Escape from Buggery

by Bradley Stoke

  Not wholly incoherent. Occasionally, Sharon could distinguish the name ‘Joy’, but otherwise there was nothing that made sense. Despite her own pain and misery, Sharon felt an overwhelming emotion of pity for the girl. Being blind, her shock and horror must have been compounded by her helplessness and by her ignorance as to exactly what horrors had been meted on her. Sweetness raised her face and looked in her direction, her eyes registering nothing, a black bruise swelling on her right cheek and eyes, and dried blood and snot on her upper lip. “Joy! Joy! Where are you?” she moaned, and then buried her face into the palms of her hands.

  Here they were, somewhere. Alive at least. With nothing. This hadn’t worried Sharon before. Her very life had been her chief concern. But now she was sure. Her blouse was removed, thrown aside no doubt in the rape. Her sandals that she’d bought in the high street when she and Tracey were happily planning the holiday: gone forever, trampled into the dusty fields outside. And her bag, with her passport, money and possessions, gone also. Never to be seen again. Along with her last hopes of ever leaving Buggery by the normal process of border control. Would she ever see home again? Would she even survive to see the world beyond the tent? What would become of her?

  Or of Sweetness? Did she even know that Joy had been blown to pieces? Or that the factory where she’d lived was now nothing but rubble and smoke? She gazed at the young girl sadly. So thin. So helpless. And she must have led such a sad life. Fucking for a living. And a living that had been a dank hole in the ground, in a Kingdom where her very blindness was as good as a death sentence. Whose situation was worse? Sharon who’d had at least some good times in the smoky night-clubs and damp car parks of home? And even had the best fucks of her life not so many days ago? Or Sweetness who’d known nothing but misery and despair ever since her sightless emergence into the world? Strangely, contemplating Sweetness’ dire straits made her own seem the more bearable and in a curious way a source of some guilty comfort.

  Sharon pulled her naked bruised body over the earth and leaned out a hand in Sweetness’ direction. She couldn’t quite reach the girl, but Sweetness heard her movements. Her face lit up and her sightless eyes looked in her direction with a disconcerting vacuousness. “Joy! Is that you?” she gasped.

  “It’s me. Sharon.”

  “Sharon? The tourist. Where’s Joy?”

  “Joy’s dead. There’s no more Joy.”

  “Dead. No Joy!” Sweetness weeped, but she’d clearly already half-reconciled herself to this possibility, not erupting into the hysteria of tears that Sharon had feared. “How did she die? What happened? Where am I?”

  Sharon explained to Sweetness as best she could what had happened and where they were. And rehearsed as much to herself as for Sweetness’ benefit the horrors they had been through. She talked and she talked, disjointedly, ramblingly, punctuated with questions of how Sweetness was, less from a need to know and more from a need to hear Sweetness reply through the globules of tears, mucus and blood in her mouth. Every now and then, Sweetness would interject with “Joy. Joy’s dead. She’s dead.” She was evidently trying to comprehend the enormity of her situation.

  The flaps of the tent briefly parted, letting in a flood of daylight, and the tall slim figure of a young man entered. He seemed peculiarly delicate and somehow awkward. He was clearly a soldier, and like the soldiers who’d raped the two girls he was naked and his entire skin was dyed khaki. He differed only in that he carried a holster around his left shoulder and had several stripes tattooed onto his right shoulder. He was also had a normal flaccid penis. He walked over to the girls and crouched in front of them.

  “I’m Sergeant Moss. I’m the commander of this camp since the colonel was killed yesterday. How are you? Not feeling too bad I hope?”

  Sharon stared at him, barely able to hide the hostility from her gaze. “What do you fucking think? I feel fucking awful. And when are you gonna let us go, you bastard?”

  The young man sighed. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. You’re spoils of war, I’m afraid. Escape is just not possible. The soldiers need some R&R, you know. And you’re unfortunate enough to have to provide it for them. I’m deeply sorry for you. It wasn’t my choice. But war is war. And you are victims of it.”

