Message-ID: <26209asstr$968249401@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 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.50.4133.2400 Importance: Normal Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6 EVIL as Intellect and Banality Date: Wed, 6 Sep 2000 10:10:01 -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: IceAltar, english, RuiJorge From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel http://www.taximurders.com/ (updated August 28, 2000) mirror site: http://www.txm6.com TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only. Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher. 0279XCGADAbelandLilth Number of words: 5016 The Diary of Antonio Joseph Corvino The Man Called Abel Saturday, August 14, 1987 NOTE: The Gadfly is a spiritual and personal inhabitant of some of the characters. Sometimes he can resemble a common house fly. He is neither good nor evil, male nor females, old nor young. He is never easy and never fair, but generally tells some of the truth ABEL: The Gadfly says that I am God's lost son. That's libel. I am not he. I am your arranged, planned, alleged kidnapper and rapist. I do not kill. Sister does that better than I do. She loves the folds of women's skin, "and the parade of a pregnant belly, protruding like a planetary necklace consumes the sky like uncommon madness." NARRATOR (The Gadfly): Do not deny yourself. Stand my wall and this watch. Identify the varieties of murder and death. Show yourself to be the honest sociopath. ABEL: What, how dare you. I am not crazy. GADFLY: I didn't say you were (Gadfly loved to bait ABEL). Let me see. You know wrong from right have a fine immoral character. You even skin careful the lips from the eyes, preserving the entire aspect of personality. How I enjoy your madness, yes my dear I provoked it. ABEL: I am not your queer. Don't fucken call me dear. GADFLY: Sir or Madam, I am neither man nor woman. Does it matter? What is gender? A blind accident? A darling calamity. What of it? I can kick the shit out of you just by laughing. ABEL: (Insistent) I am Antonio Joseph Corvino. I am twenty-eight years old and a Medical Student, someday a Psychiatrist; really, and continuing this litany, if you insist. My mother is Victoria Anne Bradford. Lilith murdered her mother in 1989. I watched. Mother had many children. Lilith murdered two of them. My sister was not my first but second lover. GADFLY: Not really I know all. Nothing can shock outside the anterior domain. What is that you ask? Do you want to know the residence of the rear end of the mind? It is there we twitch and derive the dubious pleasure of taking a good dump as in shooting our semen into a rare cunt for procreation. Think I am crass and obscene. An educated man could be different. I am. Just a pose. Watch the curl of my profile. ABEL: My father was James Albert Caine IV. Died the last day of Saigon, April 30, 1975. Now, they say he has been a POW and will be repatriated next week. It is now 1990. Caine was captured, held, died in prison. I heard he lead a charge against the NVA. A solitary soldier and an impossible grave. Does it matter? GADFLY: I read the letters. Don't bore me with all the details. So he was MIA, KIA; He won two CMH decorations. ABEL: Maria Corvino is my older sister and foster mother, I call her Lilith, but you cannot. I am her vessel. GADFLY: You think I give a fuck. ABEL: Only I know Lilith. Do not libel my names. I repeat that sanction. I am not the dance capital M for Murder. I am not that graceful, I am a liar, but that's a bit part, an ordinary sin, but its foundation, is that horizon, fake masterpiece, an undecided hue and texture, value and dimension. I said I could lie. Do you know the positions for truth in the last row of the cemetery? Here is a recent paper of mine. "One Element of Style: Erotic Maladjustment." By Anthony Joseph Corvino "What is the scale of the thing itself"? Beneath a repeated and singular dream, there are stacks of film carts, canisters. Like atoms, they cluster and the molecules, twinned crystals, when the image, as Ezra Pound preached, or as William Carlos Williams dictated: the thing itself: "say it, no ideas but in things," like unbearable Triple A or Double D, gender free breasts [stop being nice, I really mean tits, when music, or its void, no matter how ordinary, classical or corrupt, the cleavage pressed home, restless, invincible, as any sexual mouth soft and moist and fat fingers filled with fast breath and the sad remains, not after birth, really, but that which is transposed somewhere. Add to the mix, what? Sexual spectacle will keep parallel what was not, within where you were once. LILITH: You're my second witness stroking the inside of Antonio's thigh, reckless, without care, or concern. It doesn't matter who watches, does it? GADFLY: Who was first? None