These speculations were interrupted by a voice whispering in her ear.
“There must be a way to escape. But our only hope of finding it is to keep pretending that we’ve lost all hope of finding it.”
It was Madge. The words came in between the other woman’s sliding her tongue into Constance’s ear, so that the message was a collage of heat and meaning, wet and syntax, sex and politics. Sally continued in what was beginning to appear to be an epileptic fit between Constance’s thighs while Sheila was sucking the soreness left by the clips from Constance’s nipples.
“The only chance we have to exchange messages is when we are pretending to have orgies,” Madge went on.
“It’s a most realistic pretence,” Constance thought, her pelvis twisting and bucking and the first sweet tremblings of orgasm pulsing at the tip of her clit.
Constance turned her head so her mouth was at Madge’s ear. “Do you have any hard information for me?” she asked. “How many women are in on the idea? Is there any notion of an escape plan? A route?”
Madge reversed their position. She tapped Sheila on the shoulder indicating that she should make more noise. Sheila obliged by increasing the volume of the slurping she was doing. Sally had already hit a high decibel level in her seeming attempts to lodge her entire head in Constance’s vagina.
“All the women have been contacted but we can never all be together at one time, so information is passed in overlapping waves. There’s a lot of distortion. We have no plan, only a general readiness. And the only conceivable route is down the face of the cliff. The wall is impossible and even if we got over it, we’d be picked up very quickly in the woods.”
“The cliff!” Constance repeated.
“We’ve said enough,” Madge whispered. “You’ll have to be here a while to pick up information before you can be really useful. When you have something, contact any woman not on duty and get into an orgy with her and a few others and pass on what you’ve learned. It will get around to everyone within a few days.”
“But . . .” Constance began to say.
Her sentence, however, was cut short by the implantation of Sheila’s cunt on her mouth. The woman had tired of working on Constance’s breasts without receiving any attention on her own, so she took matters into her own thighs and presented her pussy to Constance’s tongue and lips for ministration. Constance was momentarily paralyzed by the sudden presence of a hot, hairy, wet, smelly pie of flesh and membrane pressed over her mouth. She didn’t know quite what to do with it, but instruction was not long in coming.
“Suck it, you prissy little bitch,” Madge said in a loud voice, reverting to the stage tones with which the orgy had started. “You’ve had enough cock in your life, let’s see how you like one of your own.”
“How far must I carry this masquerade?” Constance thought.
“For as long as you live,” a voice answered in her mind. “You are trapped here, in this scene, on this planet, in this life. And you have no choice but to act out what’s given to you.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she sighed mentally, one part of her personality concluding the dialogue with another. And with that inner surrender, she gave herself up to exploring the common practice of eating cunt, thereby reconnecting herself to her animal nature.
Sheila was young, firm, hot. Her cunt had all the elasticity of the teenager, all of its sense of naughty pleasure. Although she was a member of the woman’s liberation movement and so ritually indulged in the orgies in order to pass information, her interest was not in leadership or organization. Madge and a few others had concocted the scheme and kept it alive. Were it left to Sheila or to Sally, the hopelessness of the situation would have allowed them to sink into self-pity, or simple debauchery, or to spend their time in the frivolities of vanity, passing their days in gossip and society.
Madge’s words to Constance were a real goad to Sheila and she repeated them, but without the edge of drama.
“Suck it, you prissy little bitch,” she said and pushed her weight down even heavier onto Constance’s face. Constance had a bit of trouble breathing but once she adjusted her angle so that her nose was clear, her mouth was free to make its own explorations. Her tongue curved up and dug into the juicy little honey pot of the hot-assed, spread-thighed, humping lady above her. It was a brackish fluid that slid down her throat, but the very edge of odiousness was what gave the act its wry tone of eroticism.
