Escape From Buggery 11

Buttercup was less keen on prostitution than Tracey, although she was actually substantially more successful at it. In fact, this may have been part of what she didn't like. She never seemed to have enough time to recover between one encounter and the next. But she did at least twice as well as Tracey, and not just because she had more customers. Often her clients were so grateful to meet someone as genuinely beautiful as her as to give many times more than was absolutely necessary for the services she provided.

And the mechanics of prostitution was so very different here in Gomorrah to what happened back home. Although of course for Buttercup there had been no equivalent to prostitution in her life in Buggery, and she had nothing to compare it to. In the absence of clothes and make-up or even tottering high-heels, the only thing that marked out a prostitute was the fact of where they were and how long they hung around. Most Gomorran women kept their distance from the world of men, fearing that they'd be raped or arrested or beaten up. Only prostitutes had any license to encroach at all on male preserves, and then only on the very margins of it. Along main roads in the wilderness, at the very edges of towns and cities, by desolate industrial wastelands. And there they would stand, or sit, Tracey and Buttercup amongst them actively seeking out the men's attention.

There were no laws against prostitution in Gomorrah, although Tracey got to learn from her clients that there were still stigmas associated with it. A man wouldn't boast that he'd seen a prostitute, although he might boast about the sex he'd had as if it were a different transaction altogether. Furthermore, as women were not allowed by law to have any possessions, they could only ever be given things. Never money or anything like that. Not that either Tracey or Buttercup had any use for money. Women weren't permitted into shops and money wasn't used as currency in the community where they lived. Any potential client offering just money had to be turned down. Those notes with the president's head on them and the pictures of Gomorran industry and Gomorran war victories, they were totally worthless in the world of women.

It was relatively easy to identify men who were looking for sex. They would be carrying plastic bags of groceries, a couple of unopened bottles of wine, or unwrapped cigarette packets. And they would pass Tracey and Buttercup with eyes which were evaluating them and comparing them with other women they'd passed, to decide whether they wanted to fuck them. Or they might be cruising slowly past in their cars, most of which were of a far poorer quality than Tracey knew from back home, the windows wound down, as the occupants decided whether they should or not.

But it was for Tracey and Buttercup to make the advances most of the time: a situation that at first Buttercup resented but then actually came to appreciate as she realised that it was actually her opportunity to turn down men she didn't want,. Although Tracey wasn't at all sure she liked the sex as much as she did. Tracey had always liked cock. OK! She wasn't too keen on cock when it was thrust in her when she didn't want it. But cock as a whole was fucking magic. She didn't mind too much what pathetic individual was on the other end of the cock. She liked the taste of it. She liked it inside her. She liked it when the cock exploded in all that come, which might drip out of her twat, or seep through the gaps in her clasped fist round a cock, or get spat out of her mouth. It was cock. It was cock up her arse, in her cunt, in her mouth and, for less than five minutes, in her hand.

However, she had sex wherever circumstances dictated, and what they mostly dictated was no modesty at all. Like all the other girls along the road side, under the tall lamp-posts, or in the shadows of the factories and garages, it was on the ground, in the grass, against the wall, just whatever happened to be there. Nobody was concerned about their modesty. And, anyway, what modesty was there? She and all the girls were already showing all they had to offer, although the more desperate girls would prise open their cunt lips to the men as they passed by, the better to advertise what they had to offer. It was the men who were showing more flesh than usual, but normally it was only the flesh between the tails of their shirts and the undone belts of the trousers below their knees. Their pricks were generally hidden by fist, mouth, cunt or arse. And their hairy, flabby buttocks were no advertisement to any but the most desperate of men of a certain proclivity.

The most comfortable and the most lucrative of fucks were those in the back of cars, although even to someone as naïve of the nature of economics as Tracey it was fairly clear that car ownership was nowhere near as universal in Gomorrah as it was back home. These were driven by men who were rather better dressed than the average client, even though the cars scarcely spoke to Tracey of great luxury. Often the cars carried more than one man, and very often were picking up more than one woman. Buttercup attracted an unusually high proportion of clients in cars, which earned her both the envy and the respect of the other girls, although she wasn't really aware of it. In fact, several cars became almost regular visitors: Buttercup knowing who she was about to fuck just by the sight and sound of some beaten-up vehicle with the license plate almost hanging off and the dent on the bumper.