were; what, Antonio sat there, bemused, Immaculata, he sighed; LILITH: Sometimes, I don't like you. GADFLY: OK. But why? LILITH: You have no eyes and you play deceptive. GADFLY: You mean, I was invisible. LILITH: Yes, and what you did was selfish, unbearable. You refused to let me touch my own tits. You said they needed to grow without stimulation. You tied my hands up so I could not masturbate. My mother wanted me to learn. You had no fucken right. GADFLY: I thought if you did that you would not murder like your sick mother. How did I know? LILITH: Measure them now. Feel them. Turn me on before I did. Lilith lifted her tits, first, uneasy, took quick breaths, poised for flight, puckered and rouged, and then suddenly, taking up the stretch. Is that wrong, crossing the street sign? Where is the Glide path? I heard it was five miles north on the inverted highway as she takes out clothes pin (the kind with a spring) and clips them on to her nipples and the Gadfly's nose, and that beak like appendage promptly changes into a cock. II. Antonio & Maria (ABEL AND LILITH) [Internal Monologue without regard to person] But you must catch them. He did. Here, Maria caught on, flushed, red faced, restless, take this, reciting again the poem he had written. It's good, she said. What is, he asked. Your hands. No, your mouth. Wait, I have none. Can't tell the difference. What touched them? Great spirits. They invest you. That's why. Why. Larger, right? Sure, don't be nervous, Maria said. Holds it all together. Yes, rewind. Pause. Record. Drag it away, edit, and that's all I dreamed. Make up the rest. You can't remember it! How can you? No nipples? Let me paint them. We can't pause in the middle of failure or speed up within success. There were middle range boundaries, of course, like simple-minded romantic sentiments, should be sediment. No, We waste floral effusions, and the pleasure wafts in the pace, as if you can concentrate pain in a spray or as glue, or maybe as the wild spit passing as lubricant. Don't ask? Here. Pull it. Spare change, yes. It was thrown about as grass seeds, as cheap curses, to refurbish. No leftovers. Use up the paint, and now, we transfer the codes, and mark the negatives. Movies are fluff and truth, and good bedfellows, at least for an instant, when we split the atom as antecedent whim slashed from conclusion. Look at her cleavage, again layers. Precedent before aftershock. Doesn't seem really right, now, does it. Who said she couldn't walk away, before the shots. Applause. Publicity. Media attention. Dirt, as we struggle, as we drink, before the steps, as we stagger away, not drunk, but there was a blur, and when she stood above the mouth, mine and Maria, open, expectant like small birds, pecking with the source, eager, and Mother chooses, as Mum did. Beg, she said, and we rolled on the bed. Maria gestured, as she lifted her bare tits, folding them in my hands, pressing her mouth into my lips, as she danced holding me up, balanced in her arms, open mouthed, she kissed, flushing her tongue through my milk. Now, Lift up, sweet stuff, Mum said, separate. Lift pull up arms. Twist, crawl, life, shift; keep the deaths down, we said. Lift, exercise, one, two, three, four. Pause. Lift 'em up, dear, got to get 'em to fit right, now honey, I say, and no, please ...say it was a hallucination and be off with you. Inside the flood, what? No water, just damp moss. Here's my late map, - notice, the non-symmetrical grid. Standing up, quickly, the subject, Maria, 25 years, turned her back, and screamed, when the music became uneventful, almost too noisy, she said to hear. What. The inside. I want the core, she said. I have one you know. I want my name. She said the word name, and the dream stripped itself. I am naked, opening her palms, and spreading her legs, sitting down, falling back, lifting her legs, opening the pocket, and then turning her head away, shy, ashamed. We are exploited. With the beat, Maria gestured. Raised up finally. What a melodramatic faint after all. He was frothing on the map. How did he do that and rest so easy. (Music changed. Resonant. Calm. No incidents). Nothing false struck the mask today. We were peaceful, and when the cops gathered to protest the daily demonstration. Herein, Alma Mater. College Walk, east to west, suddenly turned left, standing, upon the podium, Barnard on the right, Amsterdam Avenue on the left, facing Burgess Carpenter Library, on the sixth floor, rush up the stairs, Maria was chased, and then relieved, as the blessed priest, lifted his finger, and bless the crowds. , Weighed down, we paused. Pointed on her toes. Graceful. Here's her list of words carefully crafted. I've weighed them, and then my dear Maria stirred her cheek, turned away too fast, haughty, teased, vibrant, and outside the stems, while cut flowers, striking blues and reds, gray even, no, there wasn't a toss from the wings. Nothing stood in the way. No boundary. Flat. Same. Then when tension spoiled. No, not that easy noise, some other scratch, when the summer had its awful face, and then dragons drew her wings, she jiggled, sashayed, circled, dangle breasts as a paradox of Swing, when feet were a crowd, tangled, as hundreds and then ten thousand, splashed as vague spasms, lifted up, the breast flung forward, as the child, proudly struts, chest out, one, two, one, two, three, four. Poised confusion. 