Escape From Buggery 10

As it spurted out of her fanny onto the short curling hairs of her vagina, Tracey reflected on the inconvenience of having hair so short that it marked her out from the other girls. It wasn't that short now, and her mousey-brown natural colour was beginning to overcome the bleach which made her hair look so unnaturally pale. She hoped it would grow long soon, and fast. She'd rather do without a bonus than attract the attention of every man who had a thing for short hair. Back home, that wouldn't have bothered her. In fact, anything which got her a good fuck or two on a night out was welcome. But here, the fucking was even more mechanical and careless, so that those fucks in the alleyways seemed almost tender and loving by comparison.

When Jack took her back to the production line, she was pleased to see Buttercup in her place, struggling with the wings of a chicken and stabbing it viciously with her knife: perhaps taking out on the dead fowl the anger that she felt towards her most recent fucker. Tracey was almost glad that she'd had to endure a fucking as well as her. Somehow, it slightly evened up the girls' relative misery.

The rewards of the day's work was even greater for Buttercup than before and both Zeta and Tracey had to help Buttercup carry her rewards home. Buttercup, however, seemed to even hate her bonus and had almost refused to take it when it was handed to her, but Tracey ensured she took away as much as she was given.

The next few days continued in much the same fashion. A day at work alternating with a day of exchanging at the market-place whatever collection of chicken pieces, beer, canned food or chocolate bars Tracey and especially Buttercup had earned from a day of tedious factory work and non-consensual sex. The day at work was too long and too arduous for either girl to do anything else but get to and from work, and endure whatever it had to offer. Principally these sufferings were cold hands, the odd nip from the knives they sometimes had to use, and the pain of anal and vaginal intercourse, peppered with the foul taste of an unprepossessing set of penises and their sour-tasting semen. And, as Buttercup confessed, on one occasion from the manager pissing straight into her mouth while she was being fucked up the arse by a senior supervisor.

The days off were the days the girls enjoyed. They never seemed long enough and there was so much to do in organising their home and preparing food. But they got to know the other women in the settlement better. Theta and Zeta became especially close friends, but more because they saw in the two girls the fact that they were also a committed couple like themselves.

Buttercup tired of the chicken factory. She was no good at any of the tasks she had to perform, although it was her frequent sexual favours for which she was rewarded and earned some quite bitchy envy from other girls on the production line, who commented quite openly that if she'd not been so pretty she'd have been kicked out for her incompetence from the very first day.

Zeta took the girls to other factories, none of which were as near as the chicken factory and none of them at all pleasant to work in. There was a cigarette factory where the girls were given free cigarettes during the breaks. Tracey smoked Buttercup's who had no taste for them at all, and indeed avoided kissing Tracey for hours after she'd had a puff.. They worked in a canned fruit factory where they had to fill the unsealed cans with an exact weight of slimy orange and grapefruit slices. They worked in an arms factory where it didn't escape Buttercup at all of the irony of a Buggery woman assembling munitions which would be used on her own compatriots.

However, wherever they worked, Buttercup was not the ideal factory worker, although she steadily became inured to the tedium and became better at the repetitive tasks demanded of them. Tracey had never thought that her life at home had ever prepared her for a life abroad, but those years of dead-end tedious jobs were paying off here. Only her nakedness and that of all the women around her differed from the factories back home.

And of course the fucking.

You didn't expect a fuck on a day at work back home. And when it happened, in the boiler room, in the broom cupboard, at the back of the vans, well, it was a kind of perk. A good fuck at home was to be enjoyed and even relished. Here, it was too routine, too regular, and absent of even the most brusque and insincere foreplay or flirting. It was up the stairs, round the back, on the ground, in the cunt and climaxed on the face, breasts and, even, occasionally, right inside her cunt or arse. The men were all the same. Charmless, rough, rude and inexpert. None of them had even the first idea about how to get more from a woman than what a woman's cunt could offer them.

Buttercup became steadily less upset after each fuck, but she wasn't enjoying it any the more. Because she knew it was coming, she took it with more resignation but scarcely more satisfaction. Sometimes after a day in the factory, she was merely bitter or indignant. Sometimes, she would weep uncontrollably, a phenomenon which somehow actually encouraged abuse from the men. It seemed that to them, a woman was like the prey of a cat or a dog. The more she showed her distress, the more they wanted to increase it: piling on the indignities. But at least, she always got more from it as a result, and it earned the two girls the alternate days off which they treasured so much and earned them so much bitching envy from their less obviously sexually attractive colleagues.

