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no sound emerged from her mouth. She was impaled on the thick rod of flesh and bone, and it felt as though her very soul had been stuffed. Joan pushed her fist in even further, and Margaret screamed with an agony of pleasure and, with a suddenness that was like violence, began to churn up and down, plunging her cunt with rapid hard strokes onto Joan’s arm, until the young woman had to brace her elbow on the floor to sustain the force of Margaret’s thrashing blows. Up and down her pelvis pumped, gorging itself on the thick fist that was lodged in her entrails.
    “Oh my God, fuck it to me, fuck it to me,” she cried. “Punch my cunt, punch my cunt all the way to its pit,” she moaned, and punished herself on the terrible stake.
    Taken by the force of Margaret’s response, Joan began to move her arm back and forth like a piston, until Margaret felt the movement and stopped her own pumping. She came to her knees, her thighs spread wide part, her hands reaching around her ass cheeks and pulling the lips of her cunt apart. “There,” she gasped, “it’s open, it’s wide open. Now, give it to me, slam it to me.” And Joan’s fist churned in and out of the frothing hole with unrestrained fury.
    Carried away by the noise and the smell and the sight of the gorgeous crack that ran from the brown cleft between the buttocks to the dripping red cunt, Joan punched her fist again and again into the gaping hole. Until, at the edge of exhaustion, she erupted into actual rage and began to go wild. Ardor spilled over into anger, not anger at Margaret or at anyone, but a blind purposeless anger that exploded from within. And as though she would drive her arm through Margaret’s cunt walls and into her womb, Joan shoved with all her might between the begging edges of Margaret’s shameless pussy, at last bared in its final nakedness.
    “Oh you’ll kill me,” Margaret screamed and then clamped her thighs shut, imprisoning Joan’s fist deep inside her cunt. Joan pulled out with all her strength, and with a swishing pop, her hand flew free from its slimy trap.
    At that, Margaret let loose a scream so piercing Joan thought it would crack the glass in all the windows, and then, like a fish just landed, Margaret hurled herself forward, and thrashed about the floor, knocking over furniture, pounding her cunt with her fist, screaming and wailing, her ass contracting and letting go, her breasts flailing about, until she underwent one final convulsion, and then fell still, and lay there, completely spent, covered with sweat and secretions, panting, mouth agape, open, fulfilled.
    Neither of them moved or spoke for a very long time. From a great distance, street noises could be heard. Cars, voices, the sounds of normal life. Like two people who had just had their car hit a patch of ice at high speeds and spun wildly about, death lurking in every split second, and had finally slid to a long halt at the edge of a high cliff, they clung to their lives with extraordinary awareness. Perhaps twenty minutes passed, and then Joan let her head drop to her chest. A few moments later, Margaret rolled over and came to her knees. Joan looked up, and the two women stared at one another. A slow smile grew on Joan’s face.
    “Well, do you still want to talk business now?” she said.
    To the surprise of both of them, Margaret began to weep, without making a sound.
    Joan went over to her, and held her until the crying stopped. Margaret pushed the hair away from her face, reached over for a cigarette and lit it.
    “What would we do without tobacco?” she asked. And answering her own rhetorical question, went on, “We might have to face some awkward moments.”
    Joan shook her head in puzzlement. She was confused, but did not want to intrude. After three deep drags, Margaret looked up at her. “It’s extraordinary how much is repressed inside us, isn’t it?” she said. “I sometimes wonder what we would be like if we blew it all out, once and for