Tracey's favourite fucks were those with Buttercup when the two of them were picked up together and provided sexual services to the men for material rewards and to each other for pleasure. These were the only time that the lovers were ever able to enjoy the flesh and passion of each others' bodies, aware also that their mutual lovemaking in some peculiar way actually gave pleasure to the men who'd picked them up. This slightly puzzled Tracey. She'd never seen anything very erotic or exciting about watching two men fucking each other, and those few times in Gomorrah where she'd witnessed it filled her with about as much sexual passion as watching two dogs doing it. But somehow men were different that way. And what was even more strange was that for doing what she and Buttercup liked doing anyway, but usually by themselves, they actually got more at the end of the session than if they'd just let the men fuck them. This particularly confused Buttercup who had no sense of distinction between sex with a man or sex with a woman, and thought watching anyone else having sex, in whatever combination, was at best boring and at worst frustrating.

Sometimes they were driven a distance from the lamp-post or wall they'd been picked up from. Usually they were driven back after the men's business was done, but not always, which was difficult for the two girls in finding their way back in a country that was still mostly alien to them. These were the only times that Tracey saw more of the male world of Gomorrah than just the edges of it where women were permitted to wander. The male world she could see through the car windows was very similar to the world Tracey came from. In fact, depressingly similar as they more resembled the run-down estates, unexciting shopping precincts and shoddy high streets of the parts of her world back home where she actually lived and socialised. None of it seemed to have any of the opulence and grandeur of foreign cities and resorts that she'd ever seen in holiday brochures. And all you could ever see in the streets were men. And men dressed almost exactly as they were back home. If anything they dressed even worse than that, showing even less concern for how ill-fitting their trousers were, or how inappropriately coloured their shirts or ties might be, or how ugly their shoes were. They would be hanging around outside pubs, standing around by bookmakers, sitting on walls by off-licences and liquor stores, smoking cigarettes, drinking from cans of beer in six- or four-packs, and quite often brawling with each other. Tracey thought, as she glimpsed these sights, that even if these areas weren't out of bounds to women, it would be a strange woman who'd want to be out there in this male-only preserve. The men looked like trouble. If they couldn't rape you then they'd probably want to beat you up.

And then the car would be parked somewhere relatively quiet where there no men to watch what was going on and the man or the men who'd picked the girls up would gain the satisfaction they were so keen on. Seats would be pushed back, cigarette packets and magazines pushed onto the ground and new stains would be added to those already splattered on the polyvinyl or velour of the seats' coverings. Pricks would go into the mouth, into the cunt and buttocks would thrust back and forth while the men grunted, snarled or moaned in the way that they always did. And after usually not too many minutes, out would spurt the semen which was the obvious object of the men's exertions, most often on the girls' bodies or faces, but sometimes down the throat, in the dark recesses of the cunts or in the tight confines of their arses.

For Tracey there was sometimes, but not always, some pleasure to be got from all this cock. Not all cock was horrible, and some men were better at fucking than others. She sometimes enjoyed the familiar warm, hard stiffness of the cocks, that jerking spasm as the cocks ejaculated, that slow floppiness that the punctuated cocks relapsed into. But none of this matched those few snatched kisses or caresses she enjoyed with Buttercup if she were there. No man could compare to Buttercup for the passion it aroused in her and the sheer pleasure of merely touching her, let alone the peaks of ecstasy their lovemaking visited on her.