"Oh, Tracey! I can't stand this any more" moaned Buttercup in tears on the way home one drizzly night from the dairy where they'd been wrapping cubes of butter in plastic foil all day. She collapsed onto the damp grass, letting her heavy plastic bag of milk, butter and cheese spill out around her.

Tracey and Zeta knelt down beside her as she lay huddled in a ball of depression, her arms around her legs, her knees pulled up to her forehead, her head buried below her mass of tangled hair, staring down through the dark shadows of her thighs at her sore crotch. Both girls put their arms around her, Tracey too concerned about her lover to feel too much jealousy about Zeta's unwelcome show of affection towards her.

"Buttercup! Buttercup! What's wrong?" weeped Tracey.

Her lover raised her head and stared blankly at Tracey and Zeta through a face made ugly through tears and blank depression. "I wasn't meant to work in a factory. I hate it so much. I was meant to be a poet, an artist, a writer. Anything. Not a factory worker. And I hate the fucking. And I detest the fucking men who fuck me! They're such beasts! Worse even than the men in Buggery. At least they enjoyed what they were doing!"

Tracey wept with Buttercup, acutely distressed by her lover's own distress. She looked at Zeta imploringly. "This working in factories isn't doing Buttercup any good at all. It's fucking killing her. Isn't there anything else we can do? Isn't there any other way we can live?"

Zeta looked thoughtful. "I don't think either are you are going to be any good as farmers. And you've not been here long enough to be entrusted any of the other jobs in the community. I don't think anyone would vote for you. And anyway there aren't any vacant positions for teachers or house-builders or whatever."

"Isn't there anything else?"

"Well, you do get a lot of sex at work. The men like you. And they especially like Buttercup. And I don't blame them!" She kissed Tracey's lover tenderly on the cheek, but noticing the jealous daggers flashing from Tracey's eyes she chose not to reveal any more of her lust . "Sex is something you two are always going to get while you work with men. Just like Theta. She had to put up with it every day just like you. But she could find ways to make herself useful in the community. So, given that you're going to have sex whether you like it or not in the factories, why not sell it rather than give it away?"

"You mean fucking prostitution, don't you?" snapped Tracey. "I'm not a fucking tart. I've got my fucking principles. And my darling Buttercup's not a fucking pro neither."

Buttercup looked up solemnly. "Zeta's right. It's an option. I'd not heard of 'prostitution' before I came here, but it sort of makes sense. I have sex with men I don't like every day anyway. Is it better being a prostitute?"

"It might be for you," smiled Zeta. "Not all of us get the same attention as you do. For most girls in the factories, we might have a fuck every now and then, once or twice a month, not two or three times a day every day. Or even more like three or four times. Most of us girls don't mind it as much as you. It's not so often that it gets to be as much as an ordeal as it is for you. And for those girls who don't like other girls, and not all girls do, it's all the sex they ever know. But for you, you're going to have it anyway. We all do a bit of prostitution now and then. It's normal here in Gomorrah; though it's clearly not so common back where you come from."

"It doesn't exist in Buggery," corrected Buttercup. "Except at the tourist resorts, and it's not done like it's done here. They don't stand around waiting for men to pick them up and then getting given food and things for doing it. But is the sex like what it is in the factories?"

"I don't know what it's like back where you came from, but here the sex is better. Since the men have chosen you and you've got the choice to tell them to fuck off, they tend to be better lovers. And anyway, a lot of the men who pick you up don't normally meet girls in their ordinary life. They only see girls when they meet you under the lamp-posts or on the streets, so they usually treat you better than the men in the factories who see women every day. Some of the men aren't too bad really. And some of them are a lot more generous than they are in a factory. The more they like you, the more they give. And sometimes they even treat you better."

"You make it seem almost a good thing," mused Tracey.

