Escape from Buggery Read online

  “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 perjoratives 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 were 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, reminiscing of 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 which 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 rôles 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.”