Although compared to most women in the community, Tracey and Buttercup were now relatively well-off, Tracey could see that it was not bringing her lover nearly as much satisfaction as it did her. Buttercup did seem to enjoy the company of some men much more than others, but these were those few men who would actually talk to her rather than just use her as an object of their lust. Tracey's views were quite different. She'd rather the men just got on with it than bored her with talk about how tedious their jobs were, how much they wished it was possible to get to know women better, or how they hated the prospect of military service. However, Buttercup's patience meant that she learnt more about Gomorran life from a male perspective than Tracey ever did. And strangely enough, she felt rather less contempt for the men than Tracey who minded their sexual predation less than her.

"Gomorrah might be a country for men, run by men and for the interests of men," Buttercup mused, as the two walked back to the community laden down with the spoils of their activities, "but I don't think it's really what men want."

"That's fucking crap!" retorted Tracey. "Those cunts vote for it. That's what they say they want. And that's what they fucking get."

"It might be what they think they want. But it's not really what they want. They've sort of trapped themselves. By denying women of any say or any rights, they've made a society where the only sex they can have is sex they pay for, and the only love they ever get is that they get from the friendship of other men. And men together don't seem very good at dealing with their feelings or their wants. They go on about things like cars, booze, sport and fighting in the war, but there's no space in their life for other things."

"Like fucking what?" sneered Tracey. "Flowers and nature and things?"

"Well, yes. Or anything like that. It's like they're only half people, with only half lives."

"Well! Fuck them! They're not that much better back home where they've got no fucking excuses. And here it's not like they treat as well or anything. They've fucking raped us when they couldn't get what they want with cigarettes or whatever. They treat us like fucking shit. They treat all women like shit. They're the ones with the fucking power. It's for them to make their lives fucking better. Or the lives of us women better either. Men are just fucking pigs!"

"That's not true," Buttercup protested mildly. "Some of the men I've met are quite gentle. If they could have relationships like we have," she squeezed Tracey's hand tight and leaned her head onto her shoulder, despite the weight of the plastic bags she was carrying, "then there's no reason why they wouldn't be better."

"I know what it's like," spat Tracey angrily. "Remember I come from a normal country. Not some fucking wierdie place where women have to go round starkers all the time like here. Or stick rings in their bald cunts like in Buggery. I come from a normal place. And men ain't got no fucking excuse. And they're still fucking horrible!" Tracey heard herself speak, and paused abruptly. "Fuck! I'm beginning to sound like some fucking dyke feminist or something. I'm not gonna be burning my bra. Not that I've got one to burn. Men are men. You just can't fucking expect them to be better."

"I just don't believe that," said Buttercup optimistically.

Tracey reflected. She loved Buttercup. She didn't want there to be an inch of difference between them. "Yeah, you're right! I guess it's 'cos I've been in this fucking hell hole too long. I can see why the women here hate the men so much. But I guess even back home there are some men that aren't such fucking pigs. And there'd be a lot fewer pigs here if the men didn't run things the way they do."

Buttercup let her bags drop. She could see what an effort it cost Tracey to do any reflection or thinking outside her normal confines. Although she loved her tourist lover deeply, she recognised the girl's intellectual shortcomings and the fact that even in the land of plenty, she'd not had quite the plenty that others living there had. She put both arms around Tracey, and drew her close to her breast and kissed her all over the cheek, chin and eyes.

"As long as we have each other," Buttercup declared between kisses, "I'm happy. Whatever indignities the bastards heap on us. However awful the sex and however humble our lodgings, while I have you I'm happy and contented."

Tracey wept with pleasure and desire at Buttercup's declaration of love, but she knew that in truth her lover was not happy and contented. Although life was better as a prostitute than as a factory-worker, and the sex, if anything, less humiliating, Buttercup could never be happy and contented in the lifestyle she was leading. And for her, the cost of her beauty in a country where it merely attracted more attention actually outweighed for her its actual benefits. And she felt at an even deeper level, that in a real sense she wasn't really worthy of the love of such a beautiful woman. Would it last a moment back home where Buttercup could more easily compare her to other people?

But for the moment, she had no complaints, as the two girls sunk onto the grass under the moonlight, their bodies against each other and despite the tears that smeared Tracey's face the familiar rhythms of true passion rose in their mutual embraces.