"It's a living," shrugged Zeta. "But then you've got to sometimes see it from the men's point of view. They don't have relationships like you and Buttercup, or Theta and I. They might have homosexual ones, but I hear they're all really promiscuous and quite rough in Gomorrah. Not tender ones like you have with women. In fact, some punters get really close with the prostitutes and have almost regular relationships. It's the nearest they can get to what we have already. You can feel quite sorry for a lot of the men. Having sex with a prostitute's the only sex they can have."

"Do you mean they can't get married or live with a woman or anything?"

"I don't know what 'married' means. I guess it must be some kind of perversion or something, but whatever it is, no woman is allowed in the men only areas, and men are just not expected to live outside them. In fact, they just wouldn't be welcome. So, for those with professional jobs like solicitors, doctors, computer programmers or civil servants, they just don't see women unless they look for them. It's only men who run places where women work, and those like the police who patrol outside the men only areas: they're the only ones who can meet women normally."

"So, not all men are bad." Wondered Buttercup sorrowfully.

"Not all! But most are pretty crap. And none of them make love as well as my darling Theta. But, if you're going to have sex with them anyway, and you don't want to work on the conveyor belts, well, prostitution's the answer. It's not exactly a job with prospects, and it's not a secure job with a pension, but it's a living. And for a woman in Gomorrah, it's not the worst job there is."

Tracey wasn't sure she wanted to find out what the worst job there was, but she could see the wisdom in Zeta's comments. She looked at Buttercup, who was looking at her imploringly. She smiled sadly and nodded, recognising that her lover was now seeing the situation as she did in rather stark, rather material and in rather new terms.

"Tomorrow then," whispered Buttercup firmly.

"Tomorrow," agreed Tracey, wondering what prostitution meant in a country where women were not allowed to wear make-up, high heels or short skirts.

XVIII

The despair that clouded Sharon's perceptions gradually lifted, and she even came to view her shaven-headed companions as her friends, although she was frustrated by not being able to communicate with them: her sexual tastes precluding her even from doing so in the sexual way that Sweetness did with them every night. The countryside they wandered through changed from barren fields, to forestry, and then to some high hills covered with grass and the odd wood. And then they were at the border of Buggery.

Sharon hadn't thought ahead at all. What thoughts she'd had were focused either on the here and now, or on her past. Her original anxieties about Sodomite pilgrims resurfaced for the first time in many days. Would she and Sweetness have their tongues removed? What barbarous customs did the Sodomites practice in their own land? She wasn't at all comforted by the sight of the Sodomite border guards with their automatic firearms, their dress of chains pierced to their genitals and nipples, and of course the total lack of hair.

However, she was comforted when one of the guards, a tall thin man with dangling earrings and a large ring through his navel, addressed her. "Glad to see a convert to the Sodomite cause," he said cheerfully. So, not all Sodomites had their tongues removed.

The pilgrims were clearly excited to be home, and signed enthusiastically to each other, while they led Sharon and Sweetness to a small railway station and onto an electric train that was waiting there. They sat in a carriage together, Sharon by the window, holding Sweetness by the shoulder and clasped their hands together. No railway tickets were purchased, and no one else got on the train while they were at the border. And finally, the train departed and glid through the Sodom countryside. Sharon was perhaps expecting to see a countryside as impoverished and barren as Buggery, and was pleasantly surprised as they passed fields in which there were tractors and farms much like those at home. The stations they stopped at were serving small towns also much like those at home, and the people who embarked at the stops were no more dumb than herself. They may have been shaved and the only items of dress they wore might have been chains and rings, but they were otherwise like ordinary people, talking to each other, looking out of the window or reading newspapers and magazines. Perhaps it was only the pilgrims who'd had their tongues cut out.

Soon enough, the Sodomite pilgrims stopped at a larger station than any other they'd passed, in the centre of a small city, full of the tall buildings, apartment blocks and busy highways that Sharon associated with cities at home. In a sense, all this was very surreal. It almost didn't feel like a foreign country at all. She took pleasure in describing all the familiar things she saw to Sweetness. "Ooh! There's a lamp-post. And a funny church-like building. And there's a double-decker bus. And over there, I can just about see an advertising board for toothpaste. It's fucking magic!"

