Escape from Buggery Page 4

  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.

  Chapter 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 Garçon 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 were 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 underage 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 watche
d 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 jewelry 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 cafés, 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 halfway 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 their 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 roadside 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 which 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.