Escape from Buggery

by Bradley Stoke

  “What do you think of Buggery?” one girl asked them. “Is it like this where you come from?”

  “Come on girls, what’s going on?” came a sudden school-teacherly voice. A woman in her late twenties loomed into view. Like the girls she wore nothing from below her breasts to her knees, but what she did wear were smart leather boots and a very neat jacket with a silk scarf. Her long hair was tied back in a long plait to her waist. “Oh I see,” she remarked seeing Sharon and Tracey.

  “Please miss, we’ve found some tourists. Shall we report them to the police?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I can look after them now. I’ll get the police if need be. Now you run along.” She produced a cane which she half-heartedly beat against the buttocks of one of the girls.

  “Yes, miss. We will, miss” they said as they ran off giggling.

  “Well,” said the teacher looking at Sharon and Tracey. “You are in a pickle. Well, don’t worry, security’s relatively lax round here and no one really reports things to the police: people don’t appreciate being raped or humiliated for the pain of being a good citizen. However,” she smiled grimly, “I’d better take you along with me if you don’t want to die of exposure or dehydration.”

  Sharon and Tracey didn’t realise how weak they were until they stood up and then they almost immediately fell down. “Come along girls,” the teacher said cheerfully. “I’ll take you to the cottage I live in. I share it with two other women: both teachers like me. One teaches in a Royal College and the other teaches in a Police School. Me,” she sighed, “I teach in a normal secondary school.”

  The teacher escorted the girls for another mile along some paths through fields and over some stiles until they got to her cottage. Sharon and Tracey supported each other and grew more and more annoyed by the chafing of jewellery on their thighs. Each step was an increasing agony of bursting blisters, and more cuts on their ankles and knees when they stumbled and fell onto the unforgiving harsh dry ground.

  After what seemed the longest mile of their lives so far, they came to a tumble-down cottage outside of which rested an old bicycle and the scattered remains of a disused plough. A well stood underneath the shade of a dead tree, and chickens ran around in the yard. A few small trees were gathered into an excuse of a copse where a donkey was desultorily chewing on a carrot.

  The teacher took the girls inside, laid them down on a very hard straw-filled bed, and with no ceremony removed the girls’ shoes and unthreaded the jewellery from between their legs.

  “You just lie here and relax,” she advised, as if they were likely to do anything else. “I’ve got afternoon classes to attend to. If the other teachers are back here before me, my name is Primrose.”

  “That’s a nice name,” commented Sharon weakly with what remained of her battered senses.

  “We’re all named after flowers round here,” smiled Primrose as she was about to leave. “It’s the law.”

  Chapter V

  “Who the fuck are you?” were the words by which the two girls were woken just a few hours later. They raised up their weary heads from the hard straw pillows which had come to seem so incredibly comfortable, and blearily focused on the towering figure of a woman dressed only in leather boots and leather shoulder-pads. This in itself made the woman a formidable and intimidating sight, but this was reinforced by a body which was more muscular than either Sharon or Tracey were sure a woman’s body should ever be. But she was clearly a woman, and one who shaved her vagina as well. Although nearly naked, rather a lot of heavy iron and leather decorated her, dangling from pierced nipples and vagina. She wore a leather belt around her waist from which dangled a long holster for a truncheon and a collection of buckled leather bags.

  “We’re friends of Primrose,” explained Sharon wearily.

  “They’re tourists, Tiger Lilly dearest,” added Primrose who entered the room at that moment. “I found them lying under the baobab, absolutely exhausted and suffering from heat stroke. I don’t know how they’d got there, but it was obvious they couldn’t stay there forever. So I thought I’d bring them back home to keep them away from trouble.”

  “By bringing trouble here to our fucking cottage, you mean!”

  “Tiger Lilly, what harm does it do? As long as they’re on their way soon we’ll be alright.”

  “It’s not for us to harbour foreigners. They might be fucking spies or something! We should hand them in to the authorities so that they can be properly processed.”

