Escape From Buggery 9

These ceremonies rarely continued for much more than half an hour, and then, sated and somehow purified, and with expressions of beatific ecstasy, the pilgrims continued as before in the more mundane businesses of preparing food, hunting and gathering food, and, if they were already on their route, walking through the barren Buggery countryside.

At night, Sharon rested against Sweetness, too weak from walking and her tribulations of the previous days, to complain as Sweetness showered her with affectionate kisses and cuddles. Indeed, she only complained when Sweetness' fingers or tongue wandered towards her arse or cunt, on which occasions, she would forcefully remind the blind girl that she was not a fucking dyke. Sweetness seemed resigned to Sharon's frequent rejection of her advances, but this did not stop her from declaring, much to Sharon's embarrassment, that she was in love with her and would do anything she wanted. She noticed that Sweetness' affection for her was observed indulgently by the Sodomite pilgrims, as they lay apart from the two girls, gathered in a body of intertwined, intermingling flesh, chains and naked skin.

The days were spent in wandering: something which Sharon had become so accustomed to now that she no longer thought to complain even to herself. This wandering was the purpose of the pilgrims' visit to Buggery, and the effort of it was a small price to pay for the food, water and protection the pilgrims provided. At irregular intervals, sometimes two or three times in a day, and sometimes only once in a day, the pilgrims would arrive at a place of some religious significance to them. Sometimes it was obvious what the object of their worship was. A tomb or a statue or a desecrated, disused shrine. Sometimes it was much more obscure. An old tree, the centre of a field of beetroots, a house lived in by puzzled Buggery subjects. At whichever place it was, the pilgrims would prostrate themselves, arse high in the air, their arms stretched out in front of them whilst one of them would intone in a voice made unintelligible by the loss of tongue. And then, after leaving some tokens of worship, like a bunch of thistles, a coin or a chain, the pilgrims would continue on their way. Sharon was never sure what she should do in these ceremonies, but she reasoned that whenever anyone from Buggery was watching, especially if they were police, it was best to follow the example set by the others and to instruct Sweetness to do the same. It amused her in a grim kind of way to see the obvious discomfort of people from Buggery at the pilgrims' presence. They rarely came very close, but they would watch the strange ritual with fascination.

On only one occasion did anyone from Buggery take advantage of the offer of abuse that the pilgrims made to everyone they met. Two policewomen with erect dildos and muscled bodies pushed into the pilgrims, kicking and punching them. But the fact that the pilgrims were taking the punishment with such apparent pleasure, asking for more with each punch or kick, clearly upset even them, and they gave up after hardly any time at all. The pilgrims themselves seemed quite gratified by the abuse that they had received and soon meted out even worse punishment on each other in an flailing orgy of nettles and brambles.

That evening, the pilgrims were still quite excited by their brief encounter, proudly feeling the bruises raised on their faces and limbs, and gently kissing the scratches which they had sustained. Their ritual sodomy lasted longer than usual, while Sharon comforted Sweetness who was clearly frightened by what she could hear but could not see. And then the ritual became a softer, more sensual and gentle lovemaking as the pilgrims entangled bodies became engulfed in more conventional caresses and kisses: tongues and fingers exercised on mutilated genitals and tongueless mouths. The man seemed as keen on the sensuality as much as the girls, despite his emasculation and the inability of his penis to become erect or functional.

The girl who had first befriended them noticed Sharon and Sweetness huddled together in the shade of the tree in the darkening shadows of night. She wandered over to them, crouched down and smiled. Wreathed in a rather becoming grin she attempted to say something which Sharon strained to understand. It was hopeless, however. Without a tongue, her words were just inarticulate noises and her hand gestures were too intricate and involved for Sharon to make any sense of them. Then the girl knelt down, put a hand on Sharon's crotch and the other on Sweetness, and gestured with a jerk of her neck that she was inviting the two girls to join in the pilgrims' lovemaking.

