. Most like 
Sweetness had no clothes at all, but some had 
rags which hid some of the unsightly scars and 
wounds which was a common feature in the 
encampment. A man staggered past them hobbling 
on a large branch on the one leg and half a set 
of genitals that were left to him. His skin was 
tattooed all over with strange khaki-like 
splodges. He greeted Joy, and hobbled onwards.

"What happened to him?" Sharon asked.

"Oh! He's that rare thing: a deserter who 
didn't get shot escaping. However, he got away 
through a minefield, which explains his 
injuries. But at least he's alive!" Joy caught 
up with Sweetness who was standing by a 
battered foam mattress next to a wooden board 
where the letters 'SEX FOR SALE' were carved. 

"Well, here we are! Lie down, Sweetness!"

The young girl stretched out onto the mattress, 
leaning herself up on her shoulders, with her 
legs open and her shaved vagina on prominent 
display. Joy sat on a rock by the side of the 
mattress, and smiled sardonically at the three 
girls who stood around. 

"I guess selling sex is an option you girls can 
go for. Buttercup'd make you all like fucking 
aristocracy." 

"How much does it make?" Sharon asked, making a 
mental comparison with the cost of sex in 
Throb. "How much money do you charge for 
Sweetness?"

"Money! Money! There's no fucking use for 
fucking money here. What you gonna do with it? 
Clean your arse with it? No, all you'll get is 
food, candles, clothes if you want them, that 
kind of thing. But with fucking Buttercup 
you'll wipe up."

"Food, candles and clothes!" gasped Tracey. 
"That doesn't sound like it's fucking worth 
it!"

"Well, what do you fucking expect, dearie?" Joy 
sneered. "Cigarettes, booze and televisions? 
There's no fucking electricity here even if you 
could get those things. Anyway, you can just 
bugger off. I can see my first customer 
coming."

Sharon, Tracey and Buttercup stood discreetly 
back as a squat hairy man with a ragged cloak 
and a mangled arm approached carrying some 
turnips from whose ends were still dangling 
dried earth and roots. He gave the turnips to 
Joy, who examined them with a critical 
appraising eye. "Ten minutes!" she said to him, 
gesturing towards Sweetness. "Any more and it's 
on credit." The hairy man grunted, and handed 
Joy his cloak revealing some deep festering 
scars across his back amongst the thick black 
hair. He then unceremoniously knelt on the 
mattress, holding out his tumescent penis 
towards Sweetness in the broad hairy hand that 
was left unmangled.

Sharon grimaced. Of all the men who'd ever 
fucked her, none of them had been quite as 
grotesque as this figure. For fuck sake, he 
only had one eye and an empty socket where the 
other should be. And she'd been fucked by some 
pretty fucking sorry specimens in her time! 
However, Sweetness had none of Sharon's 
aesthetic doubts, aided no doubt by her 
blindness, and guided by the hairy man's hands 
she plunged her mouth greedily onto his prick 
and gobbled and sucked it almost with 
desperation. As it came up to its erection, it 
really was not that splendid a specimen, no 
more than three inches long with the hair from 
the balls tangling with the coating of hair on 
its whole length. She pushed her head back and 
forth on its stubby fat length: the whole of it 
easily getting into her mouth. And then when 
she judged it to be as erect as it could be, 
she lay on her back and let him fuck her, which 
he did in a snorting, grunting way, his hairy 
arse thrusting up and down mechanically and not 
at all expertly.

"Have you ever been fucked by someone so 
horrible?" Tracey asked Buttercup as they 
watched.

"Well, not anyone scarred or disabled. They'd 
be sent off to fight in the war or whatever. 
But some of the people on the other side of the 
wall are pretty horrible. Fat and horrible, 
really. But you get used to it. One fuck's much 
the same as another when you don't think about 
it too much. How about you?"

"You fuck what you can," Tracey answered 
philosophically. She looked sadly at her new 
lover. "What about last night? When you were 
... doing it with Joy? Was that horrible?"

Buttercup looked directly into Tracey's eyes, 
and smiled sympathetically. She clearly 
recognised Tracey's concern. And also her 
jealousy. "Oh! It was really horrible! Not like 
it is with you. You're much nicer!"

Tracey felt a strange burning on her cheeks. 
This must be what it's like to blush, she 
thought, reflecting on this unusual sensation 
which she'd never felt since she was young and 
probably almost a virgin. She smiled at 
Buttercup in a way that she was sure was 
hopelessly soppy and stupid. But she didn't 
care, and anyway she couldn't help it. 
Buttercup turned her unbelievably beautiful 
body towards Tracey, put her hands on her 
shoulders and pressed her face towards 
Tracey's. 

"Do you want to make love with me, Tracey 
sweetest?" she asked in a strangely low and 
reassuring voice.

Tracey tried but couldn't articulate a 
response. She nodded her head. 

"We'll leave Sharon with Sweetness and Joy, and 
go into the woods. Is that what you'd like, 
Tracey?"

Sharon was horrified to see her friend blush a 
deep kind of redness, her freckles burning 
against her sunburnt skin. What was happening 
to Tracey? But she didn't need an explanation 
as she watched her friend walk off hand-in-hand 
with Buttercup towards a small wood just fifty 
yards away from the settlement. The bastards! 
Off to do their dykish business and leaving her 
with a bunch of fucking cripples in a fucking 
wasteland! Part of her, however, was envious 
that it was Tracey and not her who was having a 
relationship with a woman who back home would 
be some kind of model, and a fucking rich one 
too. There was no fucking justice in the world, 
she mused as Tracey and Buttercup vanished into 
the shadows of the wood. She turned back to 
watch the hairy man's prick push in and out of 
Sweetness' arse. 

"That'll cost him extra," commented Joy with a 
sneer. "You can't fucking take more unless you 
fucking give more."

Buttercup and Tracey wandered through the wood 
together hand-in-hand, Tracey struggling to 
keep down a fit of giggles that kept bursting 
uncontrollably towards the surface. Despite her 
misery, she had never felt so happy before. 
This was love. She was in love. For the first 
time in her life, she was in love. Unless you 
count Darren who used to fuck her in the garden 
shed his parents owned when she was at school 
and strictly had only just lost her virginity. 
Or Wayne whose wife hated them when she found 
them screwing on the marital bed. Or even Baz 
who was probably the first really half-way 
decent fuck of her life. But this was different. 
She'd never felt so passionately and 
helplessly in love before.

Buttercup stopped in a small clearing and 
tenderly turned Tracey towards her. Wordlessly 
and still smiling, she undid each button of 
Tracey's blouse and with care pulled it open 
and slid it down Tracey's arms. "Lie down!" she 
commanded with a whisper. Tracey obeyed, lying 
down naked on the moss and bracken, not really 
noticing the coarse dry twigs on her sun-
scorched flesh. She closed her eyes, while a 
broad and silly smile spread over her face. 

And then, she felt a tender licking and sucking 
on her ankles and feet. She pressed her chin 
against her chest and gazed down at Buttercup's 
arse which was hovering over her stomach while 
her tongue busied itself lower down. Each lick, 
each nip of Buttercup's teeth, each stroke of 
her beautiful classically contoured hands sent 
a tremor of delight through her body. She 
shuddered and shook, as Buttercup worked her 
way up patiently from her ankles, to her knees, 
ever upwards, her bum moving closer and closer 
towards her eyes and mouth. Onto the thighs, on 
the inside, on the outside. And then... And 
then... Buttercup's teeth and tongue engaged 
with the lips of Tracey's vagina, and snaggled 
in the short hairs of her crotch. And then, 
Buttercup's vagina was close enough to Tracey's 
face that her nose could smell its odours and 
her eyes could gaze lovingly at its the folds 
and details.

"I love you! I love you! I love you!" gasped 
Tracey, before sinking her nose into 
Buttercup's arse (the smell of which was 
somehow sweeter than any arse she'd smelt 
before), and her tongue and teeth could 
reciprocate the pleasure Buttercup's own was 
giving her below. She gasped and shuddered. And 
then... A pulse of pleasure rippled through her 
body. And exploded into a gasp. And then 
another gasp. Oh God! Oh God! Oh Fuck! She 
shivered, shuddered, and groaned as spasms of 
orgasm of a degree and depth she'd never before 
imagined crashed and thudded through her body 
like waves on a beach, like vibrations of a 
drum, like nothing she'd ever imagined before.

And then... While arching her back up to the 
rhythm of her internal orgasms there was a 
crash and a thump and a roaring noise that she 
at first attributed to her imagination 
thundering through the wood and shaking the top 
leaves of the trees.

Sharon also heard the noises. But she was much 
closer. She'd got fairly pissed off while 
standing around aimlessly near Sweetness and 
Joy. The hairy man had been replaced by another 
man, with a somewhat thin and bent prick and 
almost the ugliest and most disfigured face 
she'd ever seen. He was now lying down 
beneath Sweetness, whose shoulders were 
bouncing up and down as her slender body slid 
up and down the length of his prick. And then 
with the crash, and as the sky exploded, and 
the jet plane shot off, Sweetness was thrown 
off the man and flung by the shock onto the 
ground. Sharon stumbled and crouched on the 
ground, watching the jet plane disappear, 
seeing the smoke and flames emerge from the 
depths of the old factory where the plane had 
dropped its payload. 

"What the fuck!" shouted Joy. She was also 
crouched down, looking at the factory behind 
them. Sweetness lay huddled on the parched dry 
earth, her hands over her eyes, and trickles 
of semen sliding down her legs.

This explosion was followed by another series, 
as plane after plane shot at supersonic speed 
through the sky, their roar following explosion 
after explosion. Rubble and debris shot out 
from the factory and flew in all directions. A 
lump of tangled metal flew into Joy's shoulder 
and sent her sideways onto the ground taking 
with it a chunk of Joy's arm and leaving a 
trail of blood arching behind it. Her head fell 
against a stone and a trickled of blood seeped 
out from her mouth. The man stood up and caught 
a brick in his chest which sent him staggering 
backwards onto the ground. 

Sharon crouched down, covered her head with her 
hands, as she'd imagined she ought to do during 
explosions, like they did in all the action 
movies. Though in the action movies, there 
wasn't usually such strange quiet as the roar 
of jets and the vibrations of the explosions 
died down, to be following by a chorus of 
moans, cries and shrieks from all around. She 
peeked up through her fingers to see people 
from the settlement running, it seemed in all 
directions. Some had blood hiding the contours 
of what might once have been faces. There were 
others like Joy, lying on the ground, moaning 
and yelling. Smoke was billowing out from the 
factory and rolling around the ground. Dust was 
thrown up from explosions that must have hit 
the dry earth.

Then there was a crackle of what Sharon's 
memory of action films told her must be 
automatic gun fire. A man was running across 
the ground a few yards from her, and then he 
fell to the ground, the back of his head now 
just a formless mess of red and grey. Sharon 
stood up. This was not a safe place to be. She 
saw Sweetness crouched near her, tears 
streaming down her face from her sightless 
eyes. 

"What's going on? What's happening?" she 
cried.

Sharon didn't know the answer to that. She 
could see some shadows which looked like 
armoured vehicles driving towards them across 
the parched open fields. She also saw running 
towards them, carrying guns, the silhouettes of 
what must only be soldiers. But not soldiers as 
she thought they should look like. They had 
guns which they were firing as they ran along. 
But otherwise they were naked. Their skin was 
all blotched with green and brown, and, oddest 
of all, each and every one of them was sporting 
an erect penis which was proceeding ahead of 
them. 

They were shouting to each other and to the 
world in general. "Glory be to the King!" one 
shouted. "And to the King all Glory!" another 
replied. "May he live forever!" another 
shouted.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" shouted Sharon. Everyone 
for themselves. She picked herself up, 
intending to run to safety somewhere, anywhere. 
And then just before she got ready to move she 
saw Sweetness staggering towards Joy who was 
moaning inarticulately.

"Joy! Joy! What's going on? Answer me! What's 
going on?"

"I'm no fucking charity!" snarled Sharon, 
trying to persuade herself to leave Sweetness 
and be fucked. And then she saw a shadowy 
figure, and his monstrous erection, aim his 
submachine gun at Joy and then blast it in her 
direction. Joy's body spasmed for the last time 
as the bullets shot through her and sent 
portions of her face and breasts flying into 
Sweetness' face.

Despite herself, Sharon ran up to Sweetness. 
"Fuck Joy! Come on!" she shouted, grabbing the 
blind girl by the wrist and dragging her with 
her. However, their own escape was barely any 
distance at all until she found herself 
confronted by the erect penis and steely 
testicles of another naked soldier. She 
stopped, and hugged Sweetness tightly to 
herself. Who else was there to comfort her? Or 
to give comfort to?

"These ones are alive!" the soldier shouted.

"And they're not fucking cripples either!" 
responded another.

"The Sergeant'll be pleased with these ones!" 
shouted a third, as the three soldiers 
surrounded the two girls.

Sharon lay on the ground, shivering from fear, 
clutching Sweetness' naked body which shuddered 
from even greater fear and misery, staring up 
at a trio of erect pricks and gun barrels. 

"What the fuck are you going to do with us?" 
she managed to ask through the thick mucus of 
despair that had risen from her throat, 
humiliatingly aware of the stream of piss that 
was trickling down her bare legs.



	XI


Tracey and Buttercup hurriedly jumped up: 
Tracey pulling on her blouse and checking that 
she still had her bag with her precious 
passport inside. One thing was sure, a noise 
like that did not bode well. Buttercup gathered 
herself together more quickly than her lover, 
but nothing could disguise the look of real 
alarm on her face.