3. ABEL In the nightmare Maria was ten and I was much older, which is not the case. Three lines of travelers, perhaps robots, weave down the bramble out off the incline, thrown forward down the ravine. Come closer. Whisper. Open. Pause. Let me undress your blouse. I really didn't ask. I was her guide. She was now eight, younger, sexy, out of control. Sister Lilith was a weed, darted, Watch the stallions cut inside, outside, the mares, twist, and dust rising out of the cloud opens as bush of lilies, when the white, browns, reddens, and the dirt, stirred from the bottom of the silt, keeps the stream, opened, and closed. Fall down. Stampedes of fair horses, and tumbling along the ridge, the canyon of the deep beneath the screams, as all dreams, are alone, petrified within the brine, dried, and drifting replacing carbon with silica schemes. You cannot step out of a dream you know. It washes the beach and blanched, the clear washed sky drifts into the swart ink, and what was opened, closed, what was possible, is singed held back. Herein, the theory of dreams, particulate, detritus, waste, as a scam. Murder has its own shoes. Are you listening? 4. In August, 1970, at a desolate sea island beach, waves high, surf heavy, half hidden in swamp grass, higher up the dune, my mother, half sister, Maria, and I imagined I watched my half brother, Edward, who runs a Strip joint strangle his father, Edward L. Wyman. You are full of shit. Father died in the war, taken out by a Communist sniper. In August of 1944, the clouds were thin, translucent, and the hazy hot spot sky made everything red for a moment, beyond yellow, as the victim fell, dark madder on his knees. Strict sand ramparts collapse. No, that's not it. Imagine, you were a sand castle, and out of bounds. Who's chasing whom? Look around. There's a man on a horse. He hides his hands, and leaps, over the dark railings, circling down the finely sharpened edge of the two-dimensional lighthouse tower. Two terns dance; seem to get a long, as the dice click, twice. They have three concentric walls, four levels, details, fluting, and inner cunt and balls as ribs, decorations, and then a loop of rope, trailing out of the noose. Above the silica and beyond the fingers and palms, you step up, and resist the falling sky, and light held up, resisting, as if the dike were six miles thick, and when air, loosened, and the heart reached upward, as if to take inside one last blush of air, and nothing closed. For the next six hours, we butchered the 6 foot 1, 210 lb. man, and most of his remains were buried at sea three miles off Fripp Island, SC. Mum did keep femurs, skull, and genitals as souvenirs. We buried the skull and his sexual parts in Mum's herb garden. Boiled, cleaned and pulverized, we use the larger bones fragments as gravel for our 50-gallon salt-water fish tank. I remember the quiet when Maria butchered Edward's thing, as she put it. She said, it was a small thing, but an honor bestowed. I laughed, and said it was just something to do. Mom sighed. When sober, he surely used it Mum often spoofed with us from her dreams. Maria said. Uncle's murder was just one example. Tune in later for coming attractions. Is he dead, I asked, then? Yes, but it was a dream, she said. Did we do it, I asked? Yes, we did, but no, we didn't take his life. He murdered himself. It had the dream of death, and we assisted. Fascinated we became part of the cast, and coincidentally, just before Mum's murder, which was another story, sitting Indian style, in a half circle, Mum said consider dreams, and we did. You didn't really murder anyone, then, I asked? No, we did. He's dead. It really didn't happen, I asked, now, did it? A dream is ephemeral and haunting, Mum said, but don't worry, it's not substantial. Years later, after Mum's death, I inherited the fish tank, and inspired, I retrieved Uncle Edward's skull, cleaned it, and used it as a cast for a small bronze mask Maria wore while we made love. This masks make it clean, she said, clear, and more intense. I focus better and really seem detached from self. 5. The End? By Antonio, prose poem, first draft. EPIGRAM: "Ordinary skin floats, seems full of air, as my hands flatten, bleed, and then simply decay, like a fire, when the coals, cold, are blown by the dust across the clearing when the