Sharon had by now lost her fear of the pilgrims. They had not even once attempted to persuade or coerce either of the girls to join in their perverted rituals, and had made clear by their actions that they had no expectation that they should do so. It was sex and not physical abuse and humiliation that the girl was offering them; but however relatively benign such lovemaking was in comparison, it was still not something that Sharon could entertain. "I'm no fucking dyke!" she replied, but relatively good-humouredly. She was almost flattered by this extension of a hand of friendship, but her days of abuse in the soldier's camp still left her scarred and the thought of sex, even with a man, was not something that attracted her. "But Sweetness here…"

Sharon put a hand on her blind companion's shoulder. "Our Sodomite friend wants to know if you want to … well, not fuck exactly … but, you know, have sex…" She glanced up at the Sodomite's smiling, kindly face. "It's not going to involve arse-fucking or fucking whipping or all that shit, is it? I don't want Sweetness, you know, hurt or any kind of fucking shit you lot sort of do … It's normal sex, isn't it?"

The Sodomite girl smiled broadly, and shook her head to assure Sharon.

"What do you think, Sweetness?" asked Sharon, aware of the girls' own sexual needs and hoping that if it was spent on the Sodomites it would no longer be focused on her.

Sweetness smiled at Sharon. "You don't mind?"

"No, of course I fucking don't!"

Sweetness stood up, and allowed herself to be led away by the Sodomite. She turned back her head and smiled in a direction somewhat to the left and ahead of where Sharon actually sat. "Don't forget. It's you that I love!"

Sharon settled back, feeling happier if Sweetness were happy, and felt good in herself as she watched Sweetness enter the mass of pale shaven flesh of orgying Sodomites. She smiled with pleasure as Sweetness gasped with pleasure. She wrapped her arms around her chain-ridden breast and observed with satisfaction as Sweetness was satisfied. She was so obviously enjoying the lips and fingers exploring her vagina, the kisses on her face and breasts, the feel of three or more bodies surrounding her. She yelped and gasped and grunted, her body shining with a glint of perspiration in the moonlight, as she was engulfed in the mass of flesh, lip and chains, both her nipples chewed on, her clitoris afire with the attention of two pairs of lips and discreetly applied fingers. Her cries of joy and ecstasy at first echoing across the fields from the copse where the pilgrims were resting, and then gradually subsided as her energy and those of her lovers diminished and the caresses became less passionate and more languid.

But even after all that, it was to Sharon's arms that Sweetness eventually returned, her flesh sweaty and smelly, her vagina sore and plastered with her vaginal fluids, and in whose same arms that she stayed all night. "I love you, Sharon," she whispered, her shaven head against her ward's bechained bosom. "You are my perfect lover."

XVI

The sun hadn't yet arisen when Tracey and Buttercup were woken by Zeta, who was naked like everyone else, slightly podgy with a mass of black curly hair which flowed in ringlets to half-way down her back. She stood at the doorway with a very broad grin looking at the two girls whose only source of warmth through the night had been from each other's closely entwined body.

"We have to start early if we have any hope of getting into the factory," she explained as she hurried them on their way.

"Where is the factory?" wondered Tracey, yawning and only half aware, as they staggered across the dark fields.

"Another couple of miles. It's good that it's not been raining for a while: that can make the journey quite horrible," replied Zeta. "You'll get used to it, though. But if you get there too late then you've got no choice. It's first come first served most of the time."

Eventually, just as the first rays of the sun appeared over the horizon, they came to the intimidating dark shadows of a large functional building, where only one or two windows were lit and where already there were a couple of dozen other women: all naked and all with very long hair and all standing around outside the building. And then Tracey and Buttercup stood with Zeta for about an hour as more and more women gathered. There was very little conversation amongst the women standing there, all of them tired and many of them yawning. Tracey shivered and clung to Buttercup for warmth, aware of the stares she was attracting. As wakefulness crept up on her, she became aware that this was because the two girls looked very different from the others, with the short hair on their vaginas: nearly none at all in Buttercup's case, and in Tracey's case with the hair on her head strikingly short.

And then the doors to the factory opened and a man in overalls and a flat cap emerged from the light inside to the shortening shadows outside. He stood warily by the entrance, until he was joined by three other men, wearing blue work uniforms and peaked cloth hats.

"Let's be having you, then!" one of the men shouted, which was a cue for the women to gather in an orderly procession at the factory doors' entrance and to file in. As they did so, they were evaluated in a desultory fashion by the men who clearly saw this as a routine rather than a pleasure. Some women were greeted with familiarity and some were turned away. These, Tracey noticed, were generally the older women.