"What the fuck do we do?" asked Tracey. "And 
where's Sharon?"

"It's best not to worry about her," Buttercup 
replied, wiping traces of Sharon's vaginal 
juices from her lips. "We're in real enough 
trouble ourselves."

"Do you think she's been killed? Oh fuck! What 
do we do?"

"We try and get as far away as we can."

"What the fuck do you mean?"

Buttercup gazed into Tracey's face and frowned. 
"This is a war zone. People get killed. We 
could get killed. We've got to get out of 
here!"

Tracey nodded, and followed Buttercup as she 
ran ahead through the thick wood. They heard 
more explosions in the distance. More roaring 
jets. And a sound which Tracey identified as 
gun fire, but not gun fire like in the vids, 
but uncoordinated spasms of it from 
unidentifiable directions. Sometimes a short 
spark, sometimes a loud bang, and sometimes a 
crackle. Between these sounds were moments of 
peculiar uneasy quiet, spasmodically broken by 
fresh and unpredictable noises. Each crack, 
bang and crackle sent a spasm down her 
spine, and despite the heat of the day, she 
found that she was shivering.

They had no idea where they were running, but 
they knew it had to be in the shadows of the 
trees. However, the wood was not large enough 
for them to avoid coming to its edge after not 
too long. They had no idea where they were in 
relation to where they'd come, but in the near 
distance they could see the smouldering ruins 
of the factory where they had spent the night. 
It was clearly not a place to return to. It had 
collapsed from its previous dilapidation to 
little more than piles of smoking ruins around 
which were prostrate naked figures and the 
silhouettes of other darker figures running 
about.

"What's going on?" whispered Tracey from behind 
the thick bush where she and Buttercup were 
sheltering.

"Soldiers killing each other. Soldiers killing 
other people. Lots of things."

"It doesn't look very organised," whispered 
Tracey who'd always imagined warfare to be 
somehow more like the array of plastic soldiers 
she'd seen in model shops. Or even like the set 
pieces she'd seen on some movies. It was 
difficult in the smoke and the distance to make 
any sense of anything that was happening. 
Amongst the dark figures running around were 
also some jeeps that were dashing about, raising 
even more dust, associated with cracks of rifle 
and machine gun fire. One jeep span out of 
control, ploughed over some pale bodies, 
collided with a wall and almost instantly 
exploded into a ball of fire. 

"Quick!" whispered Buttercup. "This may be our 
only chance!"

"You what?" replied Tracey in a similarly low 
voice, but nonetheless took her cue from 
Buttercup and ran out of the protective shelter 
of the wood, through the orange and black smoke 
which was billowing their way and into the 
field. What about mines? she vocalised to 
herself, but nonetheless kept running. As they 
ran, Tracey knew not where, there were more 
figures to be seen running chaotically in the 
distance. She could make out that some of them 
were nude, although their skins were strangely 
dark and shadowed, but she was sure she caught 
glimpses of some strange protuberances from 
just above their legs. Shit! They've got hard-
ons! What a fucking waste! She tripped on the 
ground, catching her knee on a rock, but she 
ignored the pain, more desperate to keep up 
with Buttercup, who continued racing onwards 
ahead of her, than to administer to her pain. 
Fuck! She was out of shape. You'd've thought 
all that fucking would have made her a bit 
fitter, but ... Fuck!

She then saw some more shadows around a parked 
jeep to which they were running. It was almost 
as much a shock to realise that they were 
wearing clothes than that they were there at 
all. She almost felt like pointing this out to 
Buttercup. If she could ever catch up with her. 
Look! Normal people! Wearing clothes. All over 
them. Their crotch as well as their chest. Like 
back home! After leaving home, she'd almost 
forgotten that clothes existed. However, 
Buttercup was running in a quite different 
direction now, away from these figures, so 
Tracey followed. And the crackle of gun fire, 
both frighteningly close and thankfully too far 
away to hit them, reminded her of the true 
extremity of their situation.

Then she saw Buttercup had halted in a crater 
ahead of them, which was still slightly 
smouldering and in which could be seen some 
small traces of metal which she guessed was 
probably shrapnel. Or possibly something else. 
Puffing and wheezing, she caught up with her 
lover and was about to greet her, to reassure 
her that she was well, that she hadn't been 
shot, but was prevented from this by Buttercup 
forcibly grabbing her arm and urgently 
indicating with a finger to the lips that she 
should be quiet. Tracey concurred with a 
foolish smile, and lay beside Buttercup in 
the rocky recesses of the crater.

She then became gradually aware why she should 
be so quiet. Ahead of them was a group of about 
five fully clothed soldiers, with helmets on 
their heads, bags and belts hanging from their 
khaki uniforms and massive boots which noisily 
crunched on the dry earth. They were carrying 
in their arms some very formidable machine guns 
which occasionally they mopped the ground with 
in a rapid succession of automatic gunfire. 
They had come across the naked figure of 
another man who was crawling on his front on 
the ground, still with an erect penis from 
below him. Tracey could now make out that this 
figure although naked was somehow covered in 
splodges of dark brown and green over his 
tanned body. The soldiers moved towards him, 
with their guns pointed towards him but not 
firing.

And then they surrounded him. Tracey waited in 
anticipation for more machine gun fire, which 
would kill off the already wounded figure, but 
instead she was astonished to see one of the 
soldiers pull down his trousers while two 
others held the figure to the ground. What the 
fuck! And then, covered by the cocked guns of 
the remaining two soldiers and, despite the 
wounded soldier's struggles and cries, she could 
make out that the trouserless soldier was 
bobbing his arse up and down on the back of the 
wounded soldier. She squeezed Buttercup's hand. 
Although she'd often seen buggery while in 
Throb, it had never been as obviously non-
consensual as this. Nor was this first 
encounter the last of the wounded soldier's 
suffering, as each soldier took it in turns to 
fuck the enemy soldier, while taking turns in 
standing guard and holding him down. And then 
finally, after an agony of waiting and the 
horror of the violence, the soldiers finished, 
buttoned up their baggy khaki trousers and with 
a rapid burst of gunfire extinguished what 
little was left of the wounded soldier's 
misery.

And then they moved on, joking and clearly 
refreshed, plodding through the dry dead field, 
leaving the remains of the upturned carcass in 
several pieces scattered over the rocks and 
earth, relieved of both his rifle and his life. 
Even Buttercup found it difficult to disguise 
her disgust.

"We've got to carry on running," she whispered 
to Tracey. "Our only hope is to make it to the 
border. And then, I have no idea what'll happen 
to us. But we can't stay here. When we see more 
soldiers, just fall to the ground and pretend 
to be dead."

"Why?"

"They're less likely to kill us. Or even rape 
us. If they think we're already dead."

This was advice which Buttercup and Tracey 
adhered to on several occasions as they 
hastened over the dry fields, hoping that the 
dark figures in the distance wouldn't be 
concerned to come and confirm that they were 
dead. Or even to make definitely certain that 
they were. However, as they ran on, the groups 
of dark figures they saw, and watched from the 
relative safety of earth and dry dust, seemed 
rather more anxious about their own safety 
than anything else: irrespective of whether 
they were naked and fully priapic or well-
dressed and well-armed. Only the jeeps and the 
occasional rumbling tanks crossed the landscape 
with impunity, leaving behind them a trail of 
magazine cartridges and a loud cacophony of 
potential destruction. If this was a 
battlefield, mused Tracey, it was a fairly 
disorganised one. Perhaps, she reflected, on 
some higher level, observed by helicopter or 
satellite, there'd be some pattern to 
it, but from ground level it seemed uncoordinated 
and random. Soldiers were wandering in all 
directions. There appeared to be no concept of 
enemy lines.

But there was no doubt from the occasional gun 
fire, the distant explosions, the carnage of 
abandoned machinery, that a war was being 
fought. This was brought to them suddenly, when 
there was another series of explosions 
somewhere in the distance which were truly 
earth-shaking. How much fire-power had been 
used to produce such explosions? she mused, as 
a stream of smoke sped across the sky from the 
tail of some four or five jet planes, whose 
supersonic booms were barely audible over the 
echo of the explosions their payload had caused. 

The true nature of war became even more obvious 
when the landscape ahead of them revealed 
itself as scattered with the corpses of naked 
khaki figures interspersed very occasionally 
by that of a fully clothed one. Tracey held 
Buttercup's hand as much for the need for 
comfort as for the pleasure of her physical 
touch. The corpses were all ahead of them 
and spread across the landscape towards 
their right and just as much to their left.

"Do we have to walk through them?" she asked 
timidly.

Buttercup pointed ahead at a line of wire and 
fence no more than half a mile away. "That's 
where we want to go. And unless we also want to 
get killed, we've got no choice. It's either 
ahead or back!"

Tracey nodded. But fuck! This was not going to 
be easy. Despite the urgency of their situation 
they walked, rather than ran, through the lines 
of dead soldiers, unable to take their gaze off 
the horror of what they were surrounded by. 
Bodies were scattered as they had died, and 
some as they had been left after further 
gunfire. They lay on their side, on their back, 
and some on the front. And even dead, many of 
them were still sporting the gross erections 
which they'd had at the moment of death. Not 
all bodies were in any sense intact. Some 
bodies were shattered and scattered over 
several yards. In some cases, the head was 
blown into a bloody mess of red, grey and 
brown, while their bodies, even with their 
hard-ons lay as reminders of where the heads 
had once been. On one occasion, Tracey's 
sandaled foot trod on a hand and wrist totally 
detached from the body several yards away to 
which it had once been attached.

As she walked, numbed by the horror of it all, 
she felt a stirring within her chest and 
throat. And then, without the warning she'd 
associated with vomiting after a night of heavy 
drinking, she heaved and a stream of liquid 
gruel pushed itself from deep inside her 
starving frame, coughed into the air and onto 
her blouse and breasts. She collapsed as her 
chest continued its convulsions, but soon 
nothing came out from her mostly empty stomach, 
although her body was willing that there should 
be more. After several moments of retching, she 
stood up and continued to follow Buttercup 
through the lines of corpses, a dribble of 
liquid vomit still emerging from the corner of 
her mouth, and her eyes stinging from the tears 
the effort had cost her.

Soon they were up to the line of barbed wire 
and fence. It was obvious that there was no way 
they could get through it. Even where the wire 
was at its least high, it was far too high to 
jump over and lethal to touch. The line of 
metal defences stretched in all directions. On 
the other side of the wire was a landscape 
almost identical to the one they were walking 
along, scattered with fewer bodies and signs of 
carnage, but not empty of it either. Gomorrah 
really seemed no better than Buggery. Tracey 
was beginning to wish that Sharon and she had 
chosen to go to Sodom. And where was Sharon? 
Was she dead?

"What the fuck do we do now?" she asked 
Buttercup.

Her lover shook her head sadly, her face 
expressing her own misery. There was no smile 
on her haggard face, and her long beautiful 
hair was snagged by clumps of earth and her own 
sweat. "I don't know! I guess we just follow 
the fence until we find an opening." 

"An opening?"

"There must be one somewhere. The Gomorran 
soldiers must have come from somewhere."

Tracey nodded resignedly. There was no choice. 
But the sun was sinking rapidly. Their flight 
through the battle zone had taken many hours. 
It had been a mixture of mad dashes across 
fields and across overturned earth, 
interspersed by periods of playing dead which, 
although it had hindered their progress, had at 
least provided them with some opportunity to 
recoup their strength before their next mad 
dash. Behind them stretched the barren, corpse-
ridden fields of Buggery. Ahead lay the 
mysterious but not exactly inviting barren 
fields of Gomorrah. And between the two, a 
frustrating and lethal line of defence. Tracey 
and Buttercup didn't know whether to turn left 
or right, but they made their choice and walked 
along on the uneven dry ground, as their 
shadows got longer and the sun approached the 
distant horizon.

However, after only a mile of walking they saw 
an area where vehicles were entering and 
leaving, and about which wandered several 
uniformed soldiers. Although Tracey knew their 
choices were extremely limited, it was only 
because she was with Buttercup that she 
resisted the otherwise overwhelming temptation 
to turn round and flee in quite the opposite 
direction.

The Gomorran soldiers were clearly not 
expecting to see anyone walking towards the 
border post and seemed almost frightened when 
one of them spotted them and yelled out to his 
compatriots. Three or four machine guns pointed 
towards them as they continued walking towards 
the border post, Tracey following Buttercup's 
example and walking with her hands raised above 
her head to show that they weren't carrying any 
weapons.

"Fuck! They're only girls!" snorted one of the 
soldiers when the girls had approached near 
enough in the dusk for them to be properly seen 
and for them to be within earshot.

"But don't the fucking Buggery lot have fucking 
women soldiers?" another soldier said to his 
comrade. "I vote we shoot the fuckers to 
buggery, sir."

"They're only girls, corporal" repeated the 
first soldier. "Girls are no fucking good as 
soldiers. All they're good for is fucking. 
Leave them. We got work to do."

Tracey and Buttercup were both pleased and a 
little surprised to see the soldiers mostly 
ignore them, with only one of them watching 
them with his gun half-cocked, while his 
comrades continued loading items onto a jeep 
and busying themselves with some radio 
equipment. They walked past the soldiers, still 
not convinced that they weren't going to be 
shot, their arms dropped to their side from 
weariness and perspiring heavily despite the 
cooling evening air.