  “Like processed meat, you mean, Tiger Lilly. Do you want then to be raped and humiliated by the police. It’s obvious they’re not spies. They’re just ignorant tourists. They probably just got lost going to the beach.” Primrose smiled indulgently at the pathetic sight of Sharon and Tracey’s peeling sunburn and raw red marks on their upper chest. “I mean, I know you’re police yourself, but if we took them in you don’t think your colleagues won’t give you a bit of rough interrogation as well. Once the police get their hands into anything, they usually leave more battered bodies and corpses around than there were to start off with. They’d suspect the heir apparent if he happened to be passing by. No, Tiger Lilly sweetheart, things’d only get worse if we took them to the authorities. Leave them to relax. No one’ll tell the police, and you know it.”

  Tiger Lilly snorted reluctantly, and let Primrose escort her out of the bedroom, leaving the two girls slumped on the bed. Sharon was feeling ever so faintly sick and Tracey had a persistent burning sensation on her shoulders and on the top of her bum which just didn’t seem to want to go away. Within seconds, they collapsed back into a feverish sleep, their naked bodies intertwined to stop themselves falling off the edges of the single bed.

  It was about an hour later that Primrose returned to the bedroom with a faint smile. “We’d best get you two tidied up!” she said, handing the girls sleeveless white cotton blouses which would come down to the base of their breasts and no further. They had no chance to put them on, as she then produced a small tin bowl in the warm steamy water of which was floating a large sponge. Then with no evidence of ceremony, Primrose started vigorously scrubbing Sharon’s face, body and limbs. It was like scrubbing a floor dry. Every few seconds she would squeeze out the moisture from the sponge into the bowl, and then began scrubbing other parts. As soon as she’d judged that Sharon was clean, she started scrubbing Tracey with just the same vigour. When her attention came to the area between Tracey’s legs where all her rings were dangling from her reddened and sore stubbled vagina, she paused as if in thought. She then leant forward and briefly kissed Tracey’s pierced clitoris.

  “That’s a lovely ring!” She said smiling. “That would cost me more than a month’s wages.”

  “Is it?” wondered Tracey, who had actually thought it remarkably cheap compared to how much such jewellery would have cost back home. Of course, she’d not actually paid for it, but, even taking into account the cost of the piercing, she knew it was substantially cheaper than any of the countless fucks she’d had in Throb.

  “It’s beautiful!” Primrose continued, picking up the sponge and proceeding to scrub the dust and dirt off Tracey’s legs. “But you tourists just don’t know the value of things do you? At least that’s what we hear. That you’re all stupid and sex-mad, but ridiculously wealthy.” She paused thoughtfully. “Is it true, that? I mean, that you’re wealthy?”

  “What do you fucking think!” snorted Sharon. “Do we look like we’re rich?”

  “I don’t know,” said Primrose sadly. “I don’t know what rich people look like. I’ve never seen one in my life.”

  Primrose finally finished her cleaning and squeezed out the filthy water into the tin bowl. “You’re clearly pretty naïve, aren’t you,” she continued. “Things in Buggery are quite different to wherever you come from, I can see that. I’d better give you a bit of advice on what to wear here. It’s very important you do, otherwise you’ll be picked up by the police, and, believe me, that is the very last thing you want to h
appen. In fact, it could well be the last thing that does happen to you. Fortunately, the police are relatively lax in this district, but you’ve still got to be pretty careful about your appearance. If you look too much out of place, you’ll be arrested and then … Well, I don’t know what, but when the police get hold of you, it’ll be lucky if you’ll survive their interrogation. You mustn’t wear anything from the knee to the midriff. The punishment for non-observance is arbitrary and cruel. So, if I were you, put on these old blouses of mine and, if you don’t want to attract attention keep your jewellery down to just one ring about here.” She fingered the ring she had joining the two flaps of her vulva.

  “Who decides what people wear?” wondered Sharon as she detached her earrings and nose-stud, and placed them on the rickety bedside table. She glanced around the room, having recovered sufficiently after her scrubbing to comprehend things. Not only was it very small, but it was very bare. The only decoration was a faded portrait of the king.

