Message-ID: <25353asstr$963911401@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: "seanfarragher" X-Original-Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Priority: 3 (Normal) X-MSMail-Priority: Normal Importance: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.50.4133.2400 Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6 hyperfiction Incest theme Date: Tue, 18 Jul 2000 05:10:01 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: english, dennyw From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel http://www.taximurders.com TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only. Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher Angela Mannino Leven Notebook dated February 6, 1993: Henry Whitman is exuberant and lean, but shows the wear of his age. I know at 49 he is not old, to my 36, nor is he. But 49 means less of what a woman calls that clasp of hands which mimic the clutch of a cunt. He wears that stiff back and tough upper lip like a mask. Some call him military, but he is not like my Dad, or the other self important righteous men I knew way back when who had courted me in that fine decadent way of the old south. Those men would fuck their daughters if they were given the chance, and the daughters would fuck back, if they thought their mothers were not looking, or maybe Mom wanted it that way, to relieve herself of that sacrifice of giving Dad sex or more importantly, gaining from him, rewarded by him for being alive at last. When I was younger all I wanted to do was fuck them. Now, I might laugh. They, unlike Henry, were tight not full, scarred with precision. They, and my Dad, were foremost, wanting to know how every screw, how every bolt hangs. They wanted to watch me come but would never acknowledge it. They would study my tits and I would show them how they had a plump side show (leaning over for the cleavage) and when they saw me, watch them, they turned their eyes away, my father was the worst offender, and how I wanted to feel the dingle dangle of their cocks against my skin when they would try to make me come in my fantasies. Yes, mine started deeply when I was nine. I had nipples then, and some hair. Men usually, ever since I was that nine, wanted to color me with their own designs, and never listen. Henry and my Aaron do hear my talking. They do live not for order nor are they champions of disorder. They make desire the form of both forming a flattened sphere like the image of the earth from the poles. Having both Henry and Aaron (the first I love and the second I desire) is not a doubling, but a flood or fields of sex with the math a sacred puzzle. Henry and Aaron are a swamp of sex, and make my feet shiver when I walk away, not knowing how or why I am confused. No, Henry doesn't live for order. He dances with disorder. And unlike Aaron, he doesn't want to bring the disorder of the universe (called entropy) back into order. Reverse the big bang sexually and as physics and philosophy. Henry can't help his West Point veneer. Sent down, as they say, he tolerated cheating. A mortal sin. Murder was less mortal. Interesting turn of phrase Yes, Henry has that stiff back, and tough upper lip that some call the myth of the jock. I call it cock. I know he can't help his West Point heroic veneer. He denied it. He claimed it protected him from arrogance, which made me snicker. Brainwashed, Henry would laugh, "I became the classic warrior with DSC pinned to my skin," he said. Part II No longer military, Henry dressed as any ordinary fifty-year- old child of the sixties. Worn jeans and tee shirt in summer. Jeans, sweater in winter. How can I ever joke, Angela laughed, softly. I'm cold blooded. Laurie's missing and we seek out another chapter of sex and nostalgia. We even create dear ghosts that resemble her. "He's pissed," I whispered, How dark. What song, his dirge. I can bear his soft touch on my ass, and the fuck knows I want him to push inside my cunt. So beautiful, heat. Estrus. No conscience. Animals bear it well. What puns I bury in the silent thing, my thought, as the bard would prophecy madness if I made my self come with just a thought, cool against my mouth. I did it years ago before I really knew what it all meant. I would imagine that black satin horse. I loved how he took the mare, out at the barn, where I hid, not allowed to watch. Mother said it was OK. Hands would have refused. I was supposed to be innocent, protected by their code. Yet, they spoke of me as a piece of ass. I heard. They forgot I spoke perfect French. Jacques, the oldest hand, actually rubbed the horse's cock to get him going. What a huge thing it blew. Wild sausage with a black skin. Noire EST beau. Fantasique, je pense. Do something, Henry. Stop rubbing my ass. I thought all of this before we got up. Made me think of Laurie, tracking backward. Henry's obsessed with the child. I should have protected him from her when she modeled at twelve. I knew she was a witch, a lovely one, and safe, not hurtful, just not the innocent maiden, nobody believed that, but he was taken in, a fifty year old veteran of war and death, like a child, in her lips, a teenager in bed or out. Laurie devoured Henry and Aaron and she had me alone or with them just by showing me how easily she could touch the surface of the water. Henry makes Aaron tame, although I like my artist more, but no man would ever perfect my act, and Henry's gentle; Aaron's rough, the opposite of what you might think. Now, Laurie was violent, and I am soft opposite. And her other egos: Sheila, Beatrice, and Ariel. Yes, love with them all, well she had more life, and not in prison, and no one can stop it. Can't they see she didn't murder them, and how did she survive? I admit I like it both ways. I suppose it's wonderful that Laurie's death pushed Aaron and I back with Henry within his blow. I waited for them to rain. What storms they bruised when limbs were fouled in the wings we collapse so bitter, as a shaken stick; its breeze was too much surf, as black night waves, white tipped, under the half moon, on a stony abandoned beach hidden away on an awful shore-- a place not born from this planet or any I could have known outside death. Sex was my abused star. It's an illuminated shore where the search for trapped names flies away as the kicking race of feet or a wooden ship struck magically as irony by the beach. The ship drowns, the spirit lives, and the man or yes, the woman, as I am, comes. More erotica and other works by Sean Farragher: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Sean_Farragher/ Sean Farragher Poetry Site: http://www.farragher.com TxM6 Sites: http://www.taximurders.com http://www.taximurders.com/enfer http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon http://www.taximurders.com/paradisio (forthcoming) -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+