As the queue brought Zeta, Tracey and Buttercup towards the welcoming bright glare of the neon lit interior, the men could see the girls more clearly.

"Fuck! You're a fucking beauty, ain't you?" a corpulent man with a cigarette in his hand commented to Buttercup. "You wanna fuck rather than work like the others, dearie?"

Buttercup shook her head, and hurried after Zeta as she went in. Tracey was aware of a disapproving glare at her shorter hair as she entered herself, and was frightened that this might disqualify her; but fortunately not and she soon caught up with Zeta and Buttercup.

And then the girls were lined up by a conveyer belt under the harsh neon light amidst the loud noise of the cranking machinery and the gusts of heat emanating from their engines. They were in an enormous open room with machinery and lines of conveyor belts stretching in all directions. As they stood in anticipation, more and more women filed in, and soon all the available spaces were filled. And then, although there were many women still outside waiting to get in, the factory doors were closed and the working day began.

And tedious, tiring, monotonous and unrelenting it was too. Fortunately, Tracey had had her share of factory jobs in the past, so she knew more or less what was expected of her. Like the other girls on her conveyor belt, she was issued with a pair of clear plastic gloves which was all anyone had to wear, besides a little factory-issue ribbon which was secured through the hair to keep it off her face. Her job, like Zeta and Buttercup was to take the icy cold chicken legs, breasts and wings as they trundled by, place the lump into a polystyrene tray, and then wrap it tightly in a square of cellophane. The wrapped piece of chicken was then replaced on the conveyor belt where it trundled along to where some other women were weighing them and sticking sticky-back labels on them. And that was it. Chicken breast after chicken leg after chicken wing.

Tracey soon got into the rhythm of it. Boring, monotonous jobs like this was all the work she'd ever had, and soon the rhythm and routine overcame any sense of meaning and purpose. Buttercup however was far less adept than her, and had great difficulty in getting into any routine. She was packing one piece of chicken for every three that Tracey packed, and the plastic was creased and too loose. She began to weep with frustration as the effort of it became too great for her.

Inevitably, her slower performance attracted attention from the male supervisors who were wandering around in their blue overalls, cloth caps and cigarettes. One came behind Tracey and Buttercup, and watched the two of them with surly interest.

"What's your name, dearie?" he asked Buttercup, stubbing his cigarette out on the cold hard factory floor. Nervously, Buttercup told him.

"Fuck! What sort of fucking ponced-up name is that? And what about your friend. What're you called?"

"Tracey."

"Fuck me! We got a right pair of fucking wierdies here. At least 'buttercup' means something. But when in the name of fuck did 'tracey' ever fucking mean anything. You're both a couple of fucking immigrants, ain't you? Well, you'd better pull your fucking socks up, Buttercup sweetie, (if you were ever allowed to wear the fuckers) or you're out. There're lotsa other women out there who'd do your job if they got the fucking chance."

With that, he left them with a sniff. Buttercup stared at Tracey plaintively, her cheeks reddened with humiliation and shame, tears of frustration etched onto her cheeks.

Eventually, after how many hours Tracey didn't know, there came a rest break. The conveyor belt stopped and the pieces of chicken stopped passing by. The girls sat down cross-legged on the hard concrete floor, while other women came by with polystyrene cups of insipid tea and limp slices of white bread covered with a sliver of tasteless margarine. Tracey put an arm around her lover, who continued to weep, while Zeta looked on at the two with sympathy.

"Oi! Buttercup!" yelled a man's voice. Tracey's lover looked up startled. The man who'd spoken to them earlier was shouting to them from the distance. "Yeah! It's you I'm fucking talking to. And your fucking dyke friend, as well. C'mere!"

The two girls stood up, and looked at him and his colleagues who were standing idly around a coffee machine. "That's it, dearies. This way!" The girls hungrily demolished the last crumbs of the bread, which disintegrated into a choking mulch in their mouths, only digestible thanks to the liquid assistance of the tea, and threaded their way through the sympathetic glances of the other women to where they had been beckoned.

They stood obediently in front of the men's leering gazes. "I told you she were a babe, didn't I Ralph?" the man who'd spoken to them said to a fat middle-aged man with a dark brown polyethylene tie, a grubby white shirt and a pair of shiny black polyester trousers..