They saw what looked like a border guard, who 
was standing to attention by a chair, his 
machine-gun by his side, eyeing them 
suspiciously as they approached. His expression 
was quite clearly not of the friendliest. Just 
behind him, on the Gomorran side was another 
soldier who was smoking a cigarette and staring 
as much at them as at his comrade.

Buttercup walked up to the guard, who was built 
quite large with very short hair and a small 
dark moustache beneath a brutal nose. He turned 
his dark eyes towards Buttercup. 

"What the fuck do you want?" he asked, raising 
his machine gun directly at her

Tracey walked behind Buttercup, disloyally 
wondering how much Buttercup's body might 
shield her from a hail of bullets. Buttercup 
smiled, despite her obvious terror. 

"We're refugees, sir. We want to escape from 
the horrors of Buggery to the famous hospitality
of Gomorrah."

The guard lowered his gun, and laughed in a not 
especially amiable way. "Refugees. Fuck! For 
Gomorrah. You're not the first bitches to want 
to enter our democratic republic, but the last 
ones we dispatched pretty quickly. Fucking 
whores! Why should we fucking spare you? Is it 
'cause you got through the fucking mine-field? 
If you weren't fucking tarts, you ought to get 
fucking medals for getting here without your 
fucking leg blown off!"

Tracey blanched. Mine-field? In her fear and 
desperation, she'd totally forgotten that it 
wasn't just bullets she'd had to be mindful of. 
What fucking slim chance had she had that she'd 
survived this walk?

Buttercup, however, continued smiling and 
continued walking towards the soldier. "We can 
make it worth your while," she said 
seductively.

"I bet you fucking can, whore!" snorted the 
guard. "But you're not a bad looking bitch. I 
could let you through. But what about your 
scrawny bitch girlfriend. What say we that we 
blow her to fuck and just let you through."

"It's either both of us or neither of us," 
Buttercup said firmly.

"In that case," snarled the guard as if 
challenged, raising his gun and holding it up 
as if ready to let loose. And then with a bit 
of a snarl: "Yeah! S'pose we could do with a 
bit of a fuck. Oi! Jello! What d'you think?"

His comrade threw the stub of his cigarette 
onto the ground, and stubbed it out with a 
booted foot. "Yeah, Buzzcock. I ain't had a 
fuck for days. And the long haired cow is a 
real motherfucking killer bitch."

"OK, Girls!" grunted Buzzcock. "You're in luck. 
Come on the Gomorran side of the border." He 
stood to one side as Buttercup and Tracey 
strode to the gap in the wire fence, and walked 
through, a sudden spasm of relief exploding 
inside Tracey's chest. They weren't going to be 
killed! "Welcome to fucking democracy. There's 
no fucking royalty here. And there's none of 
your fucking Buggery perversions neither."

Jello stopped Buttercup when Tracey was through 
the gap. "Now, you bitch! It's fucking payback 
time. Let's see what you've got to offer."

"Not so fast, sonny Jim!" growled Buzzcock. "We 
can't let them in like this! Not with the 
scrawny cunt fucking dressed up like some half-
arsed nancy boy. You fuckers take your fucking 
rings out of your cunts, or we'll fucking pull 
them out. And you, chicken shit!" he addressed 
Tracey. "You take off that fucking shirt or 
whatever you call it on your fucking tits. 
There ain't no clothes allowed for bitches 
here. Bitches don't have the fucking right. I 
don't know what your fucking cunt-arse 
government lets you fuckers get away with: but 
bitches have got to know their place here. And 
give me your fucking bag and all!"

"But my passport! My money!"

"You won't need fucking Buggery dinars in 
Gomorrah. They're fucking useless. In case you 
hadn't noticed we're at war with you lot. But 
your passport's worth more than both your lives 
put together." Buzzcock grabbed the bag, turned 
it upside down and poured its contents on the 
floor. A cascade of lipstick, compacts, notes 
and knickknacks fell to the floor, including 
Tracey's precious passport. "Fuck me! Real 
money! And a real passport! What kind of 
fucking whore are you to have this kind of 
stuff on you? Did you steal it?"

"No!" Tracey replied indignantly despite her 
distress. "It's mine. I took hours queuing up 
at the passport office for it!"

Buzzcock grunted. "So you're a fucking 
foreigner even to Buggery. Well, don't expect 
any help here. Bitches like you won't be 
allowed within even a mile of a fucking 
consulate."

Tracey and Buttercup stood together: Tracey 
feeling more naked than she'd ever felt before 
with no clothes, no possessions and not even 
the cunt-ring which despite herself she'd got 
rather attached to. And what were the soldiers 
going to do?

Her answer came fairly soon, and in full sight 
of the other soldiers loading the vehicles. She 
and Buttercup were dragged onto the ground by 
their hair, her roots stinging from the rough 
tugging, and then the two of them were brutally 
raped. At least, she assumed it was rape, even 
though Buttercup had, in a very real and 
genuine sense, asked for it. But this wasn't 
making love. It wasn't even like the rough sex 
she'd sometimes had on a bad date. Or like the 
drunken fucking she'd had when she'd told the 
bloke she was with to fuck off. This was 
brutal, violent and animal. They were forcibly 
penetrated with no preparation at all. First 
Buzzcock into Buttercup and then Jello into 
her. She was so dry down there. And it hurt. 
And she was punched when she struggled. And 
then it was more cock in her cunt. And cock in 
her arse. And then a slap round the face. And 
after more minutes of unpleasant, disgusting 
forced penetration, sperm squirted into her 
mouth and eyes.

And then it was over. The soldiers had had 
enough. They buttoned up their trousers, which 
they had only lowered to their knees in all the 
time. 

"Now fuck off!" commanded Buzzcock. 

Tracey and Buttercup picked up their bruised 
bodies. Tracey left with a small trickle of 
blood down her thighs that had been drawn from 
her anus and a fresh bruise swelling up on her 
chin. Buttercup had sustained a cut lip and one 
eye was strangely swollen as a bruise began to 
form. Her hair was disordered and she seemed 
even more shocked than Tracey. It occurred to 
her through her own misery that Buttercup, 
being the so much more attractive of the two 
girls, had almost certainly received more 
attention than she. And that somehow the more 
attractive a girl was, the more determined the 
soldiers had been that she should suffer.

Tracey put an arm around Buttercup who was 
weeping and occasionally coughing, small traces 
of blood spitting out onto her cheek. They 
turned round and walked along the road. They 
hadn't walked any distance, however, when Jello 
jumped in front of them with a snarl. 

"Fuck! Don't you fucking Buggery bitches know 
fucking anything? This is a fucking road. Yeah. 
A fucking road! And so it's not for the likes 
of you fucking whores. If you don't want us to 
fucking shoot you, stay off the fucking road. 
In case you ignorant cows didn't know, roads 
are for fucking men only. You bitches stay off 
the road, if you know what's good for you."

"Where do we go?" sobbed Buttercup, strangely 
subdued.

"I don't fucking know! You wanted to come to 
Gomorrah, didn't you? We didn't have to let you 
through. Anywhere. As long as it's not on a 
fucking road. Or a fucking town. Or a fucking 
city. You bitches ain't got no rights."

"Sorry?" asked Tracey, sure that she'd 
misunderstood something.

"You don't know fuck shit! Let me spell it out 
for you. You're in the Democratic Fucking 
Republic of Fucking Gomorrah! You're fucking 
bitches! That means you've got no fucking 
constitutional rights. No fucking consti-
fucking-tutional rights at all! No fucking 
women, bitches, whores, girls or dykes have 
rights. Not to clothes. Not to possessions. Not 
to fucking anything. Keep your nose clean and 
keep out of men only areas!"



	XII


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 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 to 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 more bearable and in a curious way 
a source of 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 wept, 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 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. 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 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 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 at all 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 to interrupt 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 were 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 became 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 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 
nurse 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 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 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 
many 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). 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 
were left alone in the shadows of the tent: 
sometimes very much in the dark when it was 
night. Although Sharon insisted to Sweetness 
that she was no fucking dyke, something she 
wasn't sure Sweetness 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 a
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 the dilemma of her current 
confinement.




	XIII


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 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 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 vagina and arse, though less than that 
of the more thoroughly abused Buttercup, still 
made her feel weak and helpless. 

Eventually, after several hours of 
directionless wandering away from the border, 
the two girls succumbed 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 any more. 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 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 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, 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 have 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 
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 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 it 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 prefer 
fucking women. And, I guess, even though it's 
not often very pleasant, even most women 
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 under 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 ingers 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 that had 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.



	XIV


It started as a day like all the others as far 
as Sharon was concerned. In fact, in her misery 
she had lost all concept of days. Life was 
nothing but boredom and fear punctuated by 
rape. Only a few hours earlier Sweetness and 
she had to endure another assault by the 
Buggery soldiers. Again ones she'd never seen 
before with the exception of the sergeant who 
escorted them in. She was vaguely aware of the 
violence done to her through her tears and 
pain. Her arse hadn't recovered from the 
previous assault which had already left a 
trickle of blood between her buttocks. Her 
vagina was similarly bruised and battered. And 
yet more pummelling. She could see Sweetness' 
face pressed against the ground like her own, a 
leg hooked over her back while another soldier 
squeezed his penis into her arse. She could see 
the other soldiers fucking each other and could 
hear the gasps and pants of the soldiers as 
they penetrated her. She had long given up 
struggling. It only made it hurt more. All she 
could look forward to was the pain ending, and 
then to be left huddled in a slump to nurse her 
sorrows. Sometimes she saw enough of the 
soldiers from the undignified positions in 
which they'd held her down to see just how 
young and sometimes mutilated they were. She 
knew their sufferings in this war had also 
been considerable, and the scars and 
dismemberments were proof, if proof were 
needed, that war was no more pleasant for the 
combatants than it was for innocents like her 
who had been dragged into its sphere.

And then, hours of solitude with Sweetness 
whose tears of grief for Joy were intermingled 
with rage against the men who had treated her 
so badly. It was evening, so only a shadowy 
form of Sweetness could be seen in the narrow 
light passing through the tent's closed 
entrance. Sharon sat with her knees pulled up 
to her chest and her arms nestling around her 
legs, staring into space: depressed, anxious 
and bruised. How long would she last until she 
was discarded or worn out? It was while these 
dark thoughts ran through her mind that she was 
startled by a loud bang and a sudden burst of 
light which briefly illuminated the contours 
of Sweetness' recumbent white form. 

Thunder and lightening, presumed Sharon. But 
no, there wasn't any rain. The little patch of 
sky she could see through the tent door was 
clear. And then another crash. Not too far 
away. And the sound of running outside. What 
was happening? In the tent, all she knew of was 
frantic activity outside, the occasional 
thundering crash and accompanying flash of 
light. And then the sound of gunfire.

"Oh No! Oh No! We're gonna die! We're going to 
die!" cried Sharon in utter fear, a patch of 
urine releasing itself from between her legs 
and squirting onto the ground beneath her. 

Sweetness moaned. "What's happening? What's 
going on? What's happening?"

"I don't know," admitted Sharon, conscious only 
that, whatever it was, it was dangerous and 
potentially lethal.

The noise and confusion only intensified. The 
gunfire became an almost continuous rattle as 
it progressed to machine guns and hand 
automatics. Every few moments there was a 
shriek or a thump or a crash. The tent was 
illuminated after and during each new noise, 
and Sharon could see Sweetness in those few 
instances lit up and crouched. She despaired. 
"I'm gonna die! I'm gonna die!" she moaned 
unable to hear her own voice over the 
cacophony, and distantly aware of similar 
shrieks and cries erupting from Sweetness. 
Sharon rolled herself into a ball, hid her head 
into her arms and like a mantra moaned: "Die! 
I'm gonna. Die!" She could hear soldiers 
running about outside. At one stage, the tent 
shook as a body fell against it and slumped 
to the ground. Sharon yelped with terror. 
When would she be next?

"Sharon! Sharon!" she distantly heard. She 
looked up to see the shadowy figure of the 
sergeant. He was crouching down, but Sharon 
could see that his penis was fully erect 
between his legs. 

"Not now! For fuck's sake not now!" Sharon 
pleaded, afraid that she was about to be raped.

"I love you, Sharon," said the sergeant in a 
voice hollowed out by excitement. "I love you. 
I only wish we'd met in ... in better 
circumstances." Sharon gazed at the figure when 
there was another monstrous crash which shook 
the tent and briefly lit the sergeant up. He 
was clearly excited, and not just his penis. 
Sharon noticed a gash on his leg and a swelling 
of flesh and blood. The sergeant slightly 
hobbled. "If we ever meet again ... if I survive 
... I'd so like to meet you again ... but, for 
now, you must run. Run away!"

Sharon was conscious that the shackle around 
her ankle was being taken off and suddenly she 
was free. Her ankle felt sore, so she crouched 
to rub it. The sergeant unclasped Sweetness' 
ankle and then both of them were free.  

"You must run! Both of you! The Gomorrans. 
They're here. Soon they'll be in this tent. And 
they'll kill you! You must leave! Now!"

The sergeant tugged Sharon up, who was unsteady 
from so many days of lying down. And weak from 
eating so badly. And bruised and battered from 
her multiple rapes. He grabbed Sharon by the 
arm and pulled up Sweetness who was terrified 
and weeping. He pulled them out of the tent, 
hobbling on his wounded leg.

