Message-ID: <26132asstr$967720203@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: "Sean Farragher" 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 Sexual Ocean of Angela Leven Date: Thu, 31 Aug 2000 07:10:03 -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: newsman, IceAltar 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 1083XAngelaNotes Notes from August 22, 1991 Angela Leven: I live by whim and spontaneous reflection. In the first lovely touch of fervor, I live inside my throat, making love with some real or imaginary man or woman. It could be a casual eye, breast, ass or lips that I track. Object doesn't matter. Only the flavor of passion remains after completion. It is like the ocean tide brushing against your body in a storm. Pushing back you fight it, and thrown about by the waves you either fall deeper into death or ride the wave until your heart racing trembles at the oblivion of watching the twirl of the inner waves throughout your loins. Looking back at that near death you smile. What have you escaped you ask yourself? Returning to an old sex night madness you are caught by that shudder before and after you stop and start your heart. How I love the after sex taste in my mouth like the ocean on my skin. How tender and deadly is passion like the storm that leans your body into the tide pool or swallows birth again. Does it make your life truly silent in the deep? What happens when that excitement blurs between you and your lover? That usually happens in myself first. Hands tingle, burn, and then I shake them and my mouth opens, barely, and my sweet lips taste dry rubbing themselves into my inner lips, as I have stopped too soon (or wait too long) my moist lips steam above desert when ocean waves run my ass down, taking the cheeks into my palms, caressing them too easily, whacking my skin, driving the pitch of my legs higher to pump the sea and polish the ribs of the shells where the sand stuns heaven while lying about weather forecast and fucking predicted. While I rise across Aaron's lap, I do not resist the walls, and I take his thing inside my hands swallowing thick fingers making his balls drift inside out as I drain his cock inside mouth and cunt, letting my tongue tip to the semen, finally grabbing my eyes, raging down the tunnels of the every abandoned beach, careening left and right, screaming at naked men and masked women blocking song or sight when taking hold of Henry, as my men change back to the other. Yes, I have my masks wanting them, myself, to fall inside while I suck my own cunt (wouldn't that be wonderful to know thy own slippery skin) When I was sixteen I watched super eight movies of my mother fucking three big black men. She wore a mask and bore a whip. Father was under her foot. My dear father the Admiral was being fucked in the ass by some dark dildo while mother watched him sucking cock. Was this my imaginary video or some storyboard I conjured out of Aaron's fantasy to have Henry and myself inside him? There on the curb I sat alone, my legs apart, underpants open, and my cunt shining. I was fifteen brazen wanting the neighbor boy to watch me play with it. I want to teach him how but when I lifted my skirt he passed away. I watch my imaginary movies too long. I watched my father tumble through the waves when I was twelve feeling his hands on my soft new breast and not wanting him to stop. I wanted to tell mother to find out if it were ok to have him. I didn't want to steal the Admiral. I was a precocious brat with dark hair and sweet tits. Last year when I was alone, when Aaron was in trouble with life, wanting too little, I stopped wishing for the circus of sex and wanted just the easy merry go round of a casual fuck with my Aaron and more with Laurie and Henry. I wanted it simpler. I didn't want to pick up men in strange bars, seduce them into easy morning sketches and then ravishing them drunk as we both could become. That life became too hard. Have you ever walked at idle, barely moving and you bump into someone you want to know. I met my mother again that way. Of course, not my real mother, but a woman I took as one. She seduced me at the bar and we were mouth to mouth in no time. She was older and had rougher skin and had those deep lips I love to kiss. I called her mother, and she laughed. Said back to me that I am not sure if I am your mother. Perhaps, my dear she said, any mother or father is a drag. I saw a picture of an ancient relative. I imagined he was fucking my mother. I came up to him pulled on his prick and asked my turn and he vanished into dust. Not sure if that was a drug nightmare or some other darker hallucination. August 22, 1991 Returning to the beach, tuning in illogical fantasies, return to camera one and my imaginary beach lovers drift across the plumb of the waves, surfing bright umbrellas, as I seize my sex in my palm, and break open the rib and eyes just for myself. Imagine if Aaron (or Henry) could know my cunt as I do. They would jerk off forever, entranced. Whet if they knew my belly, breasts, and nipples as I wore them, spun into gristle and the sinew that demands one, two dreams, and then more. Henry never takes my fake cunt any more. He knows it is female