  “You fucking shit! Fucking let us free. I don’t fucking care about what your fucking soldiers want. And anyway haven’t they fucking done enough?”

  “I can’t apologise enough for the violence and brutality of my men. What they did to you was inexcusable. Rape is one of the worst crimes there is. Short of murder, of course. But this is war. We’ve sustained a colossal amount of injury in the last day. The colonel’s gamble just didn’t pay off. The Gomorrans gave us far more of a drubbing than we’d expected. At least a thousand men died yesterday and last night, and most of our supplies were destroyed by the bombing raids. But I don’t expect you to sympathise with my men. All I can offer as comfort is the observation that at least my men didn’t kill you.”

  “Didn’t what they do to us … wasn’t that fucking enough?”

  “Rape is normal in war. My men haven’t had sex with a woman for years. Many of them have never fucked a woman before. But like it or not my men probably saved your lives. The Gomorran soldiers are not known for their mercy. They would also have raped you - just as they would have raped any of my soldiers - but it’s unlikely they’d have let you live. And you were in the heart of a battle field. Gunfire, mines, bombs. Your chances of survival were very low. I doubt whether very many others in that settlement of yours managed to wake up this morning…”

  “Tracey…” mused Sharon. Her best friend was probably also dead. And all they’d wanted was a holiday in the sun. Her eyes exploded in tears. “You bastards! You bastards! You fucking fucking bastards!”

  “I can see you’re unhappy,” mused the sergeant. “And I can’t promise you the security or the freedom you want. And we don’t have any medical supplies to do anything about your cuts and bruises. But they do look superficial, so I don’t think you’re likely to die from them. Much as I’d like to, I can’t free you. It would be my death sentence. Morale is low enough as it is, and any small thing I can do to assist my men is about all there is left for me to do until, or if, reinforcements ever arrive. I’ll leave you now. But I’m sorry to have to inform you that, from now on, you will be expected to provide sexual favours for my men, and that some of them are not going to be that gentle with you. But I can promise you that I will do my best to ameliorate the agony. It won’t be much, but I do have a modicum of authority even if I don’t believe I have quite the respect my rank should have.”

  With that, he left the two girls huddled on the dry ground, once again to immerse themselves in their misery. Eventually, Sharon managed to fall asleep again, her consciousness sinking in clouds of despair and Sweetness’ muttered moans and cries as she mourned the death of her companion. “No Joy!” she moaned again and again. “No more Joy. No more Joy again. Ever!”

  The sergeant soon became the most frequent visitor to the tent as the days and nights merged into a hazy horror of misery, discomfort and despair. After a while, Sharon almost looked forward to the visits as they were the only thing which interrupted the tedium and bleakness which did not necessarily involve sexual penetration. When he wasn’t there, which was most of the time, Sharon and Sweetness lay near each other slumped on the hard dusty earth. The only physical comfort Sharon could give Sweetness was to hold her hand as they stretched out towards each other, while Sweetness rambled on about her worries and woes. Generally, their conversations were disjointed, and returned repeatedly to their worries about their current situation and their recent losses. Sweetness was genuinely inconsolable about the death of Joy who had been her protector, keeper and lover for two or more years. Her life before that had been even less pleasant than living in the ruined factory. She had been kept in hiding from the police from birth by sympathetic peasants. The war reached where they lived, and in the chaos of the destruction w
hich befell the village and her guardians, Sweetness found herself helpless and alone in the world, not knowing where she was and where to go. It was Joy who’d found her and saved her life, but she would forever blame herself that she’d not been able in some way to prevent Joy from losing her life. Her sightless eyes were red and raw from the tears which memories of her darling Joy inevitably provoked in her.