livestock enter the pasture." Antonio Corvino: I have always been six years younger than my sister Maria. I was never jealous. In 1975, when I was eleven, I pushed Merry, my sister's two-year-old first child, Meredith, down the large central stairwell. Merry was not really hurt, although she had cried, but I knew it before it happened. Always did. Like a movie in my head two seconds out of sequence. Why? She was there. I knew endings. Could consult timetables. I wanted to watch her out of balance, struggling to catch her, in the brevity of the fall. Slow motion. Meredith was not really hurt. At least, she didn't die. No ambulance came. Bruises, I was told. Another Back Story: When Antonio was one, his mother Victoria masturbated her son, sucking on his penis after he nursed. Sometimes, Antonio's seven-year-old sister, Maria would milk his thing, as Mama directed, and while Mama nursed the boy, he never cried. Antonio told Maria, years later, How he dreamed himself as mother and child, sister and brother, lover and infant. He saw herself alive [what a curious thing to think or say]; Maria told him she agreed, and that's what Mama said. Mama, Maria had asked, did I kill the goldfish, which had cooked one hot summer day, after a brief vacation. Did you feed them from your breast, Mama said? No, I answered. I fed them fish food, silly. No, that's not the same. They are not you. We could kill them. Can I kill my brother, Antonio, Mama? I fed him. He fed you, dear, don't you remember. Just so you can know, after I had Merry, and had milk, I made Antonio nurse. He was eleven. Didn't really mind. One night he said he had been glued there, and couldn't let go. I let him sleep. My tit fell out, and the milk wouldn't stop running until he woke, and I placed it back in his mouth. Maria & Antonio: I am angry and jealous. From the age of 14, after our mother was killed, Maria protected us. I became more than the father of her children, and a partner. I am old when I was very small, Maria helped my mother Victoria take sexual liberties. We certainly did afterwards. In 1957, when Maria was born, mother Victoria was thirty. Maria helped her mother with Abel (born in February, 1964), and sure, Maria knew her mother. Maria had class, Antonio later said. She was tall, and somewhat dominant herself. Antonio liked to play the double game. Maria and I were always partners. One day Victoria dressed and fed, cleaned, another day, Maria cuddled, simpered, and seduced. Pleasure was the air. I called Maria, Sister-Mummy. When she gave birth to Meredith, she would nurse daughter and child. When Maria's first child, Meredith was hurt, after that serious fall down the stairs when she was two, Maria blamed Victoria not Antonio. What would have happened had Maria know that the eleven year old Antonio had let the child out of the crib, and when she walked to the edge of the stairs, he pushed her down them, walking away, down the other stairs, out into the back yard, giving the appearance that he wasn't home all afternoon. MEREDITH IS NOT REAL! Finally coming home with buddies, what happened, why the ambulance, who got hurt? All of us are suffering. Oh no, and the act completed, Maria asked how Meredith get out of her crib and out the latched door, she asked? Couldn't. Did you help Meredith, Maria asked ten-year-old Antonio? She is not real, you Stupid ass. You got to be kidding. No, of course, you couldn't, you were with your friends, and I saw you come back. From that day forward mother and daughter never trusted the other. Antonio laughed. He knew what had happened, and wished he could run away, anywhere. Maria was smart, and also savvy, Antonio told his brother; She's no fool. Unusual connection. Antonio let Maria have her way and the sister would back off from the brother. Sure, when he was older, Able would initiate the sex, beating her ass good. One year, when he was seventeen, Antonio bought Maria a huge strap on black dildo as a birthday present for Maria. Antonio kept it himself for a month before giving it. He kept it with his prize collection of silk underwear, bras, and corsets stolen from a French factory. Sure, Antonio laughed, she'd fuck him in the ass, call him a miserable queer fuck, and then pee in his mouth. Antonio actually believed, when he was tied up (Maria shaved his pubic hair), that Maria would cut his cock off, as she threatened him with a large knife. Out on the town, Maria and Antonio were more than matched. Hunting for all sorts, men, women, men and women, children, they would pool resources, bait and switch, haunting gay, lesbian and S&M bars, picking up whomever fit their nightly scene. Dragging the willing, and sometimes no so willing back to their lair, they did what they could, or their guest/victim would allow. Rape was not out of the questions. Once, in they beat a woman, Hannah Kay