but I insist it is a cock and he stops, feeling the prick simulate a hole, and he doesn't fear it but moves into it like I am fucking him. When the boys are there, and fully engaged as younger men, it is Aaron, who turns into some mad transsexual thing. I am not too kind to the inter-sex. I push Aaron back and tell him he cannot be a woman and if he did he would be ugly. He says I cannot be a man and would be a hideous man. I am ugly I tell him. Look at my pores magnified in space. All details leave us cold you know. We need to post the grit and gray maps of every stark face that wanders the shadows of some other hope. Do I digress too easily into sex for you boys, listen, you know I want all the pages to be burned with the acid of my cunt. How sleek it is you know to feel the envelopes of my sex unfurling. I am mesmerized you know. August 24, 1991 Recalling a distant memory. My eyes were always looking down the tunnel where time started. I never looked forward as a child, always backward to a more primitive place. I had dreams of being taken when I was fourteen by a beast. He had a human mouth but the parts of a giant. I had no idea about the dimensions of a cock. I was 11 when it all started. I had seen my father's cock and some boys I knew. I wanted if you pardon the phrase a humdinger. When I was sixteen I had a male friend who wanted to be a girl. I dressed him up and made him fuck me like a dog. I made him bark, and kiss me with lipstick over his cock; he kissed me back with his own shade of violence. I loved the way this gentle freak played with my hands. He played my hands. He made music when I breathed. Now, and when I dream, I have no mercy drilling through it all, worn down, not truly satisfied. Sure I came if that's the criterion. I am not sure if I know the exact path where I walked with that imaginary childhood boy now a handsome younger man, but I appreciated his attention, and the ease by which I drift from that to this, between that recent swollen mouth and the memory of how easy children pluck each other, unmaking terror into a scheme for death or not. I am finally defeated you know, Henry. I cannot lift myself out of your kiss. I am finally satisfied Aaron, you have driven my ass into my weeping, and the tears after come with bliss for an anthem. Stare, I yell. Love doesn't hear it. I sing. He moves away. I take him in hand, and he growls, driving my back into the chair, couch, bed. It really doesn't matter where? When I am there deeply inside, it's usually late in the evening, after working hard, twisting metal, making silver into shells, and I look around at the signs, I feel a greater threat, while sun shelters my skin, and I wearing my full, darker eyes, hold my lovers over edge. My words appear serene, easy, and invisible as I twine inside his skin, doubling him. When I leap forward, I soar. Perpetual distance. Every event, more disturbed, as I meander between dysfunction and delirium: taste my hands I say. Suck my eyes. Rest inside my mouth. They respond, wanting what is not, frustrated by the distance between terror and satisfaction. Meanwhile, I use them to leap forward, bridging that great leap forward, as the Chinese and Russians predicted in their endless ten-year plans. My plans are less formidable. I want to soothe that ache brought into my mouth by first the tongue, then fingers. I want to show it off, expose it, watch them watch my belly tremble, legs laughing in wonderfully obscene yes. Yes takes it all on, and when they look inside lip upon lip, crater upon dune, into the muddle, feeling the internal ribs, then the cervical cap, pushing against my flutter, tasting the sweet pee as if I could control it, I descend from their eyes, and do myself, watching my own mouth swallow my cunt while first Aaron and then Henry watch. I want the spectacle. I want to be used as wings bear trees from the field to the pond. One seed and I am full. One seminal drink and I have faked that blush too long. I kept it as a medal, and when swept up in my own passion as I drink myself, lick my lips, split my cunny into ocean and then marsh, I dance inside in my own salt, bashful, almost ill. It was the risk myself that I, Angela wanted, and like my other spirit, Tina Louise, also known as Christina, an entity, special to myself, I pause while I watch the heat unbalance on the pavement. That is the heat of sex wasted. Christina is my God of sex. Is she real or fabricated? Does it matter? What is real and what is false today. Every word has another side bar. No one knows what it is forever. Christina came down on my eyes with her mind. I smelled her cunt pressing against my inner ear. I felt the rage and tough gristle of her clit and she walked out of the cave that had collapsed safe. All dreams are simple when you play them out not as stories but impressions. Fake them. After all, are we not more fake than real. Isn't that true Christina? You dear God are the biggest quack, and your clit doesn't even warble as a soprano on the other side of alto. What the fuck do I mean Henry? All I want is to get laid and here I am at the fucken beach making friendly ghosts shiver with my bad lines. 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+