Constance opened her mouth wide and stretched her lips as far as they would go, engulfing the pumping snatch and pulling it into the vacuum she created by emptying her lungs through her nostrils. Sheila’s cunt lips surged into Constance’s mouth. She bit her lower lip as the sensations of blood flooding the tender membranes enflamed her imagination and she slid into a revery of what she had experienced the night before when she had been tied to a slab and had sugar shoved in her cunt and spread in her pubic hair and then had a jar of ants poured on her belly. The insects whirred about in a tizzy of release and danced wildly on Sheila’s stretched skin. Then they smelled the sugar and descended on it like a ravenous army. The insects rushed pell-mell into the thatch of hair like soldiers plunging into a wheat field. They pushed on over the outer lips, roamed the inner lips, and finally followed the powdery trail into the very hole of her hole, spread wide by a distender specially engineered for the purpose and locally referred to as “the cunt horn.” Sheila had gone mad with screeching delirium as the long trail of ants marched briskly into her pussy and roamed the inner walls at will to reap their harvest. All the while, a number of men had stood around her and laughed uproariously, pausing only to fuck her mouth or her ass or pinch her nipples. Sheila had found the entire episode explosively erotic, the thin line between acute sensation and biologic repugnance providing the most exquisite sensual tension she had ever known.
Now she tried to relive the memory as Constance sucked the juice from her snatch and swallowed with hungry curiosity. She had never admitted it to anyone, but her being kidnapped and thrown into this baroque milieu had rescued her from a life of suffocating ennui. The small town, the idiot boys she dated, with no hope for the future except a dull marriage and a repetition of the patterns her parents had grown grey on. Here she was involved in a nonending series of erotic surprises, maintained a lively social life, kept a diary, which, she flattered herself, showed literary merit, and had formed several deep friendships with other women her age. In addition she enjoyed an erotic freedom with women she could never have known otherwise. It was, for her, ideal, except for the fact that she would one day be killed, but then how was that different from life, in which she would one day die from one cause or another?
She pushed down, forcing her belly down, flexing the inner muscles of her vagina, and filled Constance’s mouth with the soft, mucous mounds of the inside of the deepest part of her cunt. Constance was seized by a fierce flurry of gulping, licking loss of control. All the lifetime associations she had with cunt flourished in her consciousness. The piss hole, the gash, the bleeding wound, the stink pit, the sticky slit . . . all the terms and feelings of opprobrium governed the instant of her awareness that she was really lying on her back while a strange woman forced her convulsing cunt into her mouth.
“Mmmmm,” she moaned, straining to suck more of it in.
She couldn’t see the gesture, but Madge looked up and caught the eyes of the other two women, Sheila looking down and Sally peering up over Constance’s pubic hair as her own mouth continued to slice into Constance’s pussy, and nodded. The expression indicated, “Good work, now we’ve got her.”
She then moved up with marked rapidity and pushed Sheila off her perch. Constance was stunned, gasping like a harpooned hippopotamus. Her mouth had become a blind leech and would have sucked at anything put against it. Madge knew that, and supplied her own cunt as object. Constance cried out in gratitude and lost herself in the act.
It is a commonly understood but rarely communicated truism of sex that it attains its ultimate point of gratification when the triple barriers of gross, subtle, and unconscious resistance have fallen and a kind of permission is given to the whole person to let go and indulge the moment. Then we drop identity, attachment, and parity, and become pure sound, pure movement, pure life. At such times, the mind bursts its barriers and we sail into the realm of infinite awareness, in which the form becomes utterly inconsequential and we dwell masterfully as mistresses of eternity. Then, to suck a cock, to lap a cunt, to lick an asshole, are of no importance whatsoever, for one might as easily be watching a sunset, pondering a galaxy, or writing a symphony. It was into such a state that Constance gratefully sank. She no longer had to be considered with who or what or how or why or when. No one was expecting any response from her. She was being offered the ultimate erotic pleasure, the gift of being left alone during the act.
The four women then sailed on into the evening, letting the tapestry of their actions be woven by the random promptings of their desire. At one point they had gravitated into a double-couple, Constance on her back, Sheila on top of her, Madge and Sally at either side, also facing in. Their mouths all met, and lips and tongues slid and washed over one another with complete indiscriminate exploration. At the same time, eight hands roamed below and felt four cunts and four assholes, a dance of fingers that had them all squirming like worms in a fishing can.
