Escape from Buggery Page 13

  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 Tracey observed to be 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 very many corpses of mostly naked khaki figures interspersed very occasionally by that of a fully clothed one. Tracey held Buttercup’s hand as much for the need of comfort as for the pleasure of her physical touch. The figures 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 soon 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 sandled 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 underneath a brutal looking 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 refuge 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 minefield. If you weren’t fucking tarts, you ought to get fucking medals for getting here without your fucking leg blown off!”

  Tracey blanched. Minefield? 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.”
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br />   “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. Their 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 upswelling 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 around and walked along the road. They hadn’t walk 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!”

  Chapter 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 in 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.