  Primrose followed Sharon’s gaze. “Him, of course. The King. And he changes his mind all the time! Not long ago, people were allowed to wear shorts or little skirts as long as they covered less than two inches of inside leg. But then he decided we all had to have little cunt-rings, and to make sure we were wearing them we were proscribed from wearing anything down there.”

  “What happened to all the shorts and skirts?”

  “Oh they were publicly burnt. There was a big festival, which everyone had to attend. Everyone had to express their love for the King and his wisdom and burn their clothes. If the police suspected that you were holding back on any clothes, then you risked having your house burnt down and your genitals mutilated.”

  Primrose stroked the tangled hairs of Tracey’s cunt. “My gosh! This has been well used!” she commented looking at a cunt torn inside out after years of promiscuity. “You’ll have to keep this cut short too. They don’t like pubic hair obscuring anything. That’s also illegal.”

  “Should we shave it all off like you and Tiger Lilly?” wondered Sharon who quite fancied the idea.

  “Well, we’re teachers and we’re expected to shave our pubes. Different classes and statuses have different rules, you know. Most peasants in this country are never allowed to shave their pubic hair, and no way could you pass off as a peasant. You’re too well-fed for a start, and there are no calluses on your fingers. And you obviously wear shoes most of the time, judging from your tender soles.”

  After the girls had put on the blouses, which were slightly too tight, Primrose took them down to the small dining room where they met Tiger Lilly again, and Chrysanthemum. She was the other teacher who lived in the cottage. The two teachers were watching the flickering black and white pictures on a small television. It was, of course, screening Buggery Broadcasting Television.

  Chrysanthemum was stunningly beautiful, but she wore no clothes, her straight blonde hair reached to her bottom and like the others she had shaved her pubic hair, but also everywhere else as well. When she stood up, she revealed that she was quite tall and sported an unbelievably perfect set of teeth. “Welcome to our humble home,” she smiled broadly and reassuringly.

  Tiger Lilly was holding Chrysanthemum’s hand, but looked rather less beautiful than her lover. She had a broken nose and long crooked scar across her stomach. She smiled with rather less warmth than either of the other two. “What do you think of Buggery?” she asked.

  “The television’s funny,” commented Sharon.

  “That’s almost entirely for the benefit of the Royal Academy,” laughed Chrysanthemum. “The moral centre of our society, if you like. It’s only at the Royal Academies and their grounds that anyone is ever really like the people on television in the way they dress. And nowhere in the Kingdom is real life like what they show.”

  “It’s all a fantasy world,” added Primrose, who was aware of the girls’ confusion. “It’s just to tell us what the ideals of our society are supposed to be. Nobody’s really like that!”

  “But what about the people who appear on it?”

  “What about the people who service tourists at Pederasty and all the other tourist centres in this country?” retorted Primrose. “There are a lot of different trades and professions. Some of those like acting, or serving at the Royal Palace, or working for the police force, or entertaining tourists, are so specialised that they have different schools, different ethics, different places to live, different expectations and so on.”

  “Like teachers,” suggested Tracey.

  “Well, almost,” conceded Primrose. “I can only teach in the kind of school I was taught in, though I do have the unusual freedom to mix with people who teach in different schools, and who were themselves taught in those kind of schools.”

  “Most of the people round here in this borough are what you might call ordinary people,” smiled Chrysanthemum. She was always smiling. Tracey felt a curiously warm feeling and was wondering whether she was already falling in love with the woman. “This is a very ordinary area.”

  “80% peasant, of which 50% are given the opportunity to progress at school to the extent that they will always be dissatisfied with their lot. 20% middle-class, of which 50% will be automatically demoted to peasant if they aren’t seen to conform sufficiently. Within each group, slightly different standards of dress and behaviour so you know exactly what you’re standing is in society.”

  “That’s all fucking well, Primrose,” sniffed Tiger Lilly. “What are we going to do with these tourists? Chain them down and rape them? Tether them to fucking stakes?”

  “Don’t be so vulgar, Tiger Lilly dearest,” exclaimed Chrysanthemum, but with an indulgent smile. “I’m sure the girls will be quite happy to have sex with you without being forced to.”

  “We’ll just give them a night’s sleep and set them off to Gomorrah,” explained Primrose.