XX

Although Sharon had no sexual desires for Sweetness, she felt great responsibility for the girl. After all, she was blind and even more helpless in this strange country than she was. What would happen to Sweetness if she abandoned her? How could the girl feed or fend for herself? So, she decided that for the purposes of convenience alone, and because it was what was expected of them, she should present their friendship as being a mistress/slave one of the type that appeared to be the norm in Sodom. It provided an excuse for her to continue to take care of the girl, and might even protect the two of them from any worse advances from other people. She explained this to Sweetness, and tried to stress that there was no real meaning to the relationship.

"I'm not a fucking dyke, you know," she stressed to Sweetness as they lay together on the mattress in Faith's spare bedroom.

"But I still love you," sniffed Sweetness. "Can't you love me in return?"

Sharon could say no, but she was aware that their relationship was not totally innocent. Sweetness wrapped her naked body around her, and stroked and cuddled her, which Sharon reciprocated as long as their fingers never probed their crotches and there were no tongues involved. "We can cuddle, but that's fucking all!" she insisted.

However, she quite enjoyed helping Sweetness. Somehow, this role as Sweetness' carer had awakened in her feelings of responsibility she didn't know she had. Every morning, she would carefully shave Sweetness' head, just as she did herself and tenderly thread the chains and rings into her pierced nipple and clitoris: tasks which blindness made nearly impossible for the girl. Her heart would sometimes melt as she regarded Sweetness' vacant gaze in her direction as she washed the last signs of stubble off the girl's pate. On such occasions, she would tenderly kiss Sweetness on the lips and then curse herself for giving the girl cause to expect more of her than she was willing to give. Sharon had started to get quite used to this look of baldness and the array of chains. In fact, as she regarded her own face in the mirror as she carefully shaved the back of her head, she wondered what it might be to have hair again. What did it feel like to have all that stuff sprouting out of the top of the head, over the ears and onto the shoulder? And what was it like to wear clothes, rather than have chains pulling down relentlessly on the nipples and cunt, so often giving her inappropriate feelings whenever one was accidentally tugged or brushed?

Faith was happy for Sharon and Sweetness to stay in her spare bedroom, but she wasn't a wealthy woman so she did what she could to persuade Sharon to find work. "In this country," she reminded Sharon, "a mistress is expected to provide for her slave. There are plenty of jobs in the local newspaper, so have a look there."

Sharon agreed, taking the copy of the Holiness Evening Advertiser that Faith had handed her and browsed through the pages. It was remarkably dull. Every page was nothing but newsprint, with no photographs or cartoons of any kind. She commented on this to Faith.

"Illustrations of any kind are forbidden by the Sodomite religion," Faith told them sternly. "I suppose it's different where you are, but here it is firmly forbidden to see images, painted, drawn, filmed or photographed."

"Is that why you have no telly?"

"I've no idea what you mean," sighed Faith impatiently.

"No television. Just a radio," continued Sharon, noting Faith's blank expression. "Oh never mind."

Faith sighed again and returned to the book she was reading. However, now that it was mentioned to her, Sharon reflected that she hadn't seen any images or pictures anywhere. This was one distinct difference between Sodom and back home, as well as the funny religion and the weird way you were expected to dress. She was sure she'd find more such differences, but it seemed weird to her that people exposed themselves in a way that would get you arrested back home, but were prudish about something as harmless as pictures. What were these people on?

There were many jobs advertised, and many of them were just like jobs she'd had back home. It was reassuring to see that there were jobs like factory workers, toilet attendants, security guards and computer programmers, just like she would see in jobs advertisements back home. She had no real idea where to begin looking, but she ringed a few who paid more Sodomite dollars than the others. It was those boring jobs in offices like sorting out files and answering the phone where there was most demand, and she'd soon had a few advertisements ringed in biro, and a few interviews arranged using Faith's telephone.

Seeing Sharon busy at work, Faith abandoned her book and made some tea and biscuits. Sharon could see that Faith's grumpiness was probably still to do with the fact that Sharon didn't want to have sex with her, but, fuck it! Faith could have sex with Sweetness any time. All she had to do was ask.

