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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6 Billy Reese and DeSade Part VIII
Date: Wed, 9 Aug 2000 15:10:18 -0400
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From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel
http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon (updated August 1, 2000)
TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher
1048Xfrom999XBillyResse&DeSade
What is Truly Wanted!
Fucking Billy Like Mama Did.
Laurie is 23 (1988)
In this story, Laurie wrote, I migrate from woman to child
and back again.
Billy stepped up to Laurie. Raised up to the middle of his
eyes at twenty-three, just before he was sent to prison for
stealing cars and selling them below dealer cost, Laurie was
verbal, but did not speak, tall, long legged, mature, almost
womanly as she danced her hips encircling the rise and fall
of her dancing palms.
Standing again, looking down at the long lean man, wearing
only air, stretched out on the couch, unrolling her hands, as
a finite gesture, she pulled her hair back as a twirl, making
her dizzy fall complete, collapsing next to him. Rolling down
the bed, she shifted back and forth finding the warm and not
the wet spot.
There, Laurie slept as a wife might, pretending she was a
mother with child, she pushed her belly out making the effort
like her mother, or many of the other women she witnessed
doing their daily grinds.
Every effort is wonderful, Laurie thought, as she walked amid
the pale blue flowers of the next garden or the pink eyes of
the birds. They pranced in her hair.
I am here Laurie wrote to De Sade, I am twisted in the
strands as my legs fall down, and taking my hand, gently,
Billy kisses my palm as he moves down the row of children
taunting and upsetting them all.
Ariel slept on other side the trailer away from us. Billy
kept her there so she would not witness the goings on in the
bedrooms, Laurie wrote to the Marquis. Yes, as you know now,
of course a fabrication.
Stirring up Laurie's legs she pushed her pubic pears outward,
as she pressed the covers between her hands, as a devil might
construe the taunt, and Billy, old man with two daughters,
asleep, with wife, in the next cage, not really one, but
adjoining with her sons, as deep myth perused was easy
sacrament. No one really cared here in hell, of course,
Laurie drew a cock being sucked in the margin of her De Sade
Opus. Laurie laughed, telling her friends about her De Sade
Journal. "It is really fucked up," she said, "but I love
making it come true."
Children ran naked, like the next line of beasts, and would
find themselves in complicated family and sensual plots. In
every scenario, they had no protection. Laurie created De
Sade in Billy's image. "I wanted the skin not to be saved,"
Laurie wrote.
Extrication sometimes was more less diplomacy than barter.
Your daughter was mine. Have mine. Something can be offered
for lies of exaggeration.
Rising back to the pause, above, where the word fear
settled.
Laurie stood to the middle of his belly reaching his nipple
with the flick of her tongue. Billy was petrified watching
the play, as if he knew there would be a terrible ending, not
as the result of what they did, but more as a play of the
attitude that this unkempt freedom unraveled. Billy knew he
could not get it up with a woman, and Laurie was a woman now,
and he knew he would be tested.
Wearing the red party dress, her Mama hated last night had
giggled with each swoop of strap off shoulder, Laurie
imagined fucking the man as a woman and not the child she
remembered or wrote about in the paper on De Sade.
I didn't wear any drawers. You know that --right Billy, she
snickered later when Billy and all of them scattered across
the tunnel of the last room in the mobile park.
scattered the panels across the floor, Laurie thought,
reaching one closet, the arm, another doorway, and the hem.
It opened as if someone was kept inside, front flipped up,
exposing the tops of legs, teasing, as if one had done their
dancing stripping like Mama, did, she thought, that night,
out back, with the men, throwing bills, and brew scattered
everywhere. Mama made the nigger cry that night, Laurie
thought, knowing she hated the word but wondered what she
could say, colored seemed too pure, and as she didn't mean it
to hurt the man, he felt her love, and asked her Mama when
she said it, where did you get this nigger child mama.
All I want to do, Laurie wrote De Sade is take of the fucking
skin, bear the heart as dung and stuff his rotting death into
graves. I had a sweet heart then, before Billy, but now, as I
imagine it, I want to open his bowels, and make the agony of
his dying as close to terror as he made my nights when he put
his thing between my legs from behind and shot me as he put
it. I hated the dead cum, Laurie wrote. I hate you too, she
spoke beating her notebook, "you and your words are too close
to Billy. Too much Billy she wrote in large capitals and not
enough of De Sade. How I love the terror of De Sade's threat.
Billy was real. He hurt me. I want to fuck him up now, Laurie
wrote. I want you my Marquis to haunt him make Hell the most
terrible prison he could know. Will you do it, my Marquis,
for Laurie.