"I have to fight! You have to run!" the 
sergeant shouted urgently. Sharon was startled 
by the brightness and confusion of the camp 
outside which she'd only glimpsed when she'd 
been dragged in. All around were Buggery 
soldiers running naked with their erect 
penises, with guns in their arms. On the ground 
were the bodies of other soldiers. Some tents 
were burning, and there was smoke drifting 
across the landscape. She could vaguely see the 
shadows of jeeps in the distance driving through 
the smoke. And all around was the sound of 
gunfire and the occasional whistle as bullets 
shot by uncomfortably close.

The sergeant pushed Sharon and Sweetness away 
from him. "That way! There's a wood. Only a 
hundred yards! Run!"

Sharon looked around her with startled open 
eyes, aware that her chances were lessening by 
the second. Without a word, she grabbed 
Sweetness by the arm and pulled her roughly 
with her as she ran almost as blindly as 
Sweetness into the dark void where the sergeant 
pointed. As they ran, they occasionally 
glimpsed soldiers lying on the ground and 
others running in all directions. She was 
unsure of where she trod, and felt the rough 
earth acutely as her bare feet raced onwards. 
Despite her blindness, Sweetness was keeping up 
with her, moaning but not complaining. 

And then, they were into some woodland. But 
Sharon kept running, aware that this was only 
shelter in the most temporary sense. They ran 
over through the dark shadows, gashing their 
ankles and thighs on the brambles and thicket. 
Gradually, the sound of gunfire became more 
distant, but the explosions when they 
occurred were loud, threatening and shook even 
the tall trees around them.

Sharon ran and ran, her breath short and 
painful. And then she noticed an opening in the 
trees through which the moon was shining. 
Sharon guided Sweetness through the trees, and 
put an arm around the girl.

"We've escaped. We may be safe," she whispered. 
Sweetness looked up her, gazing with sightless, 
tearful eyes.

"I hope so. I hope so," she whispered.

However, when they got to the edge of the wood, 
Sharon could see that they were still far from 
being as safe as she'd hoped. Outside a full 
battle was in action. Buggery soldiers were 
running about, their erect penises silhouetted 
grotesquely against the moon. Gomorran soldiers 
in jeeps were also in evidence, firing at the 
Buggery soldiers from their jeeps. A large tank 
was charging over the dried barren earth, 
crunching over the bodies of dead soldiers, 
occasionally releasing explosions of fire into 
those soldiers who were running about. Sharon 
was suddenly aware that the tank was heading 
towards the woods where they were, and might 
soon be on them. She wasn't sure that the trees 
would offer it much of an obstacle.

She squeezed Sweetness' shoulder. "We have to 
keep running. It's dangerous here." Sweetness 
nodded, and joined Sharon as she led her back 
into the wood.

However, it was not long until Sharon's 
exhaustion became the better of her, and she 
and Sweetness were reduced to staggering 
through the dark dismal wood, not knowing where 
they were going, only knowing what they were 
running away from. The sound of explosions 
became more infrequent and more distant, and 
she was now more conscious of the deadness and 
silence of where they were. But tired as she 
was, she and Sweetness continued walking and 
stumbling in the dark. Neither said much to 
each other, although Sweetness clung to 
Sharon's arm or hand so tightly that Sharon 
could feel the girl's nails dig deep into her 
flesh.

The girls walked on and on, until they could 
walk no more. And then, hoping that it was 
safe, Sharon settled on a spot beneath a 
tall tree around which was mostly grass and 
moss, and although it was slightly damp in the 
night chill, she gently eased Sweetness down to 
join her in the dark for the rest that her body 
demanded of her. Sweetness sighed and pulled 
herself onto Sharon's body for comfort and 
warmth. Sharon had neither the energy nor the 
cruelty to push her off.

In fact, their bodies were the only shelter 
they had from the chill. They held each other 
tightly, seeking solace in each other's arms, 
Sweetness' head buried in Sharon's lap and 
Sharon's head resting on Sweetness' back. Sleep 
was elusive and fitful, but when it finally 
came, brought relief of a kind that Sharon had 
not known for many days.

It was serenely and blissfully peaceful when 
Sharon woke up. The light from the sun lit up 
the green and brown forest, revealing the many 
pretty blue and yellow flowers that she'd not 
seen the night before. The sun's heat burnt  
her bare back and Sweetness was clasped closely 
to her: her arms looping beneath hers and 
around her back, her face close to her own, and 
their legs entwined. Sweetness stirred and 
opened her eyes. The pale sightless eyes 
gazed at her through the wild hair that had 
fallen onto her face.

"Oh Sharon! You saved me. I'm alive. How can I 
thank you?"

Sharon sighed. "It's not over yet," she said 
miserably. The darkness that had engulfed her 
in the days of rape and abuse in the tent was 
not that easily lifted. But she appreciated 
Sweetness' tender affection. The girl put her 
arms onto Sharon's shoulders and pushed her 
face into Sharon's. She kissed her full on the 
mouth, her tongue just emerging and about to 
enter between Sharon's lips. Sharon gently 
pushed Sweetness away.

"Oh! Sharon! I love you. I love you," said 
Sweetness sadly.

Sharon was not pleased to hear this. "I'm not a 
dyke," she reminded Sweetness. "Just keep your 
fucking hands off me! Well, not your hands. But 
your tongue anyway." She was distantly aware of 
Sweetness' hands probing between her legs and 
then a finger stroking the short hairs of her 
crotch around the cunt-ring, which was all she 
had to wear. Sharon brushed Sweetness' hand 
away, gently and sympathetically. "And whatever 
you do, don't put your hand there."

Sweetness weeped. "But I love you. You saved my 
life."

"I don't fucking care! It's men I want ... 
well, not all men ..." she mused, thinking of 
the regular abuse she'd so recently become 
nearly accustomed to, "but men anyway ... not 
women. Do you understand?"

Sweetness bent her head down, her hair 
cascading onto her hands and over her skinny 
breasts. Her bony limbs seemed so vulnerable in 
the sun, as she pushed her clasped hands down 
between the angles of her knees. "No, I don't," 
Sweetness admitted. "I don't understand at all. 
Joy always made love to me. Why don't you? 
What's wrong with me? Don't you like me? Do I 
look so horrible?" 

Sharon was aware that tears were running down 
Sweetness' nose, and one droplet hung 
precipitously from its end. But she couldn't 
relent. It wasn't right. "Come on, Sweetness," 
she said gently, putting a hand on Sweetness' 
own clasped ones. "We have enough to do. We 
have to somehow find things to eat. And we've 
got to get away from here." She lifted 
Sweetness' head up by her chin and gazed into 
her face. The girl was quite pretty, if 
horribly malnourished. The cuts and bruises on 
her face detracted from her attractiveness. Her 
cheeks were sunk in, there was a dark mark 
around one of her eyes, and her lips were 
cracked and the lower one slightly split. "We 
must get moving."

"But where to?" wondered Sweetness standing up 
above her unsteadily and slightly wobbly. Sharon 
gazed up at the unshaven triangle between her 
legs, the sharp angles of her hips and the 
caved-in stomach. An overwhelming sadness came 
over her, colouring her darkness with a fresh 
sense of foreboding.

"I don't know. I don't fucking know!"

Without Buttercup or Tracey, Sharon felt even 
more hopeless than she had before. And her 
responsibilities towards this blind girl may 
have given her a sense of purpose, but that 
didn't make her any more capable. Their 
wanderings through the day and the days to come 
were aimless, meandering and uncoordinated. 
They wandered in and out of the woods. 
Sometimes walking along the empty roads. 
Sometimes straying towards the battle zones 
where bombed-out tanks and abandoned vehicles 
gave evidence of potential danger. 

On a few occasions they saw the bodies of 
soldiers rotting in the sun, surrounded by the 
buzz of insects and the gathering of horribly 
slimy things around them. On one occasion, they 
even saw the body of a soldier fully clothed, 
with maggots and flies crawling through the 
fabric. This was the first time Sharon had seen 
anyone, alive or dead, with clothes on, and 
this acutely reminded her of her nakedness. She 
looked down disparagingly at her bruised and 
lacerated body, her bare vagina a kind of 
affront to her sensibilities. Would she ever 
wear clothes again? And lead a normal life? She 
looked at Sweetness, who was staring blankly 
ahead, her hand, as always, tightly grasped in 
hers. She was discomfited more by the horrible 
smell from the corpse than by its sight. Sharon 
felt overwhelmed by a sense of sadness and 
something else she had been resisting so 
strongly. She tenderly kissed Sweetness on the 
cheek, who started slightly alarmed, and then 
smiled as she established what had touched her. 
Sharon gently eased the girl off as she tried 
to reciprocate the affection.

Sharon was completely hopeless at the task of 
finding and preparing food, and Sweetness was 
understandably even worse. As the days and 
nights went by, a succession of wandering 
punctuated by exhaustion, the two got weaker 
and their wanderings more fitful. Every time 
they saw figures in the distance, the girls hid 
either flat on the ground or in the thickets, 
terrified that they might be seen by soldiers 
or, worse, police. Sharon's self-confidence 
dropped and her despair intensified. But still 
the sun shone, the landscape alternated between 
the bleak barrenness of the open fields and the 
forbidding shadows of the forests.

Those times that they had the energy to stumble 
forwards became steadily shorter, and the times 
they rested became longer. Soon, Sharon leaned 
more and more heavily on Sweetness, who was 
steadily losing her passion for her guardian as 
her own energy levels dropped further. Sharon's 
awareness of where she was became increasingly 
more tenuous. When they rested, their 
consciousness slid away so easily, and stirring 
became even more difficult. The sun burnt  
Sharon's back and shoulders and her legs became 
increasingly lacerated as her stumbling became 
more faltering and unsteady. 

And soon they weren't walking at all.

Sharon wasn't at all sure how long she and 
Sweetness had been lying on the earth in the 
shade of the large tree. They were clinging to 
each other in desperation, Sweetness 
occasionally shivering as fatigue and hunger 
shook through her body. Sharon's mouth was dry 
and her lips cracked. The few fruits and the 
odd mushroom they'd eaten hadn't really been 
enough to sustain them with either nourishment 
or moisture. 

And then she felt a hand on her shoulder. She 
assumed it was Sweetness, and opened her eyes 
surprised to see that both the girl's hands 
were clinging to her shoulders, her eyes 
closed and one leg pushed out ungainly away 
from them.

Sharon started. She mouthed "What the fuck!" 
and looked up at the possessor of the strange 
hand, expecting to see a Buggery soldier with 
his erect penis and khaki skin. Instead she saw 
the face of a woman with her hair shaved off 
and a strangely reassuring smile under a small 
nose disfigured by a huge nose-ring.

"Who are you?"

The woman offered Sharon a bowl of water which 
she was holding in her other hand. Sharon took 
it from her and gulped it down greedily, and as 
she did so glimpsed the hands which had 
proffered the bowl to her. They were slim white 
hands with the third finger on the left hand 
cut off at just about the lower joint. She 
looked up and evaluated this strange angel of 
mercy. It then became clear. The naked body, 
the chains running from the pierced nipples and 
the shaven vagina. 

The crouched figure was a Sodomite pilgrim.

The woman smiled again and opened her mouth 
voicelessly. It was with an acute sense of 
discomfort and unease that Sharon realised that 
there was no tongue in the mouth behind the 
sparkling white teeth, or rather only the stump 
of a tongue. And this Sodomite pilgrim was not 
alone. There were three or four others: one 
male, the other female, all naked bar the 
chains and rings from piercings all about their 
bodies. They were all smiling at her. Despite 
herself, Sharon smiled back.

The woman who'd given her the water was 
crouched beside her, the chains from her 
nipples resting on her knees. She placed a hand 
on Sharon's lips and then pulled herself 
forward to kiss her gently and tenderly on the 
lips. A very warm and brief kiss. She then 
gently raised the bowl of water to Sharon's 
mouth.

Sharon sipped some more and looked up at the 
solicitous and kindly gaze of the strange 
woman. "Thank you," she said sincerely and with 
difficulty through the newly watered corridors 
of her parched throat. "Thank you for saving my 
life."




	XV


The Sodomite pilgrims couldn't be described as 
great conversational company. In fact, as they 
had all had their tongues removed, they weren't 
able to converse at all. The conversation they 
had with each other was conducted in sign 
language and mouthing, but this was enough for 
them to organise themselves pretty well. 
Despite their various mutilations, they were 
astonishingly self-sufficient and capable. They 
knew exactly which roots, fruits and berries 
could be safely eaten. They were expert at 
catching and killing rabbits, birds and other 
animals to provide meat. Their various cooking 
utensils were eminently practical for the task 
of living off the land. They were, however, 
very kind and helpful to Sharon and Sweetness. 
After the girls' abject failure in fending for 
themselves in the Buggery countryside, the 
Sodomite pilgrims were the perfect companions. 

Nevertheless, association with the pilgrims 
came with a price, but not, thankfully, one 
which involved self-mutilation: at least not on 
the gross level that the Sodomite pilgrims had 
undergone. All the pilgrims had had their 
tongues removed, and the third finger of the 
left hand mostly removed or cut off. One girl 
had her left hand cut off at the wrist, but the 
others had clearly drawn the line at a less 
extreme point. The girls had their vaginas sewn 
together, whilst the man had a bolt all the way 
through the end of his penis, the other end of 
which was attached to his nipples. All the 
pilgrims had their head shaved. Indeed, all 
their hair except the eyebrows was removed: a 
daily ritual which the pilgrims accompanied 
with prayers and even song, although as none of 
them had tongues it was impossible to determine 
what these songs might be about. 