  When the flaps of the tent opened and the sergeant returned, Sharon was always filled with dread if he came in with anyone else. And usually there were three or four others. Because this invariably meant more rest and recreation for the soldiers who accompanied him and several hours of pain and humiliation for the two girls. With little introduction and sooner than Sharon ever feared, she and Sweetness would be fucked: in the arse and in the cunt, and no opportunity to protest. After her initial rape, Sharon vowed she’d never be penetrated again, but what use were her vows where she was: tethered to a pole and thoroughly incapable of putting up any struggle at all if she didn’t want a gun butt slammed into her face.

  The soldiers who raped her, - and it couldn’t really be called anything else, - were mostly quite young, were frighteningly unimaginative and insensitive in their lovemaking, and invariably left her lower regions battered, bruised and torn. They all were blessed with the phenomenal erections which seemed to be a permanent feature of them. The only times Sharon ever saw a penis that wasn’t red and raw with a throbbing glans and veins was after the soldiers had at long last relieved their sperm either into or onto them. The sergeant was the only one privileged to have a penis that wasn’t mostly erect.

  The fucking was intense, amateurish, and seemed to go on forever. And she wasn’t fucked nearly as much as Sweetness who, because of her youth and vitality, was more thoroughly fucked than she was. She was becoming accustomed to pricks up her arse, shoved into her mouth and plunged (least painfully of all) up her cunt. And at the same time, she could see Sweetness through her tears of rage and disgust engulfed by a mob of khaki-coloured figures who were fucking her as best they could. When they weren’t fucking each other. Which they did frequently, during, before and after fucking either or both of the girls.

  The sergeant, despite his protestations of decency, was no less of a fucker than the others. His long thin prick, when aroused, as it very soon was, joined the others in painful penetrating her, Sweetness and of course the arse of all, or many, of the other soldiers. And when they left, Sharon and Sweetness would be nursing their fresh wounds and humiliations slumped on a ground which never got more comfortable and dampened by semen, shit and piss. Even this respite which they’d been hoping and praying for all the time they’d been raped, offered little comfort and even less hope. And as the small pile of their shit and piss grew in the shadow of the tent, it really did not smell very reassuring either.

  However, when the sergeant entered unaccompanied there was no question of sex and he was all kindness. Even if Sharon remembered distinctly the times he’d fucked her (and no more expertly or sensitively than his soldiers), these were visits which she rather welcomed and which offered Sweetness and she almost the only respite from their misery.

  He explained that he’d never wanted to be a soldier. In fact, his ambition had always to be a poet, a talent for which he had shown great promise whilst at school. But the Kingdom of Buggery had no demand for poets and a much greater appetite for cannon fodder. Despite his delight and skill at verse, he’d also proven himself to be a brave and capable soldier for which he earned his promotion to sergeant. For this he earned more stripes, the tattooing of which was almost as painful as his initial tattoo into military colours. This was mandatory for all soldiers, and ensured that they would have no chance of any other career for the rest of their generally rather short lives.

  He was very lucky to have survived the battle which had killed Joy and separated Sharon from Tracey. The carnage had been indiscriminate and widespread. At least fifty, and maybe a hundred, soldiers had actually been machine-gunned down by forces of the Buggery Army who were under instructions to fire on any retreating soldiers. The press of soldiers attempting to escape the bloodshed behind them into the guns of the army’s rear guard would have been greater if the Gomorran jet planes hadn’t been so thorough in their carpet bombing of the Buggery army encampment. Had the Gomorrans been less efficient, it was unlikely that the sergeant would still be alive.

  Buggery military life was harsh and unremitting, and, true to the general policies of the Kingdom, as humiliating and brutal for the soldiers as it was for the citizenry they were defending. Once in military tattoos, clothes were banned, and as a result of injections, pills and masturbation (sometimes mutual), soldiers were expected to maintain an erection at most times. Particularly during battle and inspections. The thinking was that a sexually aroused soldier was necessarily an effective one. The sergeant was uncertain as to the truth of this, but he knew that his own prick was at its greatest state of arousal during combat. Slaying, fucking, being fucked: all were part of the excitement of war. And he could vouch that it certainly scared the fuck out of the Gomorrans to be faced by massed erections, occasionally squirting out semen as they made the kill.