"She's got a sweet river heart," Billy said, watching the
child curled up, then standing playing with it making it
pinker, as Laurie smiled, pulled down to her Mama, who
watched Billy with his big thing as she put it stretched down
his thigh.
You get away now child, she said to Laurie. I want him myself
this time sputtering the words as Laurie watched Billy play
with his cock, roping it through his hands. Laurie remembered
years later that she didn't like the man laughing, catching
her eye, thinking he might spear her with it as she had seen
Mama done. Laurie watched, scared but prepared to hold it
again.
Laurie watching Billy and remember the boys in her sixth
grade class. Two of them had shown her the small ropes of
their pee pods, as Mama called them. They got it stiff too,
but did not know what to do when she took them in her hand.
They could do nothing with theirs really, except jump back
when she rubbed it more expertly than they expected.
Laurie remembering years later this big boy in when she was
in seventh grade. He had been left back several times and was
17. She was 12, she remembered. I was ten.
He did me. I let him. He came too quickly, but what else was
new, Laurie laughed at the memory. When he came, Laurie
remembered she liked the mess, played it as I would the soap
bubbles on the back of her hands.
Laurie thought of the dress, again, silk, fluffy, a woman's
dress cut down to fit a slender, tall, seven year bare ass
frame and now in bed with Billy finally, as a woman, at 18,
and an experience whore, as she put it to him. Going back to
the fire and the days before, Mama hated my fancy dress and
had scattered it. Ripped seam by seam, I knew it was ruined.
I had loved it, as the slut dress, Mama laughed, almost not
angry. I loved the imaginary screw. I swallowed it whole.
Why adults are both angry and funny, at the same time, Laurie
remembered thinking. Don't know what to do.
I loved it last night, Laurie wrote in her paper. No, it was
not last night. I am twenty-five now. Seven years ago. I
know. Time disjoints. Terrible pun, Laurie wrote again in the
margin of her paper, which rambled over thirty pages.
I remember that night. I was a tease at 9 or 25. My legs up,
apart, leaning back against the door, high up by the top of
the wooden stairs leading to the kitchen. I was exposed,
apart, actually, it was a cool night for May, and my pudding
was warm, but I felt chilled.
I was a good frame for the heat, Laurie wrote thinking of
that trailer. Heat always swept me up, Laurie wrote, asking
if De Sade was Billy in the final paragraphs of her paper. Of
course, I wanted to be smashed naked, so I threw the dress of
my childhood off, roughly. Helped by scores of drunken men,
walking the blowjob line at the taxi stand or in the city. I
imagine Billy watching while I crossed and uncrossed my legs,
saying you are a troublesome miss.
"I've got to get the fuck out of here," he lied, as he walked
closer, and finally, taking it out, my fingers making my slit
fully open like the woman I became at eight.
Billy launched, and missing my arm, his sputtering drips on
the zinnias, as I saw later, checking the damage. After
failing, as he thought, Billy ran away, truly frightened, and
all I wanted was a hug, but I reached across twenty years (or
feet) or more, the closest he would come in their dirty suits
or jeans, drunken sot that they were, I knew only Billy as I
fucked them or sucked them. Billy knew I did it. He saw it
all. He was part of my head. I held him. I imagined I could
squeeze balls together rolling them between my palms. As his
pain leaped up with the basso of the horn of a terrified
scream, I made my peculiar merriment the piccolo of his soft
cock. Suddenly, Billy's cock hardened. He was more surprised
than I was. Never get it up any more with a woman, he said.
Been 15 years at least, he added, and Laurie wrote the
details in her paper transposing the names from Laurie and
Billy to Ariel and De Sade.
There again, almost routine, hot flashed I climbed Billy
while I sucked this old man in the gutter of car, tightened
my fist on his balls, but nothing made him come. At the party
(always a party where folks watched everyone have sex) I
created, I wore nothing like my Barbi's. I was bare, wearing
red dress and expert make up.
Mama did me up, beautiful, I imagined. I made myself up not
like I did as a child, sloppy, but as a beautiful woman,
knowing the right strokes of pale rose and blue, black and no
innocent lipstick, but not garish like the dress. There are
so many opposites.
We danced at the parties, blew up balloon ate tons of cake
and pulled up, like a swan, graceful, gently, like a dancer
would swoon, Billy, whom I truly wanted to hurt (let him fail
I dreamed of his soft cock unable to work) pulled me up into
his arms.
I called him Daddy lover, and we will bear many children when
I can I whisper in his ears.