It was made clear to Sharon that although the 
girls were welcome to accompany the Sodomite 
pilgrims on their wandering through Buggery, 
they should at least conform to the same 
appearance as their mentors. Both Sharon and 
Sweetness were far too disorientated and 
distressed to object, after their ordeal in the 
camp and their near starvation in the 
countryside. Indeed, Sharon was living in a 
constant unfocused haze: a kind of continuing 
nightmare darkened by her present fears and 
past traumas. Would she ever see Tracey again? 
Would she ever see home again? Had she, in 
fact, already died and was now in some kind of 
hell? She just allowed the Sodomites to shave 
and decorate her as they so desired: not 
complaining and really not caring.

Sweetness and she were both treated the same, 
so although she had no mirror to see her 
reflection, she knew from looking at Sweetness 
exactly what she now looked like. Her head, 
arms, vagina, legs and armpits were all shaved 
by some lethal looking razor blades which 
skimmed over the fairly basic creamy soap which 
was applied to lubricate the skin and 
facilitate the shaving. This ritual was almost 
pleasant. The girl whose face Sharon had first 
glimpsed had in some strange sense adopted the 
pair, and she was the one who administered the 
shave. As each part was shaved clean, she  
kissed the whole of the shaven area with her 
lips, as if to be sure it was sufficiently 
smooth. Sharon might normally have objected to 
this degree of intimacy, but she had seen that 
the pilgrims adopted the exact same routine 
when shaving each other. And it was undeniably 
quite pleasant to feel the brush of this girl's 
nose and lips against the bare skin of her 
vagina. The most intimate and unthreatening 
sensuality those lips had probably ever 
experienced. At home, her labia was normally 
nothing but an open door, or one, when not 
open, was pushed ajar with as much haste as was 
required for a prick to get inside. Soon, she 
and Sweetness lay back on the grass under the 
morning sun, their skin fresh and clean after 
the application of the blade, glistening in the 
shine of the soap and saliva that had 
accompanied the shave. 

Sharon ran her hand over her shaven head, and 
looked sadly at the strands of her bleached 
hair where it lay on the grass. It certainly 
felt weird. And from looking at Sweetness, she 
could see how weird it also appeared. The pate 
was significantly paler than the rest of the 
skin which had otherwise been mostly tanned by 
the sun. Sharon was dismayed by how strangely 
nobbly Sweetness' shaved head looked, and, of 
course, how it must be correspondingly so on 
her own head. The bump at the nape of the neck 
where it joined the skull. The ears looking so 
much smaller on a bare background. The sweep of 
forehead which went up without interruption of 
any kind at all. In fact, the loss of hair must 
have been more considerable for Sweetness than 
for her. Sweetness' hair had previously been 
quite long, often obscuring most of her face 
and much of her neck and shoulders. Sharon's 
hair, by contrast, had not obscured very much 
at all, and after the haircut administered by 
Primrose had been relatively short already. But 
short was not at all the same as bald. 

The shave wasn't the last treatment meted out 
on the two girls by the Sodomite pilgrims. 
Sharon's nipples were already pierced, as was 
her clitoris. This was not true of Sweetness 
who had never been pierced before, either 
voluntarily, like Sharon, or by law, like most 
women in Buggery. The pilgrims found little 
difficulty in threading chains and rings 
through Sharon's nipple and crotch. She soon 
had weighty jangling ornamentation hanging from 
her front. This seemed to represent some kind 
of clothing to the Sodomites, although unlike 
any clothing Sharon had ever worn before, even 
in Buggery, this provided neither warmth nor 
modesty. A wreath of thin chains dangled from 
the rings through her nipples, and were somehow 
held in check by those threaded through the 
ring in her crotch

Applying the same ornamentation to Sweetness 
was more difficult. Sharon had to explain to 
Sweetness what was happening to her as the 
Sodomite pilgrims pierced her small puffy 
nipples and her tender clitoris with their 
sharp pins. They were clearly skilled at what 
they were doing, because although they didn't 
administer any painkillers, the operation in 
the three points was done extremely quickly and 
inflicted remarkably little pain on the young 
girl. Her yelps were tempered by the kisses 
administered to her by the Sodomite girl who 
had taken responsibility for the two. She 
rested Sweetness' head on her lap, and squeezed 
her hand tightly and affectionately as she 
winced and cried out. And then after all the 
piercing was done, she cuddled Sweetness to her 
chest as the rings which had been inserted into 
her nipples and clitoris kept the piercings 
open. And only after a quarter an hour or more 
of such voiceless comforting were the chains 
threaded through the rings, weighing her front 
down, and bringing her to fresh cries of pain, 
as they tugged at her tender wounds. And, there 
she stood, in front of Sharon who lay on the 
grass, gradually getting used to her own new 
appearance: her head shaven, bare legs and 
vagina, and a front obscured by chains. She 
stared ahead, sightlessly and confused, unable 
perhaps to be sure whether she alone had been 
singled out for this painful ceremony. Her eyes 
were still moist from the tears she had shed 
during the piercing ceremony, her breasts 
slightly bruised and even more puffy from the 
weight of the chains, and the bruises and 
scratches she'd gained after the two girls 
perambulations in the woods even more distinct 
against her hairless bare frame lit by the 
unforgiving glare of the Buggery morning sun. 

Sharon looked at the Sodomite pilgrims gathered 
around them and observed the indulgent smiles 
on their faces. She was struck by a bolt of 
lucidity and was just as suddenly frightened. 
She stood up and rushed over to Sweetness. 
She put an arm around the blind girl, and 
pulled her bare body against her own.

"You're not fucking cutting our tongues out! Or 
sewing our fucking cunts together!" she shouted 
at them.

The girl who'd comforted them smiled more 
broadly. She then made some strange hand 
signals to her companions while mouthing 
something while her voice made a sound her 
tongue couldn't articulate. The other pilgrims 
laughed in a good- humoured way: a way which 
seemed incongruous in such bizarre looking 
people. She then walked up to Sharon, placed a 
forefinger to her lips, and placed her hand on 
her crotch in a tender, non-threatening way.

"Are you gonna fucking sew me up, you 
bastards?" Sharon asked aggressively.

The girl shook her shaved head with a frown and 
a smile. She then pulled Sharon and Sweetness 
to her chest and kissed the two of them 
affectionately. Her mouth moved, and her throat 
voiced a response, but Sharon could make no 
sense of any of the guttural vowels. She smiled 
again and returned to her companions. She 
immediately returned with a plate full of some 
more of the very tasty vegetables that she had 
prepared earlier, and made another growling 
sound which appeared to say "Eat up!"

The Sodomite pilgrims violated the two girls no 
further, and indeed in their inarticulate way 
made their best efforts to make them feel at 
ease. In fact, as Sharon came to realise, as 
they followed the pilgrims through the 
countryside of Buggery, their newly shaved 
heads and chains of Sodomite bondage were 
actually something to be grateful for. None of 
the many police who they passed in their 
wanderings paid them any attention at all. As a 
result of whatever terms in which cross-border 
treaties had been phrased, the Sodomite 
pilgrims were actually the most free people in 
the Kingdom of Buggery. Indeed, the police 
appeared to be just as much disgusted by the 
Sodomites' appearance as Sharon herself had 
been initially. Even when the Sodomites 
prostrated themselves in front of the police, 
arse to the air, gesturing invitingly at their 
anuses, this provocation seemed to serve the 
purpose of actually dissuading the police from  
doing anything. They left the Sodomites to 
their own business, strutting off with their 
massive dildos strapped to their waists, and 
protruding incongruously in front of them, more 
willing to cause harm to their own citizens 
than to these shaven, pierced and mutilated 
pilgrims. When they disappeared, the pilgrims 
would smile amongst themselves and kiss Sharon 
reassuringly, aware of the terror that 
inevitably caused her body to tremble. 
Sweetness as always knew only as much as Sharon 
ever told her, which was normally just to keep 
quiet and pretend that her tongue had also been 
torn out. 

There was a comforting routine to the 
Sodomite's day. At sunrise, sunset, and three 
other times a day, the pilgrims indulged in a 
ritual which was both fascinating and quite 
unpleasant to watch. Essentially, this involved 
anal intercourse: an exercise achieved by the 
use of rather ornate dildos which the pilgrims 
drew out of the cloth bags they carried over 
their shoulders. These bags were themselves of 
some ritual significance: each of them was 
embroidered with a slogan which must have had 
some meaning in their faith. "To Give is to 
Receive". "Surrender to the Will". "The Orifice 
Taketh and Giveth Release". This was clearly 
not a faith of silent contemplation. 

Their ceremonies were an orgy of flesh and anal 
penetration: the pilgrims' bodies entwined 
around each other, the dildos strapped to the 
waists by leather and chains, their ends thrust 
deep inside the ritually presented arses. Even 
the male pilgrim was made to receive a dildo 
thrust up his arse. His own penis wasn't used 
at all. The reason for this Sharon noticed with 
some distaste was because he had been 
castrated, and the scrotum which seemed so full 
beneath his flaccid penis was filled not with 
testicles but with metal balls. Like the girls, 
he had to use a dildo to fulfil his role in the 
ceremony.

While this went on, Sharon held onto Sweetness, 
glad that her blindness precluded her from 
fully understanding what accompanied the grunts 
and gasps that freely exploded from the 
pilgrims in their orgiastic ceremony. The 
vaginas were sealed during the ceremony as much 
then as at other times, which meant that the 
pissing on each other that invariably conjoined 
the penetration was a messy and uncoordinated 
affair, as the urine burst through the barrier 
of stitches and rings, and splashed over the 
pilgrims in a random kind of way. As also did 
the shit, which thankfully they didn't always 
choose to ingest as part of the process. Some 
of the more devout ensured that their ritual 
sodomy was also accompanied with flagellation 
from nettles and whatever else could be used 
for the purpose.

These ceremonies rarely continued for much more 
than half an hour, and then, sated and somehow 
purified, and with expressions of beatific 
ecstasy, the pilgrims continued as before in 
the more mundane businesses of preparing food, 
hunting and gathering food, and, if they were 
already on their route, walking through the 
barren Buggery countryside.

At night, Sharon rested against Sweetness, too 
weak from walking and her tribulations of the 
previous days, to complain as Sweetness 
showered her with affectionate kisses and 
cuddles. Indeed, she only complained when 
Sweetness' fingers or tongue wandered towards 
her arse or cunt, on which occasions, she would 
forcefully remind the blind girl that she was 
not a fucking dyke. Sweetness seemed resigned 
to Sharon's frequent rejection of her advances, 
but this did not stop her from declaring, much 
to Sharon's embarrassment, that she was in love 
with her and would do anything she wanted. She 
noticed that Sweetness' affection for her was 
observed indulgently by the Sodomite pilgrims, 
as they lay apart from the two girls, gathered 
in a body of intertwined, intermingling flesh, 
chains and naked skin.

The days were spent in wandering: something 
which Sharon had become so accustomed to  
that she no longer thought to complain even to 
herself. This wandering was the purpose of the 
pilgrims' visit to Buggery, and the effort of 
it was a small price to pay for the food, water 
and protection the pilgrims provided. At 
irregular intervals, sometimes two or three 
times in a day, and sometimes only once in a 
day, the pilgrims would arrive at a place of 
some religious significance to them. Sometimes 
it was obvious what the object of their worship 
was. A tomb or a statue or a desecrated, 
disused shrine. Sometimes it was much more 
obscure. An old tree, the centre of a field of 
beetroots, a house lived in by puzzled Buggery 
subjects. At whichever place it was, the 
pilgrims would prostrate themselves, arse high 
in the air, their arms stretched out in front 
of them whilst one of them would intone in a 
voice made unintelligible by the loss of 
tongue. And then, after leaving some tokens of 
worship, like a bunch of thistles, a coin or a 
chain, the pilgrims would continue on their 
way. Sharon was never sure what she should do 
in these ceremonies, but she reasoned that 
whenever anyone from Buggery was watching, 
especially if they were police, it was best to 
follow the example set by the others and to 
instruct Sweetness to do the same. It amused 
her in a grim kind of way to see the obvious 
discomfort of people from Buggery at the 
pilgrims' presence. They rarely came very 
close, but they would watch the strange ritual 
with fascination.

On only one occasion did anyone from Buggery 
take advantage of the offer of abuse that the 
pilgrims made to everyone they met. Two 
policewomen with erect dildos and muscled 
bodies pushed into the pilgrims, kicking and 
punching them. But the fact that the pilgrims 
were taking the punishment with such apparent 
pleasure, asking for more with each punch or 
kick, clearly upset even them, and they gave up 
after hardly any time at all. The pilgrims 
themselves seemed quite gratified by the abuse 
that they had received and soon meted out even 
worse punishment on each other in a flailing 
orgy of nettles and brambles. 

That evening, the pilgrims were still quite 
excited by their brief encounter, proudly 
feeling the bruises raised on their faces and 
limbs, and gently kissing the scratches they 
had sustained. Their ritual sodomy lasted 
longer than usual, while Sharon comforted 
Sweetness who was clearly frightened by what 
she could hear but could not see. And then the 
ritual became a softer, more sensual and gentle 
lovemaking as the pilgrims' entangled bodies 
became engulfed in more conventional caresses 
and kisses: tongues and fingers exercised on 
mutilated genitals and tongueless mouths. The 
man seemed as keen on the sensuality as much as 
the girls, despite his emasculation and the 
inability of his penis to become erect or 
functional.