"Yeah! You weren't fucking kidding either, Bob? She's the best fucking piece of arse I've seen in a fuck of a while." Ralph puffed out a mouthful of blue smoke, and took another drag of his filter-tipped cigarette. "So you're a fucking immigrant, are you? Fucking out of Buggery with a fucking poncy name like 'Buttercup'! And your fucking friend. Is this bitch from Buggery too? You look a bit fucking weird to me. Where'd you come from?"

Tracey told him, and was surprised by how much it alarmed him. "Fuck me! You get all types these days! Well, don't expect any different treatment while you're here, bitch. Women are the same wherever the fuck they come from. You got no more fucking rights than any other slut in Gomorrah. This is a man's world, and you get treated the fucking same as any other bitch." He let his cigarette drop from his fingers and stubbed it out with his rubber-soled boot. "And that means, bitch, that you and your flower-fancying friend come up to the office, and no fucking questions asked."

And so it was, having hardly recovered from their rape on the Gomorran border, that Tracey and Buttercup were reminded of the brutal realities of life in a man's world. Ralph and Bob led the two girls up a concrete stairwell to an array of offices where there were no women other themselves at all. All around them were men either in uniforms or bad-fitting suits, in offices full of the pallid aroma of cigarette smoke and covered in posters of nude women and motor cars. As they walked by, the men's eyes followed them, leering and unsympathetic. For the first time since she'd left home, Tracey was acutely aware of her nakedness as the men appraised her with the same air as evaluating any other functioning set of machinery.

And then into Ralph's office, where there was a wooden desk covered with papers and a bookshelf on the wall lined with ring-back folders. There was a prominent calendar of some men buggering some scrawny women. With no ceremony and no preparation, Ralph bade the girls lie down on the nylon-carpeted floor, which they did with trepidation under Ralph's and Bob's eyes, and those of a tall thin man in a striped shirt with a polyester tie decorated with picture of Bugs Bunny and Tweety Pie. And then Ralph, Bob and this other man pulled down their trousers revealing an unappetising trio of erect penises. Ralph's was short and stubby, surrounded by a bush of dark curly hair halfway up its length. Bob's was thin and narrow with a quite unpleasant smell. The third man's penis was similarly thin and narrow with a slight bend in it.

And then, one after another, Buttercup and Tracey got to know the penises rather better. Both girls knew better than to struggle. Buttercup by virtue of her years in Buggery where sex for her had often been of a similarly unpleasant coercive nature. Tracey as a result of all the fucks she'd had over the years back home. But however inexpert and unsubtle the fucks she'd got accustomed to, in dark alley-ways, in multi-storey car park stairwells, behind bus shelters, she'd had few which were quite as mechanical and perfunctory. The pricks went in, slobbery stubbly faces scraped against her cheeks and chin, her arms held down, and the thrusts back and forth with a steady unimaginative rhythm. She looked over at Buttercup who was enjoying it even less than her, eyes closed and a grimace over her face. Above her Bob was pushing away back and forth, while Ralph fucked away at her. And then all change as Bruce, the tall thin man took over, grunting and moaning above her, his tie drooping over Tracey's mouth as his skinny hairy buttocks thrust back and forth and back and forth. Tracey's cunt was sore as fuck. Sex wasn't usually this joyless.

And then, finally, an orchestrated trickle of sweet-sickly tasting semen over the girls' naked breasts and faces, and the men were standing, gasping and wheezing, as they eased their pricks back inside their flies and adjusted their belts. Tracey and Buttercup lay flat on the ground, semen-stained heads turned towards each other. Tracey rested her hands on her crotch in a vain attempt to lessen the ache that came from the inner folds of her cunt. Buttercup with her hands drawn up and clasped together on her chest, as if in prayer after the ordeal she had endured.

"Well, girls! No more fucking sitting around enjoying yourself," barked Ralph. "It's back to the fucking shop floor with you two. And no fucking shirking off either, you bitches! Don't think that a bit of fun upstairs brings you whores any fucking special privileges."

Buttercup and Tracey were then led back to the shop floor, semen still over their faces and dripping down their thighs, through a cordon of male office-workers who leered and grinned lasciviously at them as they passed by. One took advantage of their vulnerability to slap Buttercup forcibly on her buttocks causing her to yelp. Several men laughed at her distress, Bob joining in.

"You're a fucking popular whore with the boys!" he grinned.

