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From: "Sean-Thomas Farragher" <seanfarragher@msn.com>
Cc: "Sean-Thomas Farragher" <seanfarragher@msn.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Jade Masturbation Fantasy
Date: Wed, 26 Apr 2000 02:10:21 -0400
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Erotic Prose-Poem.
By Sean Farragher
Jade: First Instance:
When blue eyed, pale white Jade paced the floor, dressed in a
diaphanous, pale pink silken gown that hugged her breasts,
nipples revealed through the sheen, her pubic hair, and a great
arch, exposed as she walked glistening towards the three month
old infant daughter I held in my arms, suddenly stopped, her
legs parted, and cleanly open, her sex pulled my hand to her
legs, opening what was already open, as Jade watched my eyes, as
they wanted her, and she needing to nurse us.
Suddenly, pulling the silk bodice down, as the sheen, great
water, floating like a cloud when the bump of the fabric snapped
down, revealing swollen breasts as she pulled Megan to nurse, as
our daughter struggled only for a second to suck, everything was
warm; rocks, rivers, flesh, and spirit, incipient; the wind,
loose, undirected.
There was no boundary as my finger teased her sex while she
nursed, Jade's legs open, and weak, falling backward,
as the spoon, I held her while the milk leaked for a second,
chest rising and falling, as Jade looking back, stopped, the
young child's face falling away, nursing, throwing her head back
to sense what my fingers exposed.
Pulling the child back, insistent, nursing again, as the well
opened, and her breathing increased, as mine, pushing my cock
against her ass, nestled there, pressing easy, not too hard,
allowing me to enter her sex from the rear as she continued some
great race out of bounds like an ocean wave, unpredictable, a
powerful curl, as a swish downward.
Jade was born washing ocean by ocean. She revealed secret
weather. Unpredictable as a storm, paused for the calm, she
possessed Holy Mother.
There was no holy grail but the proffered breast, Mother God
explained to Jade. Notice, how my lips fold vagina bred for a
cup. It was a test of modern rivers, Jade finished.
Jade lived when the morning glory, white and flesh, plump and
stark, opened naked, revealed stamen; notes dressed as floral
score. She stepped forward, took her chances.
Perhaps the parachute could open, Jade spoke, before descending
to the earth. My life had no dusk to keep as a border for my
unrecorded gender. Watch, my musical games, Jade paused.
(There is an ache when the bassoon drives dark and hot into the
bottom of my river.) Jade presumed speech within the flood:
fabricated margins here and then. The balance, more than
Houdini's magic, was beyond orgasm, greater than faith.
I cannot straighten my edges, Jade repeated several times. No
one listened. The air, no definite wall, faked the breach of
ears. What more can you ask? What play of words do you prefer,
Jade questioned? Let me know what I can do.
II. Second Instance:
June 16, 1904 (reference to Ulysses, Novel by James Joyce)
Molly Bloom, my Jade, Jade, removed her impeccable pink
blouse, placed her nipples, urgent, against my large, gentle
hands. Molly on top, fucking, milk and semen splattered over
belly, and the cells grew; organs aged, more than drunk; each
breast, when Molly came, sprayed milk as she fucked where
petals shuddered limp.
Again, Molly slowly half closed her blouse, and settled in her
white textured chair. My large head pressed; fingers gentled
hair; blue eyes as grace, blond hair possessed in simple mirror.
I swallowed slowly, carefully, my mouth overflowed. My chin
resistant. Her fingers played with my lips, and I watched her
hardened nipple shine, a simple flesh and scarlet river running
down like vines.
I once fucked Jade while she nursed our infant daughter, she
looked backward, turned her lips, breathed my cock as spray. I
was pleased she came, dressed with her breasts and the satin
sleep of her child who, afterwards, rested beside our bed. Open,
assuaged, when Molly let down, sucking at my dry nipple, crating
my heart, as the well; her breast, a tear of milk drained
against my cheek.
Afterwards, milk was a primary reflex; lips welcomed; open hands
clasped, and then assumed, above or below the penultimate chase.
Eyes closed. Mouth, almost a deep mask, intent, was neither
smile nor frown.
It was more than a primordial water, stricken as grace. The
release passed carefully on the beach. Meditation shaded the
sensual flood; made gravity, each passionate, epithet, yes a
wild fucking dirty, obscene curse still.
That is the voice of fucking, she said. It's the grunt and
wonderful dirt that flows as we take what the skin holds
pressing the urge, as a patient stare.
