Escape from Buggery Ch. 16

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 itis a break in the routine, and youdo 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.