The girl who had first befriended them noticed 
Sharon and Sweetness huddled together in the 
shade of the tree in the darkening shadows of 
night. She wandered over to them, crouched down 
and smiled. Wreathed in a rather becoming grin 
she attempted to say something which Sharon 
strained to understand. It was hopeless, 
however. Without a tongue, her words were just 
inarticulate noises and her hand gestures were 
too intricate and involved for Sharon to make 
any sense of them. Then the girl knelt down, 
put a hand on Sharon's crotch and the other on 
Sweetness, and gestured with a jerk of her neck 
that she was inviting the two girls to join in 
the pilgrims' lovemaking.

Sharon had by now lost her fear of the 
pilgrims. They had not even once attempted to 
persuade or coerce either of the girls to join 
in their perverted rituals, and had made clear 
by their actions that they had no expectation 
that they should do so. It was sex and not 
physical abuse and humiliation that the girl 
was offering them; but however relatively 
benign such lovemaking was in comparison, it 
was still not something that Sharon could 
entertain. 

"I'm no fucking dyke!" she replied, but 
relatively good-humouredly. She was almost 
flattered by this extension of a hand of 
friendship, but her days of abuse in the 
soldier's camp still left her scarred and the 
thought of sex, even with a man, was not 
something that attracted her. "But Sweetness 
here..."

Sharon put a hand on her blind companion's 
shoulder. "Our Sodomite friend wants to know if 
you want to ... well, not fuck exactly ... but, 
you know, have sex..." She glanced up at the 
Sodomite's smiling, kindly face. "It's not 
going to involve arse-fucking or  whipping or 
all that fucking shit, is it? I don't want 
Sweetness, you know, hurt or any kind of 
shit you lot do ... It's normal sex, isn't it?"

The Sodomite girl smiled broadly, and shook her 
head to assure Sharon.

"What do you think, Sweetness?" asked Sharon, 
aware of the girl's own sexual needs and hoping 
that if it was spent on the Sodomites it would 
no longer be focused on her.

Sweetness smiled at Sharon. "You don't mind?"

"No, of course I fucking don't!"

Sweetness stood up and allowed herself to be 
led away by the Sodomite. She turned back her 
head and smiled in a direction somewhat to the 
left and ahead of where Sharon actually sat. 
"Don't forget. It's you that I love!"

Sharon settled back, feeling happier if 
Sweetness were happy, and felt good in herself 
as she watched Sweetness enter the mass of pale 
shaven flesh of orgying Sodomites. She smiled 
with pleasure as Sweetness gasped with 
pleasure. She wrapped her arms around her 
chain-ridden breast and observed with 
satisfaction as Sweetness was satisfied. She 
was so obviously enjoying the lips and fingers 
exploring her vagina, the kisses on her face 
and breasts, the feel of three or more bodies 
surrounding her. She yelped and gasped and 
grunted, her body shining with a glint of 
perspiration in the moonlight, as she was 
engulfed in the mass of flesh, lip and chains, 
both her nipples chewed on, her clitoris afire 
with the attention of two pairs of lips and 
discreetly applied fingers. Her cries of joy 
and ecstasy at first echoing across the fields 
from the copse where the pilgrims were resting, 
and then gradually subsided as her energy and 
those of her lovers diminished and the caresses 
became less passionate and more languid. 

But even after all that, it was to Sharon's 
arms that Sweetness eventually returned, her 
flesh sweaty and smelly, her vagina sore and 
plastered with her vaginal fluids, and in whose 
same arms that she stayed all night. 

"I love you, Sharon," she whispered, her shaven 
head against her ward's bechained bosom. "You are 
my perfect lover."



	XVI


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 that 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 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 were 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 at all other than themselves. 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 
a scrawny woman. 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 
hair who 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 that 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 obviously hated 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 were 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 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 
few home comforts that awaited them. 

The prize for their sexual favours that 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.



	XVII


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 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 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 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 place 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 were 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.



	XVIII


The despair that clouded Sharon's perceptions 
gradually lifted, and she even came to view her 
shaven-headed companions as her friends, 
although she was frustrated by not being able 
to communicate with them: her sexual tastes 
precluding her even from doing so in the sexual 
way that Sweetness did with them every night. 
The countryside they wandered through changed 
from barren fields, to forestry, and then to 
some high hills covered with grass and the odd 
wood. And then they were at the border of 
Buggery.

Sharon hadn't thought ahead at all. What 
thoughts she'd had were focused either on the 
here and now, or on her past. Her original 
anxieties about Sodomite pilgrims resurfaced 
for the first time in many days. Would she and 
Sweetness have their tongues removed? What 
barbarous customs did the Sodomites practice in 
their own land? She wasn't at all comforted by 
the sight of the Sodomite border guards with 
their automatic firearms, their dress of chains 
pierced to their genitals and nipples, and of 
course the total lack of hair.

However, she was comforted when one of the 
guards, a tall thin man with dangling earrings 
and a large ring through his navel, addressed 
her. "Glad to see a convert to the Sodomite 
cause," he said cheerfully. So, not all 
Sodomites had their tongues removed.

The pilgrims were clearly excited to be home, 
and signed enthusiastically to each other, 
while they led Sharon and Sweetness to a small 
railway station and onto an electric train that 
was waiting there. They sat in a carriage 
together, Sharon by the window, holding 
Sweetness by the shoulder and clasped their 
hands together. No railway tickets were 
purchased, and no one else got on the train 
while they were at the border. And finally, the 
train departed and glid through the Sodom 
countryside. Sharon was perhaps expecting to 
see a countryside as impoverished and barren as 
Buggery, and was pleasantly surprised as they 
passed fields in which there were tractors and 
farms much like those at home. The stations 
they stopped at were serving small towns also 
much like those at home, and the people who 
embarked at the stops were no more dumb than 
her. They may have been shaved and the only 
items of dress they wore might have been chains 
and rings, but they were otherwise like 
ordinary people, talking to each other, looking 
out of the window or reading newspapers and 
magazines. Perhaps it was only the pilgrims 
who'd had their tongues cut out.

Soon enough, the Sodomite pilgrims stopped at a 
larger station than any other they'd passed, in 
the centre of a small city, full of the tall 
buildings, apartment blocks and busy highways 
that Sharon associated with cities at home. In 
a sense, all this was very surreal. It almost 
didn't feel like a foreign country at all. She 
took pleasure in describing all the familiar 
things she saw to Sweetness. "Ooh! There's a 
lamp-post. And a funny church-like building. 
And there's a double-decker bus. And over 
there, I can just about see an advertising 
board for toothpaste. It's fucking magic!"

It took some while for Sharon to realise that 
to Sweetness these things were totally unknown 
and unsuspected. She nodded as Sharon spoke, 
her mind perhaps on other things, and then she 
asked, "What is a 'car'? And what are 'office 
blocks'? And what do you do in 'shops'?" Sharon 
blushed a little, and looked up at her pilgrim 
companions who were smiling kindly and sadly at 
Sweetness. The girl who'd first met them, 
signed some comments to Sharon, but of course 
she had no idea what was being said, although 
she nodded her head as if she did.

Then the pilgrims parted at the railway station 
concourse, kissing and hugging each other as 
they signed goodbye, and Sharon and Sweetness 
were left with just the girl they'd first met, 
in a vast concourse, surrounded by shaven heads 
and the occasional station announcement to 
places Sharon had never heard of before. She 
was just about able to ascertain that the 
city's name was Holiness, but beyond that she 
was totally lost. The girl smiled and gestured 
to the two girls to follow her, which they did 
by a taxi where again no money parted hands. 
Despite being an old man and quite fat, the 
taxi-driver was still shaven and wearing only 
chains and rings like everyone else. He signed 
to the girl who had befriended Sharon, and 
chatted idly to his passengers.

"Your first time in Sodom?" he asked 
cheerfully. "We don't get many foreigners here. 
Any idea why that is?"

"I've just never seen a holiday advertised for 
Sodom," admitted Sharon. "Anyway, what's there 
here to see here?"

"It's a beautiful country," he smiled. "As it 
has to be to be the home of the Sodomite 
faith." He raised his left hand in a gesture 
whose meaning was totally lost on Sharon, but 
she noticed that he too had most of his third 
finger removed.

Finally, the taxi stopped outside a tall 
apartment block, and the three girls entered 
the building and ascended by lift to one of the 
higher floors. Sharon and Sweetness were 
escorted by the pilgrim to one of many 
apartments where she rang the doorbell. It was 
answered by a slim girl with dark brown eyes, 
full perky breasts, and the usual shaven head 
and full accoutrement of jewellery. Two large 
earrings dangled from her ears and she had a 
broad grin on her face as she saw the three 
girls.

"Oh, Grace!" she cried with enthusiasm. "I've 
not seen you for so long! How was the 
pilgrimage? And who are your friends?"

Grace hugged her friend, kissing her full on 
the face, and then signed furiously to her 
friend, mouthing as she did so and occasionally 
pointing at either Sharon or Sweetness. The 
girl whose apartment it was smiled at the two 
girls as they stood shyly in the corridor.

"Well, come in both of you! My name's Faith, 
although that name's a bit inappropriate unlike 
my darling Grace's. And Sweetness! What a 
lovely name! It's a Buggery name but it could 
almost pass in Sodom. But what's your name? 
Grace wasn't able to sign it very well."

"Sharon."

"'Sharon'? What a weird name! But then you come 
from a very distant country. Does it mean 
anything?"

"No! Names don't mean fuckall. They're just 
names."

"Really?" commented Faith amusedly, as if this 
were a notion that had never occurred to her. 
"Well, come in. Come in. Sit down."

Faith's flat was relatively simple, but to 
Sharon's eyes was more luxury than she'd seen 
since Throb. In the living room, there were a 
set of chairs and a table, but no television 
and no pictures on the wall. Faith sat arm-in-
arm with Grace and the two exchanged signs and 
kisses for a few minutes. Then Grace stood up 
and got up to leave. She kissed Sharon on both 
cheeks, and then knelt down between Sweetness' 
legs to kiss her on her crotch. And then she 
was gone.

Faith smiled at Sharon and Sweetness when they 
were alone. "Grace has told me about how little 
you know of Sodomite ways and customs. You're 
both foreigners, and apparently very ignorant 
of even the Sodomite religion. She's a lovely 
girl and we've been very close friends since we 
were at school together. But she's passionately 
religious. Always has been. And now she's been 
on a pilgrimage, she will always be known as 
Pilgrim Grace."

"Why's she had her tongue cut out?" wondered 
Sharon. "Did she commit some crime or other?" 
Faith laughed. And then continued laughing. She 
shook her head as she tried to straighten her 
face. "The idea of it! No, never! It's a 
privilege to go on a pilgrimage. A pilgrim has 
to be very committed to the Sodomite faith and 
the cost of leaving the country is, of course, 
to leave your tongue behind."

Sharon winced. "That's fucking horrible! You 
mean you have to have your tongue cut out if 
you want to go abroad."

"Well, of course! It's traditional. It was a 
religious thing originally, but as there's so 
little distinction between Sodomy the country 
and Sodomy the religion, it's required of 
everyone, religious or not."

"But you're religious, aren't you?" Sharon 
wondered.

"Well, as a matter of fact, I'm not. I'm an 
agnostic, which means I can't get any of the 
top jobs in this country, but I probably 
wouldn't have been able to anyway. Why, what 
makes you think I'm religious?"

"Being friends with Grace?"

"That's no big deal. I'm sure Grace would want 
me to go to the temples and pray. Or follow the 
five daily observances. Or fast on religious 
holidays. But I'm not. And Grace respects me 
too much to expect me to follow the state 
religion. After all this is a free country. And 
I take it you're not religious, either. So why 
do you think I should be?"

"Well, you dress the same. All the chains. And 
the shaven head. And not wearing clothes."

"'Clothes'? What are they? Well, I don't know 
how people look where you come from. Grace has 
told me about some strange outfits in Buggery, 
but then it is an ignorant country of savages. 
They have a 'king' and a 'royalty'. And all 
sorts of funny shit. Here, it's a proper 
democracy where we can vote for our spiritual 
and political leaders. And of course in a 
country as religious as this, they're 
essentially the same people. No, if you want to 
know if anyone's been baptised into the 
Sodomite faith, and that's not done till 
they're old enough to know for sure, you look 
at the third finger on the left hand." Faith 
held her hand up for Sharon to see. "Mine's 
intact. That means I've chosen not to be 
baptised. Most people choose baptism and of 
course the ceremonious finger-removal, but it's 
their choice. I'd rather keep my finger, unless 
I was convinced it was worth it. I'm not 
unsympathetic to the Sodomite religion. I sort 
of half-believe. But I'm not really religious."

"It's different back home," commented Sharon.

"Really? What's it like?"

"Well, different. There are churches and vicars 
and crosses and things. I don't know much about 
it all, but it's not like the weird shit you've 
got here."

"I suppose so. It all seems normal to me, but 
then you're a foreigner. I've heard bits about 
your country. It sounds quite horrible. And 
very cold and wet. I don't know much about 
foreign religions much. I listened to the radio 
once about your religions. They all have 
strange takes on it. Many of them don't even 
recognise the sanctity of anal intercourse. Or 
even understand the virtue of total bodily and 
sexual submission. Or even recognise the value 
of sacrifice of parts of the body to the 
greater good. And many of them do not even 
practice beatings or understand the meaning of 
humiliation. What religion do you have in your 
country?"

"It's Christian where I come from?"

