by Marco Vassi
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.”
“It gets like a gambling casino,” Sally continued. “And it’s like each of the slabs or pieces of equipment is a table. One is a roulette wheel and another a craps table and another black jack. And while each girl belongs to the man or men who paid for her, they almost always let other men have her too. So the men kind of wander around the room, trying to find out where the action is.”
“And we’re the games,” Madge said bitterly. “They hang us up and spread us out and spin us around and whip us and shove things in us and piss on us and we don’t mean any more to them than any other toy they use to amuse themselves.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Anyway,” Madge continued, “that’s why the kitchen is always open. And as to room service, well, why look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“The menu is in the desk drawer,” Sheila said moving over to pick it up and bring it back to the bed.
“I’m a vegetarian,” Constance said. “Or, I was, I guess, until I bit that guy’s cock off this afternoon.”
“Yeah,” Madge replied. “We all do something like that at the beginning, but the novelty wears off. Besides, if you do it three times they get really pissed and do you in. After the second one you’re given a warning. They usually treat their clientele with as much disdain as they treat us, but they can’t allow themselves to get a reputation for this kind of thing.”
“I want a steak,” Constance said, “rare, with a baked potato and sour cream, and a crisp fresh salad with oil and lemon, and a good red wine, and afterwards coffee and cheesecake.” She looked around and smiled. “What the hell, right? The condemned woman ate a hearty meal.”
“That’s the spirit,” Sally said.
“I’ll have the same,” Madge put in.
“Me too,” said each of the others.
Sheila reached over and pushed the buzzer next to the bed.
Ten seconds later, there was a light knocking on the door. The women looked at one another, surprised.
“Well, that was fast,” Constance said. “You can’t complain about the service.” And in a louder voice she called out, “Come in.”
Robert was standing at the door. Behind him were two men. They had black hoods over their faces.
“Oh my God,” Madge said in a voice that made Constance’s blood run cold.
Robert stepped inside. His entire manner was one of apology.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but we’ve had a request . . .”
A short silence spaced the room. Finally, Madge stood up. “Which one?” she asked, and couldn’t conceal the tremor in her voice.
“Sally,” the man said.
Sally cried out once, then pushed her fist into her mouth and closed her eyes. The other women closed around her and hugged her. There was no movement for a full minute. Then Sally stood up slowly.
“I’m ready,” she said.
She walked to the door, turned, smiled at the other women, and then whispered, barely audibly, “Good-bye.” Then she walked quickly out of the room.
Robert nodded to the three women, his manner dripping diffidence, and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
“The bastards,” Madge muttered.
A few seconds later there was a second knock. Constance let out a whimper, but Madge walked briskly to the door. When she opened it, a short, slightly stooped man of about fifty stood there. He was dressed in a faded butler’s uniform, a peculiar anachronism.
“You rang?” he said in a high-pitched voice.
His words hit the ambience of the room like a mallet striking a gong. It was a very long time before Madge replied, her voice firm.
“Yes,” she said. “Steak, rare; baked potato with sour cream; a crisp salad with oil and lemon; a good red wine, and afterwards, coffee and cheesecake.”
“And how many will that be for, madame?” he asked.
Madge could not control herself any longer. Tears gushed from her eyes and she turned away. Constance stood up and walked slowly to the door.
“That will be for three,” she said.
Three
They sat next to a large open window overlooking the sea to have breakfast. Robert was jauntily dressed in cotton slacks, a bodyform T-shirt, tennis shoes, and socks. The entire outfit was a pure white. She had allowed him to escort her to the dining room and order coffee and rolls, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a filet of whitefish which had been caught just an hour earlier. It was an unusual breakfast. But Constance had shown by her attitude and manner that she held Robert in contempt for his part in taking Sally away the night before.
They were into their second cup of coffee and first cigarette of the day before he spoke.
“Your feelings are understandable,” he said. “But your behavior unsophisticated. I had imagined that you, more than any of the women we’ve brought in, would grasp the reality at once and make a complete adjustment without wasting time on bemoaning what can’t be helped. It’s gauche for me to point it out, but your time is limited, and you have no other viable value but to live as fully as possible while you have the chance.”
“I’m well aware of the existential implications of the situation,” she replied coolly. “But believe me that my present distaste for your company provides me with as full an emotional complement as I could wish.”
“I’m prepared to accept your mood because I find you attractive. You are the oldest woman we have ever had, and so add a touch of much-needed maturity to the available provender. Also, you are perhaps the most intelligent. I read your article, and then dug up earlier things you had written. You might have had a brilliant career if your lust for sensational stories hadn’t ended you here.”
> “So my article was the cause of my kidnapping.” Constance crossed her legs and lit another cigarette. She was wearing loose orange slacks and a short-sleeved blouse, and had decided to go without shoes. On the outside she had limited her smoking to three a day, but here she had no hopes for any real longevity and an extra five or ten cigarettes a day would add a pleasing recklessness to her sensibility.
“We reasoned that after your failure to get it published anywhere but the Enquirer you would move on to something else, but we couldn’t take the chance. You would have come across more stories about disappearances and would probably have gone to the FBI or some such group. Besides, during the week we were watching you, I developed an overpowering curiosity to have you.”
“And has it been satisfied sufficiently?” she shot out.
“Oh, I haven’t touched you yet. And I won’t, until you come to me freely. One of my staff privileges, of course, is my pick of the women, so I could order you for the Parlor or for my private room at any time, but I’ll wait.”
“What on earth makes you think I’d ever go to you freely?” she said. “After all, you are a murderer.”
“Because sooner or later you will grow hungry for a relationship with a man. Something that can’t be satisfied on the gaming tables, or by your little lesbian follies. And I am intelligent, affable, warm, friendly, and good-looking. And there is another reason, one you ought to have figured out already.” He smiled at her, and the gap between the boyish expression on his lips and the deadly calculation in his eyes quite mesmerized her for an instant. “Those who are nice to me get a little check put next to their names, and when a request for a Snuff candidate comes along, those names tend not to get picked.” He waited an instant for the full weight of his words to sink in, for her to realize that he had the power of life and death over her. “Also,” he added, “I am authorized to take an occasional woman out for a sail, or horseback riding past the walls.”