Finally, Sharon arranged an interview which was for a clerical job with a shipping company, and set off across the city for the interview which was to be that very afternoon. She asked Faith how she should dress for the interview, which caused her a little amusement. "Just as you are," she said with a laugh, but nonetheless loaned Sharon a dangling pearl cunt ring to make her look slightly smarter. She also recommended that Sharon take Sweetness with her, as interviewers tended to look more favourably on applicants with steady relationships. She lent Sharon a chain with which to lead Sweetness: the same one, she remarked ruefully, that she'd used on her own slave.

Sharon was still finding life in Sodom curiously like normal life after her ordeal in Buggery. Here were city streets, shops, buses and all the accompaniments of civilised life. But the differences were becoming clearer to her. And not just the bizarre way that everyone dressed, and the disproportionately large number of people with missing fingers, tongues or other parts of their body. Now that it had been drawn to her attention, she was aware of the total lack of images around her. Advertisements were in text only, and there were no signs of illustration even in shop windows. She found her way to the block of offices where she was to be interviewed by bus, which was full of people of all ages, children and old people, dressed only in chains and rings threaded through their body. Not many had their tongues removed or their vaginas sewn up or their testicles removed, as with the Sodomite pilgrims, but several were, and she noticed that they were generally treated with quite exaggerated respect.

Sharon was at first rather unhappy with having pull Sweetness along by a chain, worried that her ward could so easily get hurt finding her way through all the people, but she was a girl who was more than accustomed to her disability, and held onto Sharon's arm for support. There were many other couples like her: sometimes a man leading another man on all fours, or a woman pulling a man along by a chain through his nose, or a woman slapping a man as he cowered under her open palm, or other women like her dragging another woman about. It was fairly obvious who was the mistress and who was the slave. Clearly, Sodom wasn't a country that practised equal relationships.

Sharon waited with Sweetness in the reception area of the office for a short while, leaving Sweetness behind when she was called for her interview which was with a rather stout short man who might have been balding if it were possible to say in a country where everyone appeared to be bald. The interview was cordial and brief as the man asked her about her office skills and what jobs she'd had in the past. He was particularly impressed by the fact that Sharon had come from another country.

"We get very few foreigners in Sodom, and fewer still who choose to settle here," he mused. "There are the pilgrims from other countries who come here to see the Holy relics and the Holy shrines. Otherwise, there are hardly any at all. But I hear that you foreigners have some fairly outlandish customs. Is it true for instance that you don't shave yourselves back where you come from?"

"The men do. But mostly just the face. And the women do, but mostly the legs and under the arms."

"You mean the men don't even shave their legs and armpits!" exclaimed the interviewer, whose skin, like everyone else, was smooth and hairless. "Truly, it sounds like you come from a very strange place. Hairy people everywhere. And you even have films and something called the 'cinema'. Don't your religions proscribe anything?"

"Religion isn't that important back home. And most religious people do things very differently to how religious people do things here."

"I imagine they would. I wouldn't call myself a religious man, although I've been baptised," he displayed his truncated third finger, "but I'm glad that Sodom is a religious country, where our morals are protected by our religious leaders." He sniffed, and glanced at a plaque on the wall which held ornate text which Sharon could see read 'To be humble is good. To suffer divine'. "However, you seem like a good girl to me. And you're not flaunting any strange foreign customs that might upset my staff. I see you even have a slave. Is she from Sodom or did you bring her from where you come from?"

"Neither. She comes from Buggery."

"Buggery. We've fought so many wars with them over the years. So much of their kingdom is land which once belonged to the Sodomite people. They have taken advantage of our people's aversion to war and unnecessary suffering. A Sodomite principle is never to cause pain to anyone who doesn't expressly ask for it. These Buggerians don't seem to have any scruples at all on that front." He frowned severely, and then smiled. "Well, your slave seems a pleasant enough girl. Blind as well. Is that for religious reasons?"

Sharon shook her head. "She's always been like that."