"Crustyism? I heard about that. That's a bit 
like the Sodomite faith. I hear you nail 
yourself to crosses and have some weird 
cannibal rite where you drink blood and eat 
human flesh in a temple. Sounds pretty 
perverted to me. And I heard about Muscle-men. 
That's a religion where women and men aren't 
allowed to see each other or have sex with each 
other unless they're 'married', whatever that 
is, and have to get in different buses. And I 
hear they have four women to each man. And they 
beat each other with old ropes. And the men 
don't even shave their faces. And Bodyism. 
That's another weird one. You just sit and 
meditate under trees. And if your life has been 
truly boring and uneventful you're allowed 
another go at it. I heard about all your weird 
religions on the radio. Some involve 
worshipping elephants and big black penises. 
Others involve banging your head against walls 
and wailing a lot. At least the Sodomite 
religion's relatively sane and sensible."

Sharon didn't know enough about religion to 
argue with Faith, and she was pleased when 
Faith got up and asked them what they might 
want to drink. She didn't have any beer and, in 
fact, had no idea what it might be. When Sharon 
explained what it was and what it did, she 
frowned. "I heard about that. It's a Crusty 
thing, isn't it? Drinking alcohol and getting 
drugged out. We don't allow intoxicants in 
Sodom. But I do have some tea. Is that 
alright?"

Sharon nodded. She could see that she had a lot 
more to learn about Sodom and Sodomite ways. As 
Faith walked off to her small kitchenette, 
Sharon reflected on how much was strange and 
how much was familiar her in Sodom. It was 
certainly strange to be with a woman like Faith 
who was naked except for the chains and rings 
attached to her flesh. From behind, there was 
no evidence of anything on her body: a long 
sinuous line of bare flesh from her ankle to 
the shaven crown of her head. From the front, 
there dangled the collection of rings and 
chains which all Sodomites sported; although 
Faith's were more decorative than Grace's, 
including a dangling gold chain from her 
clitoris at the end of which was a dark inlaid 
pearl. Her nipples, like Sharon's own, had to 
take the weight of a whole mass of chains and 
rings. Sharon still found the appearance quite 
alien, and it was difficult to believe that she 
looked much the same herself, as did little 
Sweetness who sat quietly on an armchair and 
was seemingly gaining considerable pleasure 
just from feeling its fabric.

"I never knew chairs could be so comfortable," 
Sweetness commented.

Sharon sighed. Poor Sweetness had led such a 
deprived life. And indeed what was familiar to 
Sharon about Faith's flat were such things as 
tables, chairs and the normal comforts of home 
that Sweetness had never known. Even so it was 
relatively austere. No stereo, no computer, no 
posters. Only a few books and a battered 
looking radio.

Faith returned with a tray on which were a pot 
and three empty cups. She lay the tray down on 
a small table in front of Sharon, and smiled at 
her broadly.

"Your Sweetness is a beautiful slave," she 
commented.

"Yes, she is," Sharon replied, not convinced 
she'd heard Faith right.

"I don't have a slave at the moment," sighed 
Faith, sitting on the sofa next to Sharon. "My 
last slave ran off with my best friend. We 
still don't talk about it. He was such a lovely 
slave. A good and willing fuck. A good thick 
prick. He used to sleep at the end of my bed. I 
loved showing him off to my friends. And then 
he took a fancy to my friend, Sanctity, and 
just left me. And now he's with her and I don't 
have anyone. You're lucky. Your slave is so 
very pretty. Aren't you, Sweetness dearest?"

Sharon's ward had no objection to being spoken 
about in such an objective manner, and nodded 
her head eagerly in agreement. Sharon herself 
wasn't too sure what she should say. Perhaps 
the word 'slave' had a different meaning here, 
she mused naively. 

"Have you known Sharon a long time, Sweetness?" 
asked Faith kindly.

"Not very long. Only since Joy was killed by 
the Gomorrans. Sharon saved my life. I love 
her. I love her more than anything. If it 
wasn't for her I'd be dead."

Sharon blushed, while Faith stood up and 
stroked Sweetness tenderly on her shaven head. 
"You're such a beautiful girl. And blind, too. 
Did you blind yourself because of your own 
Buggery religion?"

"No, I've always been like this."

"Oh! So blessed! So naturally gifted!" swooned 
Faith. She took Sweetness' bare face and 
pressed it against her side. "Such a beautiful 
slave. Have you thought of giving her a nose-
ring, Sharon?"

"No. Why? Should I?"

"I don't know how things are done in your 
country, but here we like slaves to look like 
slaves. A nose-ring is the traditional way. And 
it's so practical. You can lead your slave 
along on all fours and it's so much easier to 
secure her when you want to. My slave had a 
lovely nose-ring. It had a carved snake on it. 
And it was so big that he could bite on it 
while it was still in his nose. It sometimes 
bled everywhere. Oh! he was so sweet and 
loving!"

Sharon was still very confused, but she didn't 
want to confess how little she understood what 
Faith was talking about. Clearly they did 
things differently in Sodom. If she wanted 
herself and her ward to survive she was going 
to have to learn quickly. And if it meant that 
Sweetness was going to be her 'slave', then 
maybe that's what she'd have to accept.

The three girls drank the tea which was weak 
and milkless, with not even a single spoonful 
of sugar, let alone the three which Sharon was 
used to at home. They chatted idly about life 
in Sodom, Faith's job as a computer programmer 
and about Sharon's pilgrimage through Buggery 
with Grace and the other pilgrims. Faith leaned 
closer and closer towards Sharon, placing a 
hand on her knee and an arm around her waist. 
Sharon quite enjoyed the intimacy. It was 
comforting to her in this alien republic, but 
she didn't want to reciprocate in case Faith 
interpreted it as anything sexual.

However, Faith didn't need too much prompting. 
She placed her empty cup onto the table and 
leaned over Sharon, placing a hand on her 
crotch, another on a chained nipple and her 
lips on Sharon's mouth. The low moan that 
accompanied this sequence of actions could not 
be misunderstood. 

Sharon rather forcefully pushed her off. "Don't 
fucking do that! I'm not a fucking dyke!"

Faith looked genuinely alarmed, flustered and 
affronted. "I'm sorry," she exclaimed. "I just 
didn't know... I just thought ... I don't know 
what a 'dyke' is, but does it mean you don't 
want to..."

Sharon tried to spell out her position firmly 
and unambiguously. "I don't go after women. 
It's cock I like. I'm not someone who..."

Faith looked puzzled and uneasy. "I don't know 
what you want. They have different customs in 
your country. And anyway, I suppose you just 
don't like me in that way. It's been so long. I 
just hoped."

Sharon felt sorry for Faith. She looked at 
Sweetness who was staring sightlessly in front 
of her, and also frowning. Perhaps it was 
better that Sweetness had some comfort in this 
way. "I'm sure Sweetness wouldn't mind if you 
made love to her," Sharon remarked 
conciliatorily. "She likes women. Don't you, 
Sweetness?"

"Can I?" grinned Faith broadly, regarding 
Sweetness who was nodding enthusiastically in 
agreement. She kissed Sharon eagerly on the 
lips. "You're so wonderful and generous, 
Sharon. Your own slave! For me! The ways in 
your country can't be so bad after all if you 
can be so generous."

Faith left Sharon and descended on Sweetness 
who accepted Faith's caresses with passion and 
delight. For Sharon, this wasn't the first time 
she'd watched Sweetness making love with other 
people: it had become quite a daily occurrence 
for her while travelling with the pilgrims 
through Buggery. And, anyway, why should she 
mind. She was no fucking dyke. What Sweetness 
got up to with women was nothing for her to get 
worried about. And at least Faith had a tongue 
which she could use unlike the Sodomite 
pilgrims who'd even had their vaginas sewn 
together. Faith's vagina was as open as her 
legs, her tongue was as probing as her fingers, 
and her passion was at least as great as 
Sweetness'.

Sharon sat in the sofa as the two girls writhed 
and hugged and cuddled and grappled on Faith's 
thin carpet. Sweetness' tongue nibbling at 
Faith's clitoris and the jewellery dangling 
from it. Faith's teeth, lips and tongue biting 
and squeezing the fleshy folds of Sweetness' 
vulva, her two middle fingers thrusting 
backwards and forwards in the recesses of the 
girl's anus. The girls' flesh glinted from the 
sweat on their chests and arms, the chains 
jangling and clashing against each other and 
against bare flesh. Sharon eased a finger onto 
her clitoris while the lovemaking continued, 
taking advantage of the girls' preoccupation 
with each other to stimulate her own sex, which 
had only now recovered from the battering it 
had taken in the Buggery soldiers' camp. She 
was surprised to feel how moist she was. Was 
she turning into a dyke? she wondered. Or 
perhaps she was just happy that Sweetness was 
happy?

She watched her ward as she grappled with 
Faith, the two girls punctuating their passion 
with grunts and moans, and then she heard her 
own name repeated low and over and over again. 
It was Sweetness. She was actually calling out 
Sharon's name in her passion. This instantly 
confused Sharon. She wasn't Sweetness' lover. 
But part of her was pleased to be the object of 
such passion. Her fingers dug deeper into her 
cunt, she bent her head back and masturbated 
herself to an orgasm of the sort she'd never 
given herself since she was young and very much 
more innocent.



	XIX


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 naive 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.



	XX


Although Sharon had no sexual desires for 
Sweetness, she felt great responsibility for 
the girl. After all, she was blind and even 
more helpless in this strange country than she 
was. What would happen to Sweetness if she 
abandoned her? How could the girl feed or fend 
for herself? So, she decided that for the 
purposes of convenience alone, and because it 
was what was expected of them, she should 
present their friendship as being a 
mistress/slave one of the type that appeared to 
be the norm in Sodom. It provided an excuse for 
her to continue to take care of the girl, and 
might even protect the two of them from any 
worse advances from other people. She explained 
this to Sweetness, and tried to stress that 
there was no real meaning to the relationship.

"I'm not a fucking dyke, you know," she 
stressed to Sweetness as they lay together on 
the mattress in Faith's spare bedroom.

"But I still love you," sniffed Sweetness. 
"Can't you love me in return?"

Sharon could say no, but she was aware that 
their relationship was not totally innocent. 
Sweetness wrapped her naked body around her, 
and stroked and cuddled her, which Sharon 
reciprocated as long as their fingers never 
probed their crotches and there were no tongues 
involved. 

"We can cuddle, but that's fucking all!" she 
insisted.

However, she quite enjoyed helping Sweetness. 
Somehow, this role as Sweetness' carer had 
awakened in her feelings of responsibility she 
didn't know she had. Every morning, she would 
carefully shave Sweetness' head, just as she 
did herself and tenderly thread the chains and 
rings into her pierced nipple and clitoris: 
tasks which blindness made nearly impossible 
for the girl. Her heart would sometimes melt as 
she regarded Sweetness' vacant gaze in her 
direction as she washed the last signs of 
stubble off the girl's pate. On such occasions, 
she would tenderly kiss Sweetness on the lips 
and then curse herself for giving the girl 
cause to expect more of her than she was 
willing to give. Sharon had started to get 
quite used to this look of baldness and the 
array of chains. In fact, as she regarded her 
own face in the mirror, as she carefully shaved 
the back of her head, she wondered what it 
might be to have hair again. What did it feel 
like to have all that stuff sprouting out of 
the top of the head, over the ears and onto the 
shoulder? And what was it like to wear clothes, 
rather than have chains pulling down 
relentlessly on the nipples and cunt, so often 
giving her inappropriate feelings whenever one 
was accidentally tugged or brushed?

Faith was happy for Sharon and Sweetness to 
stay in her spare bedroom, but she wasn't a 
wealthy woman so she did what she could to 
persuade Sharon to find work. "In this 
country," she reminded Sharon, "a mistress is 
expected to provide for her slave. There are 
plenty of jobs in the local newspaper, so have 
a look there."

Sharon agreed, taking the copy of the Holiness 
Evening Advertiser that Faith had handed her 
and browsed through the pages. It was 
remarkably dull. Every page was nothing but 
newsprint, with no photographs or cartoons of 
any kind. She commented on this to Faith.

"Illustrations of any kind are forbidden by the 
Sodomite religion," Faith told them sternly. "I 
suppose it's different where you are, but here 
it is firmly forbidden to see images, painted, 
drawn, filmed or photographed."

"Is that why you have no telly?"

"I've no idea what you mean," sighed Faith 
impatiently. 

"No television. Just a radio," continued 
Sharon, noting Faith's blank expression. "Oh 
never mind." 

Faith sighed again and returned to the book she 
was reading. However, now that it was mentioned 
to her, Sharon reflected that she hadn't seen 
any images or pictures anywhere. This was one 
distinct difference between Sodom and back 
home, as well as the funny religion and the 
weird way you were expected to dress. She was 
sure she'd find more such differences, but it 
seemed weird to her that people exposed 
themselves in a way that would get you arrested 
back home, but were prudish about something as 
harmless as pictures. What were these people 
on?

There were many jobs advertised, and many of 
them were just like jobs she'd had back home. 
It was reassuring to see that there were jobs 
like factory workers, toilet attendants, 
security guards and computer programmers, just 
like she would see in jobs advertisements back 
home. She had no real idea where to begin 
looking, but she ringed a few who paid more 
Sodomite dollars than the others. It was those 
boring jobs in offices like sorting out files 
and answering the phone where there was most 
demand, and she'd soon had a few advertisements 
ringed in biro, and a few interviews arranged 
using Faith's telephone. 