And then the two girls were back on the shop floor, by the side of the conveyor belt, back to the monotony of packing chicken parts. Buttercup was no more expert now than she was before, and Tracey noticed how quiet she was and that she was still weeping. She knew it wasn't just from the pain between her legs, as the treatment they had received hadn't been harsh enough to cause more than a stinging pain with a slight bruising on the vagina lips.

"They certainly like your friend," commented Upsilon, a painfully thin girl with long mousy her was standing next to Tracey.

"But it's not right that they should fuck her. Or me for that matter."

"Well, it makes a break from the packing. And you'll both be getting extra rations for your efforts."

Indeed, this was true as Tracey found out when many hours later, the conveyor belt stopped and all the girls queued up at a formica top table where their dinner was doled out. This was a wholly unappetising collection of stewed meat and over-boiled vegetables served on a metal dish with more white bread and a bowl of unidentifiable soup ladled out by the serving-women, all of them naked except for the plastic hats which held in their hair. Both Tracey and Buttercup were served substantially larger portions than any of the other workers, and although it didn't actually taste especially nice it was a welcome addition to their stomachs. Even after wolfing it down, Tracey could still have eaten more.

She chatted with some of the other girls, while Buttercup sat silently beside her, uncharacteristically morose and still tearful. Tracey found that the girls came from settlements scattered all over the place, that none of them enjoyed the work they did, and none of them had any feeling other than contempt or disgust for the male supervisors.

"Don't worry about the fucking you got," smiled Upsilon. "It happens to all of us every now and then. It may not be much fun but it is a break in the routine, and you do get more to eat as a result. And anyway what do you expect from these pigs. The bastards only know one thing about what to do with women, and even that they don't do very well."

Then, back to the conveyor belt, and more hours of labour as the sun's light through the factory windows arched around the building. Chicken wing after chicken breast after chicken leg. And as they worked, the male supervisors wandered round, pinching bottoms, laughing libidinously and making coarse comments about breasts, cunts, buttocks and anything else they could think of. Some women were teased for being 'babes', some sneered at for being 'dogs', some contemned for being 'whores', and any woman that showed any sign of spirit was called a 'bitch'. Tracey had met plenty of men like that back home, but somehow not so many in one place and she guessed that here the misogyny was more sincerely and deeply felt.

Buttercup was obviously hating her work, and her productivity if anything was dropping as the afternoon progressed so painfully slowly. Tracey regarded her lover with compassion, trying to imagine the depths of her misery. But Buttercup's ordeal was not over. A large, fat man in a suit with a striped nylon shirt and a plain polyester tie loomed into sight, and with no warning or introduction grabbed her by the breasts, groping them unsubtly in his large hairy hands and took an ear in his moustachioed mouth. Buttercup flashed a brief look of annoyance, was just about to react, but then reasoned better of it.

"So, you're the Buggery immigrant they told me about, dearie," he sneered. "Enjoying life here in Gomorrah?"

Buttercup nodded her head meekly, while the man looked her up and down, his tie dangling to the left of his large belly and his hands still on her breasts.

"Fuck me! You're fucking gorgeous! I ain't seen a bitch like you here ever! They certainly know how to breed 'em in Buggery, don't they? I've gotta have a piece of this action. Come with me, dearie."

Buttercup was then led away by this corpulent man, who put an arm around her naked waist, while the other male supervisors stood to one side, restraining their usual leers and not making any of the coarse remarks they might otherwise have done. And then she was out of sight, and Tracey transferred her gaze back to the pieces of chicken that were sliding down the conveyor belt uninterrupted by this encounter.

"Fuck!" exclaimed Zeta. "That was the manager. Your friend's hit the jackpot!"

Tracey was sure that this was not how Buttercup viewed the state of affairs, but she smiled without comment and busied herself in stretching the polythene over the cold pale piece of chicken in its tray. She worked away for an agonisingly long time, wondering what indignities was being meted out on her lover as the chicken parts rolled by and even through her gloves the chickens' flesh was feeling increasingly cold and slimy. She was almost certainly being fucked, and she winced at the thought of this disgusting fat man sinking what she imagined was another less than average cock into her beloved's cunt; and possibly even her arse.