It took some while for Sharon to realise that to Sweetness these things were totally unknown and unsuspected. She nodded as Sharon spoke, her mind perhaps on other things, and then she asked, "What is a 'car'? And what are 'office blocks'? And what do you do in 'shops'?" Sharon blushed a little, and looked up at her pilgrim companions who were smiling kindly and sadly at Sweetness. The girl who'd first met them, signed some comments to Sharon, but of course she had no idea what was being said, although she nodded her head as if she did.

Then the pilgrims parted at the railway station concourse, kissing and hugging each other as they signed goodbye, and Sharon and Sweetness were left with just the girl they'd first met, in a vast concourse, surrounded by shaven heads and the occasional station announcement to places Sharon had never heard of before. She was just about able to ascertain that the city's name was Holiness, but beyond that she was totally lost. The girl smiled and gestured to the two girls to follow her, which they did by a taxi where again no money parted hands. Despite being an old man and quite fat, the taxi-driver was still shaven and wearing only chains and rings like everyone else. He signed to the girl who had befriended Sharon, and chatted idly to his passengers.

"Your first time in Sodom?" he asked cheerfully. "We don't get many foreigners here. Any idea why that is?"

"I've just never seen a holiday advertised for Sodom," admitted Sharon. "Anyway, what's there here to see here?"

"It's a beautiful country," he smiled. "As it has to be to be the home of the Sodomite faith." He raised his left hand in a gesture whose meaning was totally lost on Sharon, but she noticed that he too had most of his third finger removed.

Finally, the taxi stopped outside a tall apartment block, and the three girls entered the building and ascended by lift to one of the higher floors. Sharon and Sweetness were escorted by the pilgrim to one of many apartments where she rang the doorbell. It was answered by a slim girl with dark brown eyes, full perky breasts, and the usual shaven head and full accoutrement of jewellery. Two large earrings dangled from her ears and she had a broad grin on her face as she saw the three girls.

"Oh, Grace!" she cried with enthusiasm. "I've not seen you for so long! How was the pilgrimage? And who are your friends?"

Grace hugged her friend, kissing her full on the face, and then signed furiously to her friend, mouthing as she did so and occasionally pointing at either Sharon or Sweetness. The girl whose apartment it was smiled at the two girls as they stood shyly in the corridor.

"Well, come in both of you! My name's Faith, although that name's a bit inappropriate unlike my darling Grace's. And Sweetness! What a lovely name! It's a Buggery name but it could almost pass in Sodom. But what's your name? Grace wasn't able to sign it very well."

"Sharon."

"'Sharon'? What a weird name! But then you come from a very distant country. Does it mean anything?"

"No! Names don't mean fuckall. They're just names."

"Really?" commented Faith amusedly, as if this were a notion that had never occurred to her. "Well, come in. Come in. Sit down."

Faith's flat was relatively simple, but to Sharon's eyes was more luxury than she'd seen since Throb. In the living room, there were a set of chairs and a table, but no television and no pictures on the wall. Faith sat arm-in-arm with Grace and the two exchanged signs and kisses for a few minutes. Then Grace stood up and got up to leave. She kissed Sharon on both cheeks, and then knelt down between Sweetness' legs to kiss her on her crotch. And then she was gone.

Faith smiled at Sharon and Sweetness when they were alone. "Grace has told me about how little you know of Sodomite ways and customs. You're both foreigners, and apparently very ignorant of even the Sodomite religion. She's a lovely girl and we've been very close friends since we were at school together. But she's passionately religious. Always has been. And now she's been on a pilgrimage, she will always be known as Pilgrim Grace."

"Why's she had her tongue cut out?" wondered Sharon. "Did she commit some crime or other?"

Faith laughed. And then continued laughing. She shook her head as she tried to straighten her face. "The idea of it! No, never! It's a privilege to go on a pilgrimage. A pilgrim has to be very committed to the Sodomite faith, and the cost of leaving the country is, of course, to leave your tongue behind."

Sharon winced. "That's fucking horrible! You mean you have to have your tongue cut out if you want to go abroad."

"Well, of course! It's traditional. It was a religious thing originally, but as there's so little distinction between Sodomy the country and Sodomy the religion, it's required of everyone, religious or not."

"But you're religious, aren't you?" Sharon wondered.

"Well, as a matter of fact, I'm not. I'm an agnostic, which means I can't get any of the top jobs in this country, but I probably wouldn't have been able to anyway. Why, what makes you think I'm religious?"

