Slave Lover by Marco Vassi Page A

shadow, and had a button on his jacket that read, “I Am a Sewer.”
    Chet smiled at him and waited to see what would happen next.

Five
    “Fist-fuck, fist-fuck, fist-fuck!” Madge exploded. “Is that the only thing anyone’s interested in anymore! I swear, if I get fist-fucked one more time, I’ll scream!”
    She paced up and down on the deck that had been built some thirty feet back from the shoreline. It was a day of stunning, silent majesty and beauty. Not a cloud marred the sun’s dominion in the sky. Not a flirtation of a breeze teased the mind from its perfect equilibrium. Constance lay naked on the wooden stage and let the sound of the surf, the rays of the sun, the occasional rustle of a bird in the shrubbery, blend with equal phenomenological dispassion into the ground against which her total and vibrant sense of well-being provided the figure.
    It was the third day of a long break, and she didn’t have to report to the Parlor until five on the following evening. It was now almost six weeks since she had been snatched up and taken to what she had come to refer to as “The Resort,” and on particularly exasperating days as “The Last Resort.” She had lost five pounds, regained an athletic vigor, put on a tan that would have been the envy of women paying a hundred dollars a day at an exclusive hotel, and developed a keen sense of irony.
    “And now that goddamned high-rise,” Madge went on, her tirade gathering steam. “It’s going to ruin the view, create jams, and pollute the water.”
    “I should think you would have more serious concerns,” drawled Sheila who had taken one of those qualitative leaps in studied maturity common to teenagers. She had dyed her hair jet black and cut it to within a half inch of her scalp. It was utterly incongruous with her complexion, eye color, and freckles, and yet freakish enough to compel attention. With that she had shaved her pubic hair off and now lay, spread-legged, her cunt facing the sun, to soak the heat into her exposed center.
    “That’s serious enough,” Madge replied. “After all, I do have to live here, and I don’t see why I have to put up with that sort of ugliness.” She paced a few seconds and then whirled to face the two women. “Have you seen the plans?” she asked. “It looks like a Holiday Inn. Square, made out of glass and chrome.”
    “I wonder where we are,” Constance said softly. “I mean, geographically.”
    “There was a woman here who knew how to read the stars,” Sheila said. “She figured we were halfway down the eastern coast of South America.”
    “What country would that be?” Constance asked.
    “I don’t know,” Sheila replied. “I never was very good at geography.”
    Their voices hung on the still air, disembodied, distant, soothing. Sheila had visited Constance the night before carrying two of the pills that Constance had been given by the maid on her very first excursion. The maid had never returned to claim her night of drugged passion, and her disappearance was not marked by any special curiosity.
    The pills were an extraordinary experience. Without the tension aroused by being propelled into the Parlor, Constance could allow herself to surrender completely to its power. For six or seven hours she had wallowed in the licentious and voluptuous promptings of profound muscular relaxation. She lost her conceptual focus entirely, and entered a state of mild, continuous hallucinogenic dispersion. She became a raw mouth, an exposed nerve, a bundle of sensations without category. She was capable of sliding into extended physiological revery, and at one juncture glued her mouth to Sheila’s asshole for nearly an hour, and licked and sucked and swirled her tongue around with aimless abandon.
    “We’re probably in some cockamamie dictatorship,” Madge sang out, waving her arms. She was having such a good time ranting that the two other women found her no intrusion on their mood whatsoever. Constance basked in