The interviewer sighed. "Disability without choice is such a sad thing. Anyway, when can you start? We have excellent facilities for slaves while their mistresses, or masters for that matter, are at work. We'd really like someone to start as soon as possible."

Sharon eagerly accepted the offer, and for the first time since she'd left home she felt there was some structure returning to her life. She was earning money and was able to pay Faith for her keep in the flat, and was able to settle down to a new routine. Not that there was much else to spend her money on. Holiness had no pubs, night clubs or cinemas. All there was were coffee and tea shops, and the restaurants were fairly few and not particularly good. So, after a day at work there was nothing much else to do, but to return to Faith's flat. In this way, life in Sodom was significantly less exciting than back home. But otherwise, Sharon was feeling happier than she'd done for a long time. Mind you, the actual Sodomite dollar was a strange thing. Like everything else, there were no images on it, just beautifully ornate Sodomite phrases. On the twenty dollar note it read: 'Deliverance Through Pain'. The fifty dollar note read: 'Redemption is Achieved Through Blood, Sweat and Piss'. And the hundred dollar note, which was barely worth as much as a cup of coffee, read: 'Grace, Peace and Humiliation.'

Her job in the office was not especially exciting. The computers she had to work on were distinctly more primitive than any she'd seen at any office she'd worked in at home, and there was certainly no Internet access. The work was certainly no more interesting, but it kept her occupied. She worked opposite a thin girl, Humility, with a pointed chin and wide, child-like eyes. Next to her was a rather fat man, Surrender, whose chains were partly held in place by a thick ring in his navel. On the other side was a middle-aged woman, Sacrifice, whose sagging pointed breasts and nipples were dragged down quite sharply by the weights which dangled from them, and had her tongue removed and so could therefore only communicate by sign-language which Sharon had absolutely no facility in.

She brought Sweetness into the office every day, like everyone else who had a slave, and sat her on a cushion chained to her desk just between Sacrifice and herself. Sacrifice had her own slave, a thin young man with persistent blue stubble on his cheeks and chin, and whose tongue was also removed. Not much chance of conversation there. It had to be said that Sweetness seemed to have a natural ability in her new role, even though Sharon was initially rather uneasy about it. Perhaps because of her sightlessness she didn't really see it as the humiliation that Sharon recognised it as. In any case, her life up till then had scarcely been especially empowering. Slaves had a strange role to play it seemed. They had to ask permission for anything they wanted to do, however trivial, and to accept without question petty humiliations and refusals. They also were expected to give sexual favours whenever requested and accept beatings for the most arbitrary reasons. Sharon had no intention on visiting any harm on her ward, which in itself raised comment from the other staff.

"You're very lenient on your slave," remarked Humility. "Don't you ever slap her? I've not seen you piss on her or spank her or discipline her in any way. Don't people do things like that back where you come from?"

"Not often," admitted Sharon.

"Despite my name I've never been very keen on being a slave," Humility confided. "I tried it for a while. But I didn't really enjoy it. And I've tried being a mistress and I was crap at that as well. Just not stern enough. Do you think there's something wrong with me?"

"Not at all," said Sharon. Humility placed a hand on Sharon's crotch and squeezed it. Sharon pushed it off abruptly. "Don't fucking do that! I'm not a dyke, you know!"

"'Dyke'?"

"Lesbian. You know. A woman who has sex with another woman."

"That's weird. I don't understand why not. Is it some religious reason or something?"

Sharon sighed. Everything was weird here. Wasn't there anyone who understood normal sex? Mind you, she enjoyed cock for the first time properly since Throb (dismissing her stay at the army camp as being something wholly unsavoury and best forgotten). The men in Sodom were so much easier to pick up, and so much more ready to pick you up than back home. All it did was for a man to like the look of you, and there you were, in the back room, in the corridor, anywhere, with people walking by, with this cock fucking you, sometimes with the extra embellishments of massive studs through the glans. And the men weren't too bad at it, either. But they were always a bit eager to use the back entrance. It was as if the front entrance just wasn't good enough. Thankfully for Sharon she didn't really mind which entrance was used, though after a few fucks up the arse she was beginning to feel her cunt was relatively neglected.

