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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