Escape from Buggery

by Bradley Stoke

  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 had been 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 sound.

  “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 by probably 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 rather 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 which 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.

  Chapter VII

  The woods seemed to go 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 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 submachine 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 landmark 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 awful 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 which 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 by a stranger.

  The girl looked in their direction with no fear and no similar shyness. “Hello there,” announced the girl, 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, approached the girl and taking note of just how different from all the 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 curi
ous 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?”