  “Gomorrah!” gasped Sharon. “Isn’t Buggery at war with Gomorrah?”

  “Who fucking isn’t!” expostulated Tiger Lilly.

  “If you go back to Throb, you risk being arrested, raped and mutilated for straying out of the tourist areas. If you stay here, you’ll eventually be found, arrested, raped and mutilated for being terrorists. If you try to get to the Embassy districts, you’ll be arrested, raped and mutilated as spies. You’re probably going to get killed whatever you do! Buggery’s not a very good place for foreigners. The Royal Government doesn’t want the rest of the world to know what the country is like, except where its attracts tourism, and then almost exclusively to sell sex. They’ll kill you to prevent you telling anyone what it’s like here. They would prefer to continue to be criticised for the questionable nature of the sex on offer, than for how most people live here. If you get to Gomorrah, you might at least be protected as a propaganda weapon by the Gomorrans.”

  Sharon shivered. This was worse than she’d feared. “Is it really that bad?”

  Tiger Lilly smiled grimly. “I don’t know what you thought Buggery would be, but Paradise it fucking well isn’t!”

  The teachers prepared a dinner for the five of them which consisted mostly of vegetables and rice. “All local produce!” announced Chrysanthemum proudly.

  “Well, actually local produce is all we can buy,” qualified Primrose.

  The television was left on with the sound turned down. It was screening a scene of a man masturbating into a cup: an exercise somehow associated with a cookery programme.

  “I teach at the local Secondary School,” Primrose went on, “so I get the best selection of local produce from my pupils. They seem to think that if they give me things, they might do better in their exams; but since they all bring me things, none of them could possibly have an advantage over another.”

  “What’s the school like?” wondered Tracey, who hadn’t really attended school very much when she was a schoolgirl. She’d spent most days playing truant with the boys, with whom she’d wander the streets or go somewhere to indulge in drink, drugs, cigarettes and sex.

&nb
sp; “It’s a fairly ordinary school, by Buggery standards. But I imagine it’s quite different from where you come from. The central doctrine of Buggery society is that all the people of Buggery be in a state of humiliation imposed on them by the King. It is an expression of the people’s utter obedience and servility to the Crown and is instilled from the earliest age. Part of the humiliation of course is that it is progressive, so before the children come to Secondary School they have never known sexual humiliation or indeed cruelty of any kind.

  “Primary schools in Buggery are kept quite separate from the rest of society, and no adults (except teachers) are ever allowed there. Most of us can only ever remember them distantly, and as we start secondary school education at eight our memories of them become disjointed. All I know, is that children who leave Primary School are totally unprepared for Secondary School. Not everyone joins Secondary School, but those who do are well and fit. When they leave Primary School they are allocated to ‘parents’ according to eugenic principles. Nobody really knows who their real parents are, as breeding centres, like Primary schools, are hidden away somewhere out of sight.

  “The ‘parents’ send them to Secondary School and are obliged by law to give the children as much care and attention as they can. The ‘parents’ are officially only allowed a certain degree of parental abuse (but that’s one of the few things that isn’t very well enforced) and these must only take place at certain festivals. The children stay at school until they are in a position to either graduate, in which case they leave the district, or to be turned to work. Most (perhaps 80% of them) will become peasants in this area and in turn become assigned ‘parents’. If they become pregnant, they will be sent to the breeding centres, and as often as not they never return.

  “School children must dress according to strict dress conventions, which must reflect the general dress code of the district and their position in class (which is often different to those of their parents). The main criteria of distinction are clothes, hair-length, pubic hair and jewellery. Girls and boys are dressed and treated identically. No allowances are made for their different sexuality, even during sex classes. In my school, and I’m sure there are similar rules elsewhere, the higher grading a child has then the longer the hair, the shorter the pubic hair, the more clothes and jewellery. The top pupil then has very long hair, no pubic hair, plenty of jewellery and the maximum amount of clothes permitted within the rules of this district. The lowest grade pupils, of which there are several, have their heads shaved, an untidy bush of pubic hair, no clothes and only a large steel cunt-ring.