Message-ID: <41002asstr$1045861806@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: "Sean Farragher" X-Original-Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Priority: 3 (Normal) X-MSMail-Priority: Normal Importance: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1106 X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Fri, 21 Feb 2003 10:20:38 -0500 Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Taxi Murders the Novel Chapter109 Forced Journal -- Raped at 9 Date: Fri, 21 Feb 2003 16:10:06 -0500 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: gill-bates, dennyw If you have missed any parts of Taxi Murders the Novel, they are archived on ASSM -Google and at my web site. I welcome feedback in email. sfarragher@nj.rr.com Chapters 1-110 are available at my site. Updates will be posted at least weekly. Thanks, Sean http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook Taxi Murders the Novel -- Chapter 109 Raped at 9 (c) 2003 Sean Farragher sfarragher@nj.rr.com http://www.seanfarragher.com http://www.seanfarragher.com/Joss http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook Forced Journal of Laurie Fallon: Know this. My journal is true. I can't be creative. If it wasn't, they'd kill me. If I don't write it every day, they will kill my baby when it is born in June. Have you ever watched a video tape of an actual murder? Taped my eyes open the first time. Second time I promised to to watch without blinking. I cried without apparent tears. They want sex and cums. I must write it down like I love it or she beats me. Dare I tell her that spanking turns me on. I have always loved to be fucked up with restraints. I have to admit it isn't bad. I am a sick fuck. First Entry. 30 April? When I was ten, chased by men with white dark eyes, I submitted. Drawn to their landscape, they created my body; made it theirs. No one including my mother protected me from that distortion. No one expected I'd want more than indistinct pleasure. I loved giving pleasure. I took it back and felt it concentrate in my fingertips. Exposed to the electricity of semen I fell down my hair matted, I drooled like their leaking cocks. I cowered in dream and fact and pretended to desire what they felt. They only saw how I felt and not what my memory tarnished as I grew inside that awful guilt passed down. Handed vibrator and dildo by mother and lovers, I made men, women and artifacts as tools of compelling perversity. This is ex-post facto commentary. It is how I see it now in 1992. When I was a child, there was only the light on the stage; my imagination made the porno tapes and the crooked, myself included, weak. They became this new scripture that I crave and create with these journals. Bullshit always wins when a child plays, but now, no longer the child I yearn for the wisdom of unanticipated and unplanned play. I want that spontaneity. Therapists say I was created and then erased into zero and now I need to be reconstructed. I disagree. I am the complex and vital line of my story. Sense the texture of my sex under your mouth. Imagine faceless men and my mother looming over my beds. See how they open my hole and I smile with a faraway glance telling the fucker not to hurt me. He does, and nothing I can do will stop his one finger from pumping where I am not open. On night when I was taken, manipulated to satisfy, and to learn that "no" is not my word, my sexual partners could not reach. They could not chew or lick. I satisfied myself, but I hid in cardboard boxes and endlessly rubbed until the pink skin just shone. As an act of remorse I spit out the pieces of cocks I suckled semen. I constructed collages made of unkempt lips and broken teeth. Their lives, not mine, distorted. I felt sex as a stew when bits of hair, lube and spit ran down my chin. In the curdling blood eye sunrise raped as I came, legs buckled and my heart heavy and uncomfortable frightened me, thinking I was going to die from that fast heart, riding over the edge, falling down, my cunt opened: red-pink and throbbing I was a loner as the ache inside subsided. Of course, I am merging my adult sexual life with these memories. I have to tell them this. It is the truth. What I actually remember was lightness. I liked it. I would masturbate for hours without anyone present. I would find my cunt at the oddest times, as it was open now, I stuffed it with sticks, vegetables and a Barbie doll. In school, I would push the plastic hands inside first so it scratched. Talking to teachers I would laugh and close my eyes and when they asked what's the matter, I told them "My Barbie dolls missed me. I am a good Mama. Do not believe any of this. Every one is true. I like the contradiction of fiction and non-fiction. I demand to know: what makes pleasure actual? What are reasonable distinctions? Given the history of my abuse, why did I feel pleasure? How could I? Is there a distinction between abuse and cuming? As I write, why do I pause in the act? Listen to desperate screams. Have I accepted silences? Yes, I know I must pause to breathe. Can I be open, reveal everything in the grit of truth? Does confession protect the innocent as well as the victims? Do I abuse when I remember it and want it again. I stop myself, but once when I changed the diaper of my two year old daughter, I opened her. I did it once, and she giggled. I can never forget it. I rationalized. This is Billy's girl. He made me pregnant when I was 18. Mother tells everyone it is hers. When I nursed her that summer after she was