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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