"Being friends with Grace?"

"That's no big deal. I'm sure Grace would want me to go to the temples and pray. Or follow the five daily observances. Or fast on religious holidays. But I'm not. And Grace respects me too much to expect me to follow the state religion. After all this is a free country. And I take it you're not religious, either. So why do you think I should be?"

"Well, you dress the same. All the chains. And the shaven head. And not wearing clothes."

"'Clothes'? What are they? Well, I don't know how people look where you come from. Grace has told me about some strange outfits in Buggery, but then it is an ignorant country of savages. They have a 'king' and a 'royalty'. And all sorts of funny shit. Here, it's a proper democracy where we can vote for our spiritual and political leaders. And of course in a country as religious as this, they're essentially the same people. No, if you want to know if anyone's been baptised into the Sodomite faith, and that's not done till they're old enough to know for sure, you look at the third finger on the left hand." Faith held her hand up for Sharon to see. "Mine's intact. That means I've chosen not to be baptised. Most people choose baptism and of course the ceremonious finger-removal, but it's their choice. I'd rather keep my finger, unless I was convinced it was worth it. I'm not unsympathetic to the Sodomite religion. I sort of half-believe. But I'm not really religious."

"It's different back home," commented Sharon.

"Really? What's it like?"

"Well, different. There are churches and vicars and crosses and things. I don't know much about it all, but it's not like the weird shit you've got here."

"I suppose so. It all seems normal to me, but then you're a foreigner. I've heard bits about your country. It sounds quite horrible. And very cold and wet. I don't know much about foreign religions much. I listened to the radio once about your religions. They all have strange takes on it. Many of them don't even recognise the sanctity of anal intercourse. Or even understand the virtue of total bodily and sexual submission. Or even recognise the value of sacrifice of parts of the body to the greater good. And many of them do not even practice beatings or understand the meaning of humiliation. What religion do you have in your country?"

"It's Christian where I come from?"

"Crustyism? I heard about that. That's a bit like the Sodomite faith. I hear you nail yourself to crosses and have some weird cannibal rite where you drink blood and eat human flesh in a temple. Sounds pretty perverted to me. And I heard about Muscle-men. That's a religion where women and men aren't allowed to see each other or have sex with each other unless they're 'married', whatever that is, and have to get in different buses. And I hear they have four women to each man. And they beat each other with old ropes. And the men don't even shave their faces. And Bodyism. That's another weird one. You just sit and meditate under trees. And if your life has been truly boring and uneventful you're allowed another go at it. I heard about all your weird religions on the radio. Some involve worshipping elephants and big black penises. Others involve banging your head against walls and wailing a lot. At least the Sodomite religion's relatively sane and sensible."

Sharon didn't know enough about religion to argue with Faith, and she was pleased when Faith got up and asked them what they might want to drink. She didn't have any beer and, in fact, had no idea what it might be. When Sharon explained what it was and what it did, she frowned. "I heard about that. It's a Crusty thing, isn't it? Drinking alcohol and getting drugged out. We don't allow intoxicants in Sodom. But I do have some tea. Is that alright?"

Sharon nodded. She could see that she had a lot more to learn about Sodom and Sodomite ways. As Faith walked off to her small kitchenette, Sharon reflected on how much was strange and how much was familiar her in Sodom. It was certainly strange to be with a woman like Faith who was naked except for the chains and rings attached to her flesh. From behind, there was no evidence of anything on her body: a long sinuous line of bare flesh from her ankle to the shaven crown of her head. From the front, there dangled the collection of rings and chains which all Sodomites sported; although Faith's were more decorative than Grace's, including a dangling gold chain from her clitoris at the end of which was a dark inlaid pearl. Her nipples, like Sharon's own, had to take the weight of a whole mass of chains and rings. Sharon still found the appearance quite alien, and it was difficult to believe that she looked much the same herself, as did little Sweetness who sat quietly on an armchair and was seemingly gaining considerable pleasure just from feeling its fabric.

"I never knew chairs could be so comfortable," Sweetness commented.

