Escape From Buggery Ch 17

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

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

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

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

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

so

much!”

Tracey gasped. “You what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As it spurted out of her fanny onto the short curling hairs of her vagina, Tracey reflected on the inconvenience of having hair so short that it marked her out from the other girls. It wasn’t that short now, and her mousey-brown natural colour was beginning to overcome the bleach which made her hair look so unnaturally pale. She hoped it would grow long soon, and fast. She’d rather do without a bonus than attract the attention of every man who had a

thing

for short hair. Back home, that wouldn’t have bothered her. In fact, anything which got her a good fuck or two on a night out was welcome. But here, the fucking was even more mechanical and careless, so that those fucks in the alleyways seemed almost tender and loving by comparison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And of course the fucking.

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

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

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

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

“Buttercup! Buttercup! What’s wrong?” weeped Tracey.

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

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

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

“Isn’t there anything else?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you mean they can’t get married or live with a woman or anything?”

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

“So, not all men are bad.” Wondered Buttercup sorrowfully.

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

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

“Tomorrow then,” whispered Buttercup firmly.

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