She also found that this weird Sodomite religion was present throughout the working day. On about three occasions a day, for about fifteen minutes or so, a high percentage of the office staff disappeared together for their religious observations. Sacrifice and her slave, and also Suffering, left Sharon and Sweetness together with Humility in their corner of the office. Like Faith, Humility had not chosen to be baptised in the faith although she was not unsympathetic.

"I just don't enjoy all that whipping, beating and buggery," she admitted to Sharon. "If only there were other ways of demonstrating your faith which didn't hurt quite so much. And I just don't want to lose my finger. It's not done me any harm. In fact, I'm quite fond of it." She held up her hand and flexed her third finger with a sigh.

When the others returned, they seemed flushed with exertion and sweat, often with traces of blood rising from welts on their back and buttocks, and sometimes with a small trickle of blood down their thighs. Sacrifice's slave seemed to be especially badly treated, sometimes smelling of piss, and frequently with cuts on his face and with a bright red shine to his buttocks. He never seemed at all upset by it though. His grin was often in direct proportion to the amount of pain he must have sustained: the more he was punished, the more he appeared to enjoy it. In fact, no humiliation seemed too much for him, often licking the soles of Sacrifice's feet and on at least one occasion, licking out dried shit from between her saggy bony arse cheeks.

Still, whatever! thought Sharon. She was happy with the odd corridor fuck, and sometimes she persuaded men to come back with her to Faith's flat where she would allow herself to be fucked back and front for as long as it took, buying off Faith's acquiescence with the gift of Sweetness' always eager body. The cries of passion and ecstasy that erupted from Faith's bed were joined by Sharon's own guttural irruptions as chains clashed with chains, rings clanked against rings, bare hairless flesh slid over flesh. And that all important cock thrusting in and out of her cunt. And sometimes in her arse. And sometimes, although Sharon was less keen herself, she'd be persuaded to strap on a dildo and push that in and out of the man's arse as he gasped and grunted from the pleasure he seemed to get as it rubbed against his prostrate gland.

Sharon was never sure how happy Sweetness was. It was clear that she was quite happy. At least, happier than she'd ever been before in their acquaintance. Life in Sodom seemed to agree with her, and she lent herself quite readily to her role as a slave, even though Sharon never allowed her to enjoy with her the sexual pleasures she allowed her to have with anyone else. Sharon had no objection to other people making love to Sweetness: favours the gratitude for which were strangely enough expressed to her rather than to Sweetness who was rarely thanked. It made life with Faith much easier than it might be. She often commented on Sharon's generosity. She even surmised that Sharon's reluctance to have sex with her slave was a subtle kind of humiliation she was meting on her, which Sharon chose not to deny, although it was a rather novel notion to her.

It also made her popular with her work colleagues, even though it was obvious that they had no idea why it was that someone who had so quickly gained a reputation for her easy promiscuity, which was seen as a great virtue, should be so fastidious as to the gender of who she had sex with when she was otherwise so indiscriminate. Humility was particularly uncomfortable with Sharon's rejections of her advances, but accepted sex with Sweetness as some kind of compensation. Sometimes, Sharon wondered how it was that any work was ever done in a day with so much sex in the office. But then she reflected that it was probably all this fucking which lowered productivity and in turn ensured that there was plenty of work to go round, and this was why Sodom managed to achieve full employment.

However, philosophical thoughts like this rarely crossed her mind as she lay in bed with whatever man she'd picked up and took his prick in her mouth and sucked it clean of come. And such pricks! Almost all of them had at least one stud in it, to hold the chains in place, and sometimes they were a festering mass of metal. She soon came to associate the sharp tinny taste of steel with the pleasures of sex, to be taken as an aperitif before being fucked by metal and cock, or to be taken as dessert when her cunt was sore and her arse was bleeding. Whatever else could be said about Sodom, the Sodomites certainly knew how to fuck!