born, I loved it. Mama helped. She got herself started used a breast pump. When I dried out, she took over and I was jealous. I stopped doing coke then. First night out I got laid by this drunk small time rocker. He hardly came. I sucked him for hours and he did nothing for me. I got to know his pee hole, and I was so wrecked I imagined that he sucked me into his balls and when I was there I made him scream while I tighten my hands around them and ripped them off. As I thought of my daughter, back home, I let him shoot me with shit. I stopped nursing the next day. Mama stopped smoking. Why couldn't I stay away from fucked up men and getting high? I realized I was a piece of shit. 2. At fourteen, I chased boys just to find out where they began and ended. When I was seventeen I sucked cock for drugs and didn't mind that the scum running down my beautiful chin sometimes stained my usual white shirt a darker yellow than the unpainted wall in my room. Shit, I am 26, but I feel as if I am always 12 watching that shit Billy jerk off in the shower. Yea, he made me watch. He promised not to fuck me if I watched him let the "creepy coils," as I thought of them, run down the back of his hands or -- my hands -- and on to his legs. Once I told this shrink that when I want to come I have to think of that fucker Billy for some stupid reason. I also told that mother fucking money-grubbing quack that I think about dying every day. No, the "therapist" as Momma called him was not that bad. Shit, he made me laugh sometimes, and he never came on to me even when I told him that he turned me on, and I just unrolled my legs and he laughed and said that it would not happen and that I should get a grip on my life, and that every man in the world doesn't just want to fuck your ass up. I cried when the psycho shrink told me that lie. I cried when I told him how Mama let Billy fuck me. She didn't care that I hated him, and that I only did it so she would not cry and whine how Billy paid the bills, and saying over and over again what Mama needed. I went along and strange as it seems it got better, and Billy got some great drugs, and Mama slept all the time, and in a few years, I was the Mama with Billy, and I didn't mind when he pimped my ass or photographed me sucking cock or jerking off on what he called a mother humping candid camera. I even became friends with Billy. I did. Years Later, Billy got arrested for stealing cars and got sent up to State Prison, I was the only one who visited him. Seems odd that I cared doesn't it. How did I become the mother to the man? I was seventeen and he was forty and we just didn't understand the world, and really at the end of it, when Mama was sent to the nut house, and Billy and I lived together, it was almost Ok. Was I happy, really, but no, at least I could watch life and feel myself grow older and shit I never believed anyone was happy. I am afraid of being happy. I do not want it all. I want to feel like what I do matters, but does it? 3. Last year, when I took that class at Columbia I felt almost alive. I remember the professor asked us to write about fear as it applies to suffering in Crime and Punishment. Yea, I am a smart girl. Bet you thought all I knew was how to suck cock or smoke rock. No, I know things. I wrote that I fear being happy. "When you are happy, your life is over. There can be nothing more. Happiness twists inside out when you know it. Happiness becomes terror. It is easier to enjoy pain than to wonder when the pleasure will end." 4. Have I been honest here? Have I? Yeah, I fear the words I write here. I fear the temptation to love. If I love perhaps fear and pain, love and pleasure will find their more ordinary balances, and what will I have then. Fucking nothing. On other days, sometimes, and this is why life is worth it, I love the quiet as I write down one word by another phrase. I cut those words into my skin like cutting lard with flour to make pastry. Yea, I like to taste that fluttering cake, almost as much as a kiss that is tender and a surprise. How I love to be tender? So little. Too late the tender connection that breaks my soul into its parts, and when I look at myself under the glass, I feel myself unravel. I love it. I fear that breaking up, like the end of sex when the cock slips out, and I try to hold it in with all the cum leaking down the inside of my legs wetting the bed, making it almost foul with a bad memory when I turn over and he pushes me there, in his sleep, and I cannot move. I usually kick the guy then, and he moves, but the moment is gone, and I wonder why I did anything at all. Yes, I fear pleasure. I fear the pain that runs up my leg or under my breasts or inside my mouth. I hate that sickening pleasure; yet I anticipate and ache for it. I should never have known it. Mama should never have let Billy teach it when I was ten. As he did, I made it into pain. Perhaps we all do. Maybe all life is that road of fucken bullshit we connect as dots to make into our imaginary worlds. Yes, when I come in that dream, when I connect to my pure child like body, when I am whole again, I am the girl again laughing with my chums at the candy store. We are just talking about boys as if they were future tense ghosts that someday could unfold from the air or drip from the ceiling into our actual arms. More Taxi Murders the Novel at http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook END -- 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: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+