Message-ID: <26132asstr$967720203@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Sean Farragher" <seanfarragher@msn.com>
X-Original-Message-ID: <NEBBKECCILIDDPJFHMPOAEPFCHAA.seanfarragher@msn.com>
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: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/26132>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
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: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+