Coffield, to death when she refused Maria after Antonio had his way with her. Hannah knew the score. She laughed when they told her they worked as a team. Who do you want? I'm no bleeding queer she said, but you can watch, if you like, you fucken perverts. What a night she kept saying almost to the end. It was April, the drunken women said. I love Spring. After Antonio finished, Hannah's head seem to clear, and she asked to be taken home. Where am I. Fucken, NJ, the tall, woman said. Shit. Did you like the show? I am fucked up, she said, and when Maria helped her on with her coat, while Antonio watched from the couch, Maria kissed the woman, who started to respond, and then pulling back, said, you are good looking, and I like you both, but I'm fucken beat, maybe another time, and Maria not appreciating No, held Hannah while Antonio struck her down. OK, she said. No, too late, and Maria hit the woman twice, and falling down, ripped off her blouse, and sucked her breasts, and then lifting up her ass, fingered her cunt, smelling her brother's come, and picking up an artist knife, she stabbed her belly, then her neck, and bleeding, she beat her face and head until she didn't move. Antonio stood stone-faced, doing nothing, as the woman died. That'll teach her, and then grabbing a dildo, she had strapped on, she fucked the woman, who bled to death, unconscious, when Antonio came again, in his sister's mouth, as she sucked while she fucked, and afterwards in the calm, they carried the dead woman down the stairs into the back of their truck. Silent, invisible, Antonio and Maria buried the woman woman's bones in a well, underneath the concrete fallout shelter built in 1948 by Antonio's Uncle, Frightened, they cut up flesh, and then flushed the small pieces down the toilet after grinding it in Maria's sausage maker. At first, they reacted out of fear. Finally, they kept the sausage, froze it. The bones were boiled into soup, and the remnants save, collected, buried, dropped in the river, or lake. They never disposed of the bones in the same place. They never murdered nine between April and November 1990. Killing became life. What we did, our passion, Antonio said, and whoever said a woman couldn't match a man. She shows far less grief. I truly don't care either once they are dead. While they live, if they are pretty, and cooperate, or don't cooperate, then I feel some remorse, although I wouldn't use that strong a word Regret may be a better word. Antonio and Maria seduced many men and women. They would enroll some of them in their bisexual antics. Not murder or mayhem. Just run of the mill rough sex. Sometimes, they went too far, and then, the feeding frenzy would make them almost kill each other as well as the victims. They never completely crossed the line, but the new the rage was possible. They protected each other as kept outsiders, far away, except when they were trapped, and bagged, as Lilith like to say. Rung up for dessert, she'd laugh at Antonio. Antonio knew she would take care of him. Hookers and pimps are dysfunctional, but they are lonely and rarely can find someone who will help them feel less apart from themselves. Maria had turned one of her girl friend's pimps into the police, a fact that Antonio approves. Like some pimps, Antonio and Maria dealt drugs but didn't use coke or freebase. What Maria didn't know was that Antonio, while a taxi driver, in college, had been a police undercover informer. The cops knew him, but if there was any suspicion, Antonio never worried; he falsely believed he had certain "perks." Maria couldn't resist Antonio. He was dark brown, handsome, articulate, and could make her do whatever. He had eyes reached into you; he would twist her arm, and she would do anything he said, willingly. Maria never resisted. She followed his lead. Antonio symbolized what she never wanted but couldn't resist. Like the times Maria's mother held her against her much older brother's cock, and then grunted while she was forced to sleep. Maria was nine. Edward had crawled into bed; pull down her pajama bottoms, reached under her nightshirt pinch her invisible breasts while he rubbed his cock against her ass. At first Maria who was three, liked the attention. She had sex with Edward every day until she was fifteen. Sometimes, her mother Victoria would join. OK she said, and her life seemed to stop. Maria even let her youngest sister, Catherine explore. The children and adults would wind their lives on the sheets making marks and spilling ghosts. At first when Maria played, she pretend to sleep, then after a while, she would open her eyes and pretend she had no idea what she was doing. Edward never fucked her. He only rubbed against her ass and pussy with his cock making her legs messy. Later in her life when she saw the stains come made on the sheets, she wondered why her