Sharon sighed. Poor Sweetness had led such a deprived life. And indeed what was familiar to Sharon about Faith's flat were such things as tables, chairs and the normal comforts of home that Sweetness had never known. Even so it was relatively austere. No stereo, no computer, no posters. Only a few books and a battered looking radio.

Faith returned with a tray on which was a pot and three empty cups. She lay the tray down on a small table in front of Sharon, and smiled at her broadly.

"Your Sweetness is a beautiful slave," she commented.

"Yes, she is," Sharon replied, not convinced she'd heard Faith right.

"I don't have a slave at the moment," sighed Faith, sitting on the sofa next to Sharon. "My last slave ran off with my best friend. We still don't talk about it. He was such a lovely slave. A good and willing fuck. A good thick prick. He used to sleep at the end of my bed. I loved showing him off to my friends. And then he took a fancy to my friend, Sanctity, and just left me. And now he's with her and I don't have anyone. You're lucky. Your slave is so very pretty. Aren't you, Sweetness dearest?"

Sharon's ward had no objection to being spoken about in such an objective manner, and nodded her head eagerly in agreement. Sharon herself wasn't too sure what she should say. Perhaps the word 'slave' had a different meaning here, she mused naïvely.

"Have you known Sharon a long time, Sweetness?" asked Faith kindly.

"Not very long. Only since Joy was killed by the Gomorrans. Sharon saved my life. I love her. I love her more than anything. If it wasn't for her I'd be dead."

Sharon blushed, while Faith stood up and stroked Sweetness tenderly on her shaven head. "You're such a beautiful girl. And blind, too. Did you blind yourself because of your own Buggery religion?"

"No, I've always been like this."

"Oh! So blessed! So naturally gifted!" swooned Faith. She took Sweetness' bare face and pressed it against her side. "Such a beautiful slave. Have you thought of giving her a nose-ring, Sharon?"

"No. Why? Should I?"

"I don't know how things are done in your country, but here we like slaves to look like slaves. A nose-ring is the traditional way. And it's so practical. You can lead your slave along on all fours and it's so much easier to secure her when you want to. My slave had a lovely nose-ring. It had a carved snake on it. And it was so big that he could bite on it while it was still in his nose. It sometimes bled everywhere. Oh! he was so sweet and loving!"

Sharon was still very confused, but she didn't want to confess how little she understood what Faith was talking about. Clearly they did things differently in Sodom. If she wanted herself and her ward to survive she was going to have to learn quickly. And if it meant that Sweetness was going to be her 'slave', then maybe that's what she'd have to accept.

The three girls drank the tea which was weak and milkless, with not even a single spoonful of sugar, let alone the three which Sharon was used to at home. They chatted idly about life in Sodom, Faith's job as a computer programmer and about Sharon's pilgrimage through Buggery with Grace and the other pilgrims. Faith leaned closer and closer towards Sharon, placing a hand on her knee and an arm around her waist. Sharon quite enjoyed the intimacy. It was comforting to her in this alien republic, but she didn't want to reciprocate in case Faith interpreted it as anything sexual.

However, Faith didn't need too much prompting. She placed her empty cup onto the table and leaned over Sharon, placing a hand on her crotch, another on a chained nipple and her lips on Sharon's mouth. The low moan that accompanied this sequence of actions could not be misunderstood.

Sharon rather forcefully pushed her off. "Don't fucking do that! I'm not a fucking dyke!"

Faith looked genuinely alarmed, flustered and affronted. "I'm sorry," she exclaimed. "I just didn't know… I just thought … I don't know what a 'dyke' is, but does it mean you don't want to…"

Sharon tried to spell out her position firmly and unambiguously. "I don't go after women. It's cock I like. I'm not someone who…"

Faith looked puzzled and uneasy. "I don't know what you want. They have different customs in your country. And anyway, I suppose you just don't like me in that way. It's been so long. I just hoped."

Sharon felt sorry for Faith. She looked at Sweetness who was staring sightlessly in front of her, and also frowning. Perhaps it was better that Sweetness had some comfort in this way. "I'm sure Sweetness wouldn't mind if you made love to her," Sharon remarked conciliatorily. "She likes women. Don't you, Sweetness?"

"Can I?" grinned Faith broadly, regarding Sweetness who was nodding enthusiastically in agreement. She kissed Sharon eagerly on the lips. "You're so wonderful and generous, Sharon. Your own slave! For me! The ways in your country can't be so bad after all if you can be so generous."