Third Instance
My Dear Jade:
I am immutable. You are blessed when your blind spasm pulled off
the dark.
More than rust, or a sheen on a silky pink gown, you are broken
and smooth, woven and fit. Lust was, is a decoration- a bounty
of white and silver flowers, marked by a vase; a violet ribbon
struck, sadistic, ran through your mouth.
Jade, my dear white storm-No noise, but the vacuum of dim
assumptions. I have forgotten them all.
Yes, you said, as Nora Barnacle said to Joyce before the sigh
deciphered later as Molly's disaffected offering. What do any of
us want, Molly Bloom asked, and Jade answered?
James Joyce wandered the Dublin wound from Paris or was it Troy
or Charlotte? Am I, Sean. no harm as need and patience? What
can I strike as Hector? No, Achilles? Leopold Bloom possessed?
Stephen comforted. Sean delighted.
Yes, I say, yes, Jade; you are serene.
Jade is pale, invisible (as I am), and my exposed hands dances
her alive, as a return from a great death, or our translucent
past, and then transposed, this instant, much later, for another
place where we stretch undying.
Each laugh echoes, as a charm marked in sand, asleep on the
beach, waking in the morning, sand in our toes, rustled to the
warm air, pushed together by what we ache to speak, as I turned,
she pressed against my mouth, and lifting my leg over hers,
gently as a the transposed heat of a wave, the hidden curl,
as I strike, heating the core, as white Jade melts, opening
herself, pulls my single word with her hand, insistent, as If I
am resisting (I am not).
As a hot mouth, Jade closes as I kiss each of her ears,
entering, not a swoon, as the deep cleft of her full round
breasts flat against my cheek, and I was at home, drowning,
reaching up to her eye, reversed my mouth, paused as her well,
my lips nibbled her clit, stirring each side, climbing the
miniature mountain, reaching the crest with the tip of my
tongue, a bare cup from the wave, as the curl of my taste, as
Jade pauses, arches, trembles, slows, rises again, pressing
her hands in the sand, compressed, the thousand grains, each of
her thighs taut, breathless, waiting, and then the swoon, a
release, as my face, taking hold of her sweat from lubricated
lips, spasm, pause, and then again, her mouth shut tight, eyes
closed, face twisted, intent, as a ecstatic mask and then
another instant, shudder, spasm, pause, and as my tongue pushed
against her clit, still stiff, pressed her sex against my whole
mouth, my tongue reaching deep as it pushed inside her cunny, as
the final rush, as a groan, screamed across the sand, turning
quickly I rise on her belly, quickly slip my cock into her open,
mouth and when I come, quickly, so I can finish, while Jade's
orgasms continue, as a warm life to enclose, and then released,
in the afterthought, as we rustle silence, and then slowly
speak, filling her, as I am floating within the taste of her
flower, nothing will alter my taste, as I kiss, the arch of her
lips, pausing, and then asleep, entwined, watching her legs move
as a dream, and reaching down to feel her wet hairs, and the
soft lips, and the nectar, slowly drying on her thigh, in her
pubic hairs, as the pearl let down from her sexual mouth, as one
last river, visible, as I kiss it back to my source, tasting the
mixture, as a swirling dress dancing across a ballroom in St.
Petersburg, with the Tsars, White Jade and the Prince, that's
me, Pierre, as Natasha, jealous, knows that Princess Jade, as
a great Peruvian icon, holds inside what I inspired to release,
as a form, or a great storm of words, details from what the
ocean gave and the waves let down, more than milk or sperm, or
lubricating natural spit and seminal lubricants, really dreams,
making the puddle under our bodies more than an ocean, simply a
Modern River, a lust as pleasure, but more an inestimable bond,
as great music, the notes salute the ears, a balance, a soaring
crescendo, as Johannes Brahms or Ludwig Van Beethoven might
have written with Joyce, or as Picasso, that great universal
art, stuck in the pale white flesh of a painting, you and I,
Jade witnessed as he painted your naked sky in Paris in 1904.
Great words, dear Jade, to keep in place my harder cock and
your soft mouths settled and open, full, and at peace, at least
until the next morning, when it will all begin again, I promise.
Isn't lust, pleasure, respect, and wanton grace wonderful?
Yes, when it all works, who knows what doors will open and then
reopen, again, again, she said, yes. What a great word, Yes,
Molly Bloom said, we said, dear woman.
http://www.farragher.com
http://www.taximurders.com/enfer
http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon
http://www.taximurders.com
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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