  Women were rarely pressed into military service, and those few rarely survived very days, even if they were never caught up in combat. However, sex was such an integral part of life in Buggery that soldiers were expected to have sex with each other. Anal intercourse was encouraged and even enforced. However, rank had to be respected. Higher ranks could fuck anyone of lower rank: and did so with appetite and arbitrariness. Lower ranks could only fuck those of the same rank as themselves or lower. A colonel could fuck a corporal, but a corporal could never stick his prick up a colonel’s anus however much he wanted to (or the colonel might actually like it). Life in the army was a man’s life, but not a life for a man who was choosy about his sexual partners.

  When the sergeant left, Sweetness and Sharon would be left alone in the shadows of the tent: sometimes left very much in the dark when it was nightfall. Although Sharon insisted to Sweetness that she was no fucking dyke, (something which she wasn’t sure Sweetness really understood), she sought out Sweetness’ hand to clasp and didn’t complain too much as she stroked her ankle or arm or whatever little of her that she could reach. Besides, Sweetness was still grieving the loss of Joy. It was difficult for Sharon to understand how a girl like her, who might even be quite attractive had she the chance of gaining weight on her emaciated body, could ever find much pleasure in the crippled disfigured body of her deceased lover. Sometimes Sharon’s mind cast back to the days before she and Tracey arrived in Buggery. Squalid though their life had been, it was paradise compared to her the dilemma of her current confinement.

  Chapter XIII

  Tracey and Buttercup wandered along in the dark Gomorran landscape, their shadows cast forward by the light of the nearly full moon, able to see that on this side of the border as on the other there was evidence of the detritus of war. They were both very tired and both felt thoroughly abused. Buttercup was finding the pain between her legs a particular agony for which she was grateful for Tracey’s devoted love, as she grasped her lover’s hand. Tracey herself tried to keep out of her mind both her feeling of relief that she hadn’t been blown to pieces by mines on the Buggery side of the border and her apprehension that it might still happen on the Gomorran side. She didn’t know what she’d expected on arrival in Gomorrah, but she knew it hadn’t been yet more of this anxious loneliness and fear, and this feeling that she had left one hell only to arrive in another which so far promised no better than that which they’d left. The pain in her own vagina and arse, though less than that of the more absolutely abused Buttercup, still made her feel weak and helpless.

  Eventually, after several hours of directionless wandering away from the border, the two girls had to succumb to their exhaustion. They moved out of the open air, where at least they could see where they were, into the forbidding shadows of a copse, where a crater and the re
mains of a fire-bombed jeep reminded them that war was still not that far behind them. They rested together, relying on each other for warmth and comfort, each being a pillow for the other’s weary head, too exhausted for Tracey to make love to Buttercup: an ambition which had so often surfaced in her thoughts as she admired her lover. And soon they were asleep, too exhausted to care anymore. Occasionally, Tracey thought of Sharon. Was her friend even alive? She wondered. Or had she been brutally raped and murdered by the Gomorran soldiers as she’d witnessed them treat the Buggery soldier?

  Tracey was awoken by Buttercup, who was gently stroking her hair. She lifted herself up on her elbow and looked around her in the bright sunlight at the desolate, parched countryside, initially convinced that she was still in Buggery, and that her memories of the day before had been nothing but an unpleasant nightmare. Buttercup kissed her sadly, but lovingly. Despite her anxiety, Tracey smiled. “At least we’re still alive.”

  Buttercup returned the smile, on a face whose beauty was badly marred by a growing bruise on her cheek and a cut just above her eye. She glanced down at her crotch, where Tracey could see a small trickle of blood that had emerged from her vagina. “Not just alive,” Buttercup said with a sadness,. “but together!”

  She sat up, and grasped her knees between her arms, slightly shuddering from a despair that Tracey recognised in herself. “Now, we’ve got to make a new life together in Gomorrah. And first we’ve got to find some other people. And just hope that they aren’t as brutal as the border guards.”