Seeing Sharon busy at work, Faith abandoned her 
book and made some tea and biscuits. Sharon 
could see that Faith's grumpiness was probably 
still to do with the fact that Sharon didn't 
want to have sex with her, but, fuck it! Faith 
could have sex with Sweetness any time. All she 
had to do was ask. 

Finally, Sharon arranged an interview which was 
for a clerical job with a shipping company, and 
set off across the city for the interview which 
was to be that very afternoon. She asked Faith 
how she should dress for the interview, which 
caused her a little amusement. "Just as you 
are," she said with a laugh, but nonetheless 
loaned Sharon a dangling pearl cunt ring to 
make her look slightly smarter. She also 
recommended that Sharon take Sweetness with 
her, as interviewers tended to look more 
favourably on applicants with steady 
relationships. She lent Sharon a chain with 
which to lead Sweetness: the same one, she 
remarked ruefully, that she'd used on her own 
slave.

Sharon was still finding life in Sodom 
curiously like normal life after her ordeal in 
Buggery. Here were city streets, shops, buses 
and all the accompaniments of civilised life. 
But the differences were becoming clearer to 
her. And not just the bizarre way that everyone 
dressed, and the disproportionately large 
number of people with missing fingers, tongues 
or other parts of their body. Now that it had 
been drawn to her attention, she was aware of 
the total lack of images around her. 
Advertisements were in text only, and there 
were no signs of illustration even in shop 
windows. She found her way to the block of 
offices where she was to be interviewed by bus, 
which was full of people of all ages, children 
and old people, dressed only in chains and 
rings threaded through their body. Not many had 
their tongues removed or their vaginas sewn up 
or their testicles removed, as with the 
Sodomite pilgrims, but several were, and she 
noticed that they were generally treated with 
quite exaggerated respect.

Sharon was at first rather unhappy with having 
to pull Sweetness along by a chain, worried that 
her ward could so easily get hurt finding her 
way through all the people, but she was a girl 
who was more than accustomed to her disability
and held onto Sharon's arm for support. There 
were many other couples like her: sometimes a 
man leading another man on all fours, or a 
woman pulling a man along by a chain through 
his nose, or a woman slapping a man as he 
cowered under her open palm, or other women 
like her dragging another woman about. It was 
fairly obvious who the mistress was and who was 
the slave. Clearly, Sodom wasn't a country that 
practised equal relationships.

Sharon waited with Sweetness in the reception 
area of the office for a short while, leaving 
Sweetness behind when she was called for her 
interview which was with a rather stout short 
man who might have been balding if it were 
possible to say in a country where everyone 
appeared to be bald. The interview was cordial 
and brief as the man asked her about her office 
skills and what jobs she'd had in the past. He 
was particularly impressed by the fact that 
Sharon had come from another country.

"We get very few foreigners in Sodom, and fewer 
still who choose to settle here," he mused. 
"There are the pilgrims from other countries 
who come here to see the Holy relics and the 
Holy shrines. Otherwise, there are hardly any 
at all. But I hear that you foreigners have 
some fairly outlandish customs. Is it true for 
instance that you don't shave yourselves back 
where you come from?"

"The men do. But mostly just the face. And the 
women do, but mostly the legs and under the 
arms."

"You mean the men don't even shave their legs 
and armpits!" exclaimed the interviewer, whose 
skin, like everyone else, was smooth and 
hairless. "Truly, it sounds like you come from 
a very strange place. Hairy people everywhere. 
And you even have films and something called 
the 'cinema'. Don't your religions proscribe 
anything?"

"Religion isn't that important back home. And 
most religious people do things very 
differently to how religious people do things 
here."

"I imagine they would. I wouldn't call myself a 
religious man, although I've been baptised," he 
displayed his truncated third finger, "but I'm 
glad that Sodom is a religious country, where 
our morals are protected by our religious 
leaders." He sniffed, and glanced at a plaque 
on the wall which held ornate text which Sharon 
could see read 'To be humble is good. To suffer 
divine'. "However, you seem like a good girl to 
me. And you're not flaunting any strange 
foreign customs that might upset my staff. I 
see you even have a slave. Is she from Sodom or 
did you bring her from where you come from?"

"Neither. She comes from Buggery."

"Buggery. We've fought so many wars with them 
over the years. So much of their kingdom is 
land which once belonged to the Sodomite 
people. They have taken advantage of our 
people's aversion to war and unnecessary 
suffering. A Sodomite principle is never to 
cause pain to anyone who doesn't expressly ask 
for it. These Buggerians don't seem to have any 
scruples at all on that front." He frowned 
severely, and then smiled. "Well, your slave 
seems a pleasant enough girl. Blind as well. Is 
that for religious reasons?"

Sharon shook her head. "She's always been like 
that."

The interviewer sighed. "Disability without 
choice is such a sad thing. Anyway, when can 
you start? We have excellent facilities for 
slaves while their mistresses, or masters for 
that matter, are at work. We'd really like 
someone to start as soon as possible."

Sharon eagerly accepted the offer, and for the 
first time since she'd left home she felt there 
was some structure returning to her life. She 
was earning money and was able to pay Faith for 
her keep in the flat and able to settle down to 
a new routine. Not that there was much else to 
spend her money on. Holiness had no pubs, night 
clubs or cinemas. All there was were coffee and 
tea shops, and the restaurants were fairly few 
and not particularly good. So, after a day at 
work there was nothing much else to do, but to 
return to Faith's flat. In this way, life in 
Sodom was significantly less exciting than back 
home. But otherwise, Sharon was feeling happier 
than she'd done for a long time. Mind you, the 
actual Sodomite dollar was a strange thing. Like 
everything else, there were no images on it, 
just beautifully ornate Sodomite phrases. On 
the twenty dollar note it read: 'Deliverance 
Through Pain'. The fifty dollar note read: 
'Redemption is Achieved Through Blood, Sweat 
and Piss'. And the hundred dollar note, which 
was barely worth as much as a cup of coffee, 
read: 'Grace, Peace and Humiliation.'

Her job in the office was not especially 
exciting. The computers she had to work on were 
distinctly more primitive than any she'd seen 
at any office she'd worked in at home and 
there was certainly no Internet access. The 
work was certainly no more interesting, but it 
kept her occupied. She worked opposite a thin 
girl, Humility, with a pointed chin and wide, 
child-like eyes. Next to her was a rather fat 
man, Surrender, whose chains were partly held 
in place by a thick ring in his navel. On the 
other side was a middle-aged woman, Sacrifice, 
whose sagging pointed breasts and nipples were 
dragged down quite sharply by the weights which 
dangled from them, and had her tongue removed 
and so could therefore only communicate by 
sign- language which Sharon had absolutely no 
facility in.

She brought Sweetness into the office every 
day, like everyone else who had a slave, and 
sat her on a cushion chained to her desk just 
between Sacrifice and herself. Sacrifice had 
her own slave, a thin young man with persistent 
blue stubble on his cheeks and chin, and whose 
tongue was also removed. Not much chance of 
conversation there. It had to be said that 
Sweetness seemed to have a natural ability in 
her new role, even though Sharon was initially 
rather uneasy about it. Perhaps because of her 
sightlessness she didn't really see it as the 
humiliation that Sharon recognised it as. In 
any case, her life up till then had scarcely 
been especially empowering. Slaves had a 
strange role to play it seemed. They had to ask 
permission for anything they wanted to do, 
however trivial, and to accept without question 
petty humiliations and refusals. They also were 
expected to give sexual favours whenever 
requested and accept beatings for the most 
arbitrary reasons. Sharon had no intention on 
visiting any harm on her ward, which in itself 
raised comment from the other staff.

"You're very lenient on your slave," remarked 
Humility. "Don't you ever slap her? I've not 
seen you piss on her or spank her or discipline 
her in any way. Don't people do things like 
that back where you come from?"

"Not often," admitted Sharon.

"Despite my name I've never been very keen on 
being a slave," Humility confided. "I tried it 
for a while. But I didn't really enjoy it. And 
I've tried being a mistress and I was crap at 
that as well. Just not stern enough. Do you 
think there's something wrong with me?"

"Not at all," said Sharon. Humility placed a 
hand on Sharon's crotch and squeezed it. Sharon 
pushed it off abruptly. "Don't fucking do that! 
I'm not a dyke, you know!"

"'Dyke'?"

"Lesbian. You know. A woman who has sex with 
another woman."

"That's weird. I don't understand why not. Is 
it some religious reason or something?"

Sharon sighed. Everything was weird here. 
Wasn't there anyone who understood normal sex? 
Mind you, she enjoyed cock for the first time 
properly since Throb (dismissing her stay at 
the army camp as being something wholly 
unsavoury and best forgotten). The men in Sodom 
were so much easier to pick up, and so much 
more ready to pick you up than back home. All 
it did was for a man to like the look of you, 
and there you were, in the back room, in the 
corridor, anywhere, with people walking by, 
with this cock fucking you, sometimes with the 
extra embellishments of massive studs through 
the glans. And the men weren't too bad at it, 
either. But they were always a bit eager to use 
the back entrance. It was as if the front 
entrance just wasn't good enough. Thankfully 
for Sharon she didn't really mind which 
entrance was used, though after a few fucks up 
the arse she was beginning to feel her cunt was 
relatively neglected.

She also found that this weird Sodomite 
religion was present throughout the working 
day. On about three occasions a day, for about 
fifteen minutes or so, a high percentage of the 
office staff disappeared together for their 
religious observations. Sacrifice and her 
slave, and also Suffering, left Sharon and 
Sweetness together with Humility in their 
corner of the office. Like Faith, Humility had 
not chosen to be baptised in the faith although 
she was not unsympathetic.

"I just don't enjoy all that whipping, beating 
and buggery," she admitted to Sharon. "If only 
there were other ways of demonstrating your 
faith which didn't hurt quite so much. And I 
just don't want to lose my finger. It's not 
done me any harm. In fact, I'm quite fond of 
it." She held up her hand and flexed her third 
finger with a sigh.

When the others returned, they seemed flushed 
with exertion and sweat, often with traces of 
blood rising from welts on their back and 
buttocks, and sometimes with a small trickle of 
blood down their thighs. Sacrifice's slave 
seemed to be especially badly treated, 
sometimes smelling of piss, and frequently with 
cuts on his face and with a bright red shine to 
his buttocks. He never seemed at all upset by 
it though. His grin was often in direct 
proportion to the amount of pain he must have 
sustained: the more he was punished, the more 
he appeared to enjoy it. In fact, no 
humiliation seemed too much for him, often 
licking the soles of Sacrifice's feet and on at 
least one occasion, licking out dried shit from 
between her saggy bony arse cheeks.

Still, whatever! thought Sharon. She was happy 
with the odd corridor fuck, and sometimes she 
persuaded men to come back with her to Faith's 
flat where she would allow herself to be fucked 
back and front for as long as it took, buying 
off Faith's acquiescence with the gift of 
Sweetness' always eager body. The cries of 
passion and ecstasy that erupted from Faith's 
bed were joined by Sharon's own guttural 
irruptions as chains clashed with chains, rings 
clanked against rings, bare hairless flesh slid 
over flesh. And that all important cock 
thrusting in and out of her cunt. And sometimes 
in her arse. And sometimes, although Sharon was 
less keen herself, she'd be persuaded to strap 
on a dildo and push that in and out of the 
man's arse as he gasped and grunted from the 
pleasure he seemed to get as it rubbed against 
his prostrate gland.

Sharon was never sure how happy Sweetness was. 
It was clear that she was quite happy. At 
least, happier than she'd ever been before in 
their acquaintance. Life in Sodom seemed to 
agree with her, and she lent herself quite 
readily to her role as a slave, even though 
Sharon never allowed her to enjoy with her the 
sexual pleasures she allowed her to have with 
anyone else. Sharon had no objection to other 
people making love to Sweetness: favours the 
gratitude for which was strangely enough 
expressed to her rather than to Sweetness who 
was rarely thanked. It made life with Faith 
much easier than it might be. She often 
commented on Sharon's generosity. She even 
surmised that Sharon's reluctance to have sex 
with her slave was a subtle kind of humiliation 
she was meting on her, which Sharon chose not 
to deny, although it was a rather novel notion 
to her.

It also made her popular with her work 
colleagues, even though it was obvious that 
they had no idea why it was that someone who 
had so quickly gained a reputation for her easy 
promiscuity, which was seen as a great virtue, 
should be so fastidious as to the gender of who 
she had sex with when she was otherwise so 
indiscriminate. Humility was particularly 
uncomfortable with Sharon's rejections of her 
advances, but accepted sex with Sweetness as 
some kind of compensation. Sometimes, Sharon 
wondered how it was that any work was ever done 
in a day with so much sex in the office. But 
then she reflected that it was probably all 
this fucking which lowered productivity and in 
turn ensured that there was plenty of work to 
go round, and this was why Sodom managed to 
achieve full employment. 

However, philosophical thoughts like this 
rarely crossed her mind as she lay in bed with 
whatever man she'd picked up and took his prick 
in her mouth and sucked it clean of come. And 
such pricks! Almost all of them had at least 
one stud in it, to hold the chains in place, 
and sometimes they were a festering mass of 
metal. She soon came to associate the sharp 
tinny taste of steel with the pleasures of sex, 
to be taken as an aperitif before being fucked 
by metal and cock, or to be taken as dessert 
when her cunt was sore and her arse was 
bleeding. 

Whatever else could be said about Sodom, the 
Sodomites certainly knew how to fuck!







 