They impaled themselves on the pinnacles of their own forgetfulness, losing track of time of day and where they were or why they were supposed to be indulging themselves in the first place. Each was lost in a private revery, one now a teenager in the back seat of a car, another a newlywed experiencing the first penetrating bliss, a third a whore causing kingdoms to topple, and the fourth a hitchhiker being raped by a motorcycle gang. They came to their individual and collective conclusion, rested, smoked, and began again. Constance was, among other things, the “new asshole in town,” and these were the first three of the women to taste her. Before the month was up she would be had by every woman on the grounds.
At one point Madge got up to go to the bathroom, and Sally put a record on the stereo, while Sheila rummaged in the pocket of her robe and pulled out several joints. The four women then sat in a circle and smoked and listened to African rhythms and moved their asses around on the bed and ran their fingers through their hair and hung glances on one another through smoke-squinting eyes and got old and tough and silently assessed the universe. They were troopers, torn from the fabric of their common lives, thrust into a context of terror and coruscating eroticism, and were now passing the scanty information of escape from the prison by whispering secrets into one another’s cunts.
By and by the joints were finished and the music changed to throaty blues and Madge took Constance in her arms and began to make love to her. This wasn’t the wild, scattered thrashing of half an hour earlier. This was local, personal, intense. The other two women lay back, side by side, fingering one another’s cunts with easy, desultory movements, while Madge cupped Constance’s buttocks and pulled her cunt up to be met by her own, and ground her pubic bone into the other’s clitoris, and sucked deep kisses from her lips.
Now it was a time of demand. The earlier mode of interdependent tripping was finished, and the emphasis shifted to total dependence. With each thrust, with each caress, with each kiss, with each look, Madge demanded response. The essence of her lovemaking was to rouse the other to respond, to evoke the most thrilling expressions, the most wanton gestures. A dozen times Constance tried to roll over onto her belly so that she would offer her vulnerable buttocks to Madge’s control. And the tiny movement was always met by a smile of smirking superiority. This wasn’t an exchange in which Madge hoped to give and get, but a military program which she was trying to win. She wanted Constance to surrender, not to her, but to herself. She wanted Constance to display herself, to open herself, to put herself on parade, and then to allow Madge and the others to feast on the garden of sprouted delights.
Madge slid to one side and, licking Constance’s breast, brought her right hand between the other woman’s thighs.
“Open it, baby,” Madge said, “open your luscious cunt to the world.”
And when Constance had spread her legs as wide as she could, Madge simply slipped her fist into the wildly dripping hole. There was no pain, no strain. Only a swelling rapturous pleasure, a yielding. Constance lifted her legs high in the air and opened them to the skies while Madge, frowning in gentle concentration, worked her fist in and out with lugubrious ease.
“Oh, let me,” Sally breathed.
“Me too,” Sheila added.
And one by one the other women took their turns, Madge pulling her slime-coated fist out and each of the others shoving theirs in. Constance did not make a sound or move an inch. She was lost in a cotton-candy revery of pure immediacy. She was lying in a strange room in a horrible prison while three women took turns fist-fucking her and all she could think was that this was the most sublime thing that could ever happen to her and that she never wanted it to end.
And yet it did. Fatigue, the natural cessation of certain rhythms, an orgasmic glut, all combined to push the four ladies back from their endeavor. And, as is often the case at such moments, when they had rested a bit, and smoked a bit, and peed and run combs through their hair and put their robes and various bits of clothing back on, they realized they were hungry.
“Well, let’s go down to the kitchen,” Sheila said.
“Oh, why bother?” Madge replied. “Let’s call room service and have them bring something here.”
“It’s pretty fancy,” Constance said. “Even hotels don’t provide meals at all hours of the day.”
“Well, it’s a twenty-four-hour place,” Madge told her. “The johns come in at all times and the sessions go around the clock. When you do your first session without a blindfold you’ll see what it’s like. Anyway, all the antics make the customers hungry, and at the prices they pay, the establishment wants to keep them well fed.”