mother never discovered what had happened. What Maria didn't know was that her mother knew, but kept it a secret, hoping it would go away. It didn't disappear. If she didn't suck him off, he would beat her legs and back until she made him come. Most of the time he didn't have to force her. When she was thirteen it started to feel good. Antonio reminded Maria of her Father, Edward. She feared and loved the attention. One time just before leaving home, she watched her Father when he left the closet door open, and Maria watched Johnny Meyers fuck his mother. Join them she thought. Maria knew she had to leave the old family and join the new, but where could she stay. It's either money or sex. I know what I want she said. Some older guys from her job at the supermarket. They always joked with Maria, begging her to go out. She likes one of them, but she also didn't want to leave her brother. My father is invisible she said. Mom says he's a gay, fuck Men, so do I, and I am clean. Maria was afraid of how her brother could hurt her Mother. Maria liked the attention. But she hated hurting her Mother. Killing her mother, smiling at her, was as Lilith told Abel the greatest pleasure of her life. My other great pleasure was the murder of two our weaker siblings my dear brother Abel. Maria wondered why her Mother did not accept what she had to know had been happening all these years. Seems she wanted my ass for sale. Antonio wanted more than Maria. He hated women. He loved to take their money. In jail he had fucked several queens in the ass. He protected one, and in return she would suck him off. Sometimes, he wondered if he had turned, he started to imagine women with cocks, and it turned him on. He loved porno movies. He was as fascinated by the cock sucking and huge cocks. How they were stuffed in a mouth. Antonio felt the tug and pull. Two directions at once. Antonio would imagine a man, with a huge cock. He had breasts, a soft face, and dressed in silk corsets and support. He fucks his Bitch in the ass, and inverts her sex. In jail, he'd fuck some screaming queen in the ass and imagine it was his bitch. He'd beat the faggot's ass black and blue. He'd beat Maria black and blue. She loved it. The Queers loved it. All violence, for Antonio, used the pretext of sex as a medium. Antonio loved watching "Slope" bondage films, as he called them. Some Jap broad was tied with a thousand yards of heavy rope. Her ass was full. Maria, or whomever Antonio imagined, had her cunt broken open and her ass bloodied. Her mouth was stuffed with pee and shit. She didn't resist. Antonio came all over her mouth, face, made her gag. He beat her until the welts, raised, were rough and hot to the touch. Her backside, tits, and cunt suffered the same abuse. Afterwards, in prison, he'd kick the crap out of some faggot kid doing the job. Tides do turn. Eighteen months without a lady can turn any of us, Antonio feared. He never completely turned like some cons. He never willingly sucked anyone off, or give a quick turn around, while be sucked off. He'd kick ass before he would allow himself to be butt-fucked. Two black dudes beat the crap out of him, pulled his pants down. One raped his ass, and then a prison guard broke his nightstick when over Antonio's back. Antonio couldn't believe the punishment. Antonio did think of Maria while he was raped. He wanted her as well as a huge black cock surrounded with soft pink tits. Milky tits even. Big tits and ass. Fat women. Huge, rolling over him breaking his back, beating his face with their cocks while he sucked their tits and cocks. Making them come. Swallowing. Huge black and brown women with enormous tits and telephone poll cocks. In the movies, his mind directed the scenes. Blood, piss, shit, come rubbed everywhere at once. Young, old, passive, violent. Being beaten and hurting back. Why both ends. Antonio was confused. He couldn't separate the soft from the hard, his mother's sex, the parts beneath the hair from the womb from his penis or his hidden ass. Mum was my skin and I was her nerve, he often said of Victoria. Too bad Maria wasn't as strong. She would curse me for saying that, I know. It's true just the same. And my how she planned it all. I was certainly a willing partner although when we have sex now, it's ordinary. Nothing raw or out of balance, revealing as a silk shirt worn wet on a barstool. Something more than naked is being fully clothed in our own ego and its dissolution. ------- Comments appreciated seanfarragher@msn.com More American Adventures in erotica and other works by Sean Farragher: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Sean_Farragher/ Sean Farragher Poetry Site: http://www.farragher.com (updated 9/4/2000) TxM6 Sites: http://www.taximurders.com http://www.taximurders.com/enfer http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+