Eventually, after what seemed like, and may well have been, hours, Buttercup returned, escorted by a thin man in overalls and collar-length greasy hair. She looked even more unhappy than before, walking with difficulty and occasionally rubbing her buttocks. Her face was defaced by tears, and a stream of clear pale liquid was still rolling viscously down her legs. She took her place back on the conveyor belt next to Tracey and said nothing. It seemed that the distraction of packing pieces of chicken was somehow a relief to her.

It was much later, after one more tea break, that the working day ended. The sun was well beneath the horizon, and the two girls, like all the other women, were yawning and exhausted. The conveyor belts stopped, the last pieces of chicken were wrapped in polythene and labelled, and the workforce queued up to leave. Even leaving was an ordeal. The queue went on forever, but as they left they were all presented with a clear plastic bag holding a single packed piece of chicken, which clearly represented their wages for a day's work.

Tracey's package was larger than those of most of the others. She had three pieces of chicken in a rather larger bag and a bar of milk chocolate. Buttercup had even more. Some five pieces of chicken, several bars of chocolate and four bottles of beer. The man who singled her out and presented her with the flimsy bag, which looked unlikely to last even the journey home, leered at her and grinned.

"You've made a fuck of an impression on the manager, sweetie. 'Snot often you bitches get beer. Hope you fucking enjoy it."

Buttercup accepted the bag gracefully, but Tracey could see that she viewed it with some kind of disdain. And then they were out in the dark outside. It had started to drizzle and the ground was ever so unpleasantly damp under their feet. And then the long walk home through the dark and dampness, following Zeta, all of them too tired to talk and all looking forward to what little home comforts that awaited them. The prize for their sexual favours which had first seemed so welcome, became an increasing burden as its weight added to their travails; and when, after the thin plastic handles of the bags snapped from the weight, first Buttercup's, then Tracey's, and Zeta's not at all, the rewards had to be carried in their arms over the treacherous bumps and grooves of the muddying fields they crossed.

All through the day, Tracey had been looking forward to Buttercup's welcome caresses when they got back to the settlement. Surely, they would be compensation for their suffering. But Buttercup was not in the mood. Not from lack of trying, the girls' lovemaking became less and less active, their sexual desires frustrated by weariness and pain. And within half an hour of collapsing on the straw in their hut, the drizzle on the outside becoming more insistent and finally escalating into rain, the two girls were fast asleep, their limbs entwined around each other, and Tracey's nose and face buried in Buttercup's long blonde hair. Not a good day, Tracey reflected, although part of her was already wondering what she would get in exchange for the pieces of chicken she'd gained from her otherwise unrewarding molestation, ironically of all the sex she'd had recently the most like that she was accustomed to back home.

XVII

Neither Tracey nor Buttercup went to work in the factory the following day: the excuse being that they needed to exchange the proceeds of their day's labour for more immediately edible items. Neither of them could live on chicken alone. They sought out Theta Seven Six Seven Five.

She was very impressed by the wealth of returns the girls had got from their single day there. In fact, she seemed very envious. "I've never done as well as this!" she exclaimed. "The men obviously took quite a shine to you!"

Buttercup nodded modestly, but she clearly took no pride in what all this had cost her. The girls exchanged a particularly juicy chicken breast for some potatoes, a small knife and a small sauce pan. Then Theta took them to the impromptu market place near the centre of the settlement, which was lined by naked women whose wares were laid out on the ground in front of them. It wasn't that the wares for sale were especially appetising: raw vegetables, bottles of beer, thawing bags of frozen vegetables, cans of soup and beans, and other wares either gained from labour on the fields, or, like the girls, from working in a factory. The girls eventually walked away with a can-opener, a large box of kitchen matches, a selection of not especially exciting canned food, a meat loaf and some fresh greens. Tracey treated herself to a cigarette which she greedily smoked as they sat down in their small hovel, examining their purchases. She didn't really enjoy it very much: it didn't taste nearly as pleasant as her nicotine withdrawal promised and it made her feel queasy. Neither girl had felt very keen on actually eating any of the chicken pieces they'd earned, so one thing definitely not on the menu was fowl.