Faith left Sharon and descended on Sweetness who accepted Faith's caresses with passion and delight. For Sharon, this wasn't the first time she'd watched Sweetness making love with other people: it had become quite a daily occurrence for her while travelling with the pilgrims through Buggery. And, anyway, why should she mind. She was no fucking dyke. What Sweetness got up to with women was nothing for her to get worried about. And at least Faith had a tongue which she could use unlike the Sodomite pilgrims who'd even had their vaginas sewn together. Faith's vagina was as open as her legs, her tongue was as probing as her fingers, and her passion was at least as great as Sweetness'.

Sharon sat in the sofa as the two girls writhed and hugged and cuddled and grappled on Faith's thin carpet. Sweetness' tongue nibbling at Faith's clitoris and the jewellery dangling from it. Faith's teeth, lips and tongue biting and squeezing the fleshy folds of Sweetness' vulva, her two middle fingers thrusting backwards and forwards in the recesses of the girl's anus. The girls' flesh glinted from the sweat on their chests and arms, the chains jangling and clashing against each other and against bare flesh. Sharon eased a finger onto her clitoris while the lovemaking continued, taking advantage of the girls' preoccupation with each other to stimulate her own sex, which had only now recovered from the battering it had taken in the Buggery soldiers' camp. She was surprised to feel how moist she was. Was she turning into a dyke? she wondered. Or perhaps she was just happy that Sweetness was happy?

She watched her ward as she grappled with Faith, the two girls punctuating their passion with grunts and moans, and then she heard her own name repeated low and over and over again. It was Sweetness. She was actually calling out Sharon's name in her passion. This instantly confused Sharon. She wasn't Sweetness' lover. But part of her was pleased to be the object of such passion. Her fingers dug deeper into her cunt, she bent her head back and masturbated herself to an orgasm of the sort she'd never given herself since she was young and very much more innocent.

XIX

Tracey knew that back home she was regarded as something of a slut. This had never been something which had really troubled her. After all what were the opinions of a few dried-up cunts compared to the pleasures of all that cock which was just out there for anyone willing to grab it. She'd even sometimes been called a tart, but that was an epithet too far. For all the indiscriminate fucking she'd enjoyed with Sharon, she had never been a prostitute. Not that she'd slighted any gifts her lovers might have left her, but that was only fair. A fair day's pay for a fair day's work. But it was a totally different thing to be out there, actively selling her snatch.

Prostitution in Gomorrah wasn't quite the same as back home. For a start, there was a lot more of it here. And also, there was none of the approbation associated with it as back home. It was just another way of making a living. Not that there were that many options. You could work in the fields or in the community, but that had very low returns, dependent almost entirely on either the season or how well everyone else was doing. You could work in the factories, but that invariably meant sex anyway. Especially for Buttercup. She couldn't help being so very pretty, and it was almost a curse to her here. And it wasn't as if the work in the factories was that easy either. And Tracey hadn't forgotten the time she and Buttercup woke too late to get to the front of the queue of the other women waiting to get into work, and ended up having to walk back home without having got anything for their pains of actually getting there. As a prostitute you were guaranteed of getting something, and the returns were substantially better than sealing pies in cellophane, slicing legs of ham or packing munitions. In fact, after her first day, Tracey was wondering why she'd not opted for it earlier. She took home much more than she did from a day in the factory: two packets of cigarettes, a chocolate gateau, several kilos of apple and a small alarm clock.

She quickly learnt how to match the value of the sexual favours she gave for the rewards that came with it. A hand job was the least profitable. That might get no more than a medium-sized melon, or a frozen pasty, or a second-hand comb. A blow job might be worth a packet of twenty cigarettes, a large bottle of Coca-Cola, a whole frozen chicken or a litre of milk. A fuck might rake in as much as a bottle of wine or a leg of lamb. And anal intercourse would bring in a small transistor radio or a bottle of spirits. Compared to how she'd been before, Tracey felt rich. And the cigarettes were welcome as well, although they were very rarely any kind she'd ever heard of before. But when you spent hours waiting for sex by the roadside, a cigarette or two was a very welcome companion.

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