They cooked the food on a pile of dry sticks and twigs, eating the tinned food directly from the cans in which they came, and although it was a meal of convenience, it was, for Tracey, the best meal she'd had since Throb. And a meal enjoyed the more for sharing it with Buttercup whose body she later chewed and nibbled with at least as much enthusiasm as for the baked beans and meat loaf she'd eaten early: the trickle of tomato sauce on her chin replaced by the much more satisfying taste of Buttercup's vaginal juices.

As the two girls lay on the floor, their arms and legs entwined and the sweat of their passion sticking their bodies even closer to each other as they dried out in the morning heat, Buttercup suddenly gave Tracey a very firm hug. "I love you, Tracey," she exclaimed. "I love you so much!"

Tracey gasped. "You what?"

"I've never had a proper relationship before. Sure, I had relationships with the other girls and boys behind the wall, but this is different. It's free. We're not prisoners like I was before. Sure the sex was good. Very good. But with you, it's different. It's better. It's real love!"

Tracey sighed. She kissed Buttercup full on the mouth and soon again they were writhing and caressing together in the discomfort of the grass and straw which composed their mattress, but however much she was sure her tongue was giving Buttercup pleasure, she somehow didn't feel worthy of her lover. How could someone like her, someone who was used to being called a slut, whose cunt had taken in every prick it could, be worthy of someone so absurdly beautiful and so ridiculously perfect as Buttercup? She had the sort of body most women would die for, and here she was, laid open to Tracey's attention as if … as if she were someone better than the girl she was. She just didn't deserve such good fortune.

After the girls had recovered from their passion and ecstasy, they ventured into the settlement as a whole. Despite its obvious poverty, it was very well organised, and Tracey was impressed by how much trust all these naked women displayed. None of them seemed to fear theft of any kind. Food and other possessions were laid out so easy to steal, and no one took advantage of it. Back home, Tracey would have conformed to the law of taking what she could, but despite her avarice, even she couldn't see herself claiming as her own the many things left lying around carelessly around and inside the tents and small makeshift shelters. But she still found it very strange surrounded by all these naked, hirsute women and not a man in sight. Young girls were running about unselfconsciously in their naked state. Older women were sitting around idly or working at whatever task that occupied them. And many more hovels were empty than occupied, as most women were out elsewhere, perhaps working in factories like the one Tracey and Buttercup had the previous day.

However, the next day, it was up early and off with Zeta over the dry-baked fields to the same chicken factory as before. This time they knew what to expect and the day didn't seem quite as long, though this time they were on a part of the production line where they had to slice the freshly plucked chickens into the pieces which later in the line other women were sealing in cellophane as they had the last time they worked there. Buttercup was no more adept in using the sharp knife she gripped in her plastic-gloved hand than she was in wrapping the same cold, pink flesh in clear plastic, but in truth her ability at cutting and slicing was not what determined her reward at the end of the day.

At first, Tracey thought when Frank grabbed her from behind that Buttercup might use the knife she held in her hand to stab it into the scrawny man in his battered grey suit. But despite her obvious annoyance, she meekly followed him up the concrete stairs to wherever he did whatever he did to her. It was ages until Buttercup returned, looking miserable and humiliated, a small trail of blood winding down the inside of her thigh, escorted by a male supervisor with the soggy end of a rolled-up cigarette held in p[ace by moist saliva to his lower lip.

And that wasn't the only such departure from the production line Buttercup endured. Clearly word had gone round the male workers that there was a girl on the shop floor of far better than average appearance, and Buttercup was dragged away on three other occasions. This included the manager who had obviously not had enough of her after the earlier occasion. After each excursion, she seemed weaker and more ashamed than the time before, and her hands were visibly trembling as her knife viciously sliced through the tendons which held the legs or wings onto the chickens' breasts, and gutted the offal out of its clammy cold interior.

On only one occasion was Tracey similarly dragged away, and this was during one of those agonisingly long periods when Buttercup had been taken away. This was by Jack, an unshaven supervisor with a disproportionately large gut for a man of otherwise unremarkable girth, who dragged her into a small dark room at the back of the factory where a smelly damp mattress had been laid down on the floor for this exact purpose. He apparently had a thing for sluts with short hair, but even so his attentions were concentrated entirely in fucking her and requiring her to give his short fat cabbage-smelling cock a sucking beforehand. Tracey hardly felt him as he pushed his prick back and forth in her cunt, taking a fuck of a long time to even become stiff long before his interminable thrusting released any sperm which he did right inside her.

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