Next year, when I was ten, and we knew the routine ( had to
pretend to let him rape me), he took me gently like a lover
and I let him. This time I knew he would get hard but he did
not. Ironic. I wanted him hard that second time. I had seen
movies of men and women fucking all day, and we had diddled,
Mama, all sorts, but had thought my hole, grown large and he
could not take the honesty he said.
I love champagne. I imagined I was an infant, Laurie wrote
describing how De Sade tortured women, but after two deep
glasses, and then another, Billy held me in his lap, and
poised above, we prayed, as I did go inside, and then
straining, it hurt, but then it stopped, and I fell down, up
inside, and Billy came at that instant.
As I shook, nothing almost a faint, and then he cleaned the
blood (so I imagined I was Virgin Mary), and said I knew it
hurt but more an ache now, that I liked and would want to be
filled again.
As I slept between Mama and Billy, for Mama had helped,
guiding, keeping the drunken stick hard by her mouth, I
learned later, too enthralled. "It did hurt," I lied, almost
too much to my neighborhood girl friend, Marjory. I did not
tell her about Billy although she knew him. I lied saying it
was that cute black boy from the Jr. High she thought she
owned. I was always a bitch.
I met the black boy, Joe, once. He didn't really seem
interested in Marjory, but was after the big titer freak
behind the counter at the store, who leaned down into the
cop's arms with her cleavage like the dirty slut I dreamed I
had become.
Held by Billy, I was twelve, giving him his second present,
my arms wild, in the crook of his hip. Carefully, I wound my
legs around his waist, my dress up in the back exposed my
bare behind, when suddenly in my imagination, alone with
Billy at 23, Mama pulled down the dress, patted my button as
she pushed against Billy like he had taught, or she taunted,
and done.
Mummy smoked as she hands thrust across Billy's back I
launched to escape, and open I thrust, pulled closer by
Billy, divided by two poles, my Mama and him, and blind I
closed the time and space to Billy, my ass moved up again,
and I was exposed with fur and the woman scent.
Wet from my soft finger, desperate, I hated Mama as she
danced with us three, rolling her arms on our back, and
feeling for the crease in the stain from the pee.
Pushing harder back at Billy, Mama make me wet, using an old
tactic, I suppose, she liked it when I let go, craving the
stink, when I was a baby like my long dead brother, Peter.
I know this absurd Docudramas.
Mama was possessed by my ass, as she felt, and as she
struggled, she and Billy deeply set in my mind, in time or
not, in 74 or 1988, thrust against my ass and lips,
penetrated into my heart and vulva with her finger. Finally,
at the edge of the last pause, she used the sharp ridge of
one of her red nails we had painted together last night. I
didn't mind it. I like De Sade loved not the pain but
inflicting it on the victims who believe they are hurting me.
Flipping the lips, bus as she pushed anger awry, not the time
they snuggled last week when Billy used Laurie's Belly for a
wet song or two Mama be mad she said, lying, you made a mess
in bed again, laughing knowing no one was mad, for the stain
would dry, added to many other yellow stains, until they are
deep brown, and rust that omnipotent terminator had its way.
Finally as faked and local outrage, Laurie yelled pushing her
legs straight up, not wanting the dance with Billy. Not now,
Mama, I remember clearly saying. Not this time Mama, I want
him to myself, and getting it finally Mama moved away,
running, as a last caress, her finger down the crease of my
ass to my cunt, laughing, You really want him don't you,
Mama, seemed happy. He's always been yours. Heaven help us
when you are old enough to breed. Don't be jealous. I'm not.
I like the older girls that tease him in our bed. One so big
with a kid, she almost broke his back when she let it out.
Mama's last caress did linger making its own wet contact
pressing harder down the crease of the buttocks until
reaching under my legs. It was Mama who curled a finger into
my lips not Billy, rubbing that brief bump, in my mind,
making me, Laurie throw her head back, dance bang against
Billy's belly, as in the moment after, mother and daughter,
lover and children mixes as a dirty snow and sleet.
That's not Gainesville weather, Mother would say. We all melt
into a blank river, Mama said, keying score, counting the
ledge, pushing at last her red nail into cunny, eighteen and
no virgin, she whispers in her daughter's ear, you're a three
finger fisted slut now, after Billy's thing, Mama said. Yes,
I know he can do it forever, and that's worth something more
than a fast big stick, and good-bye, so heaven help us.
Mama made the child dance on Billy's belly. Yes, I know I was
there the first time, I guess, if you can believe it. We are
such competent liars after all.
Last week, in the other room, Billy naked in the nave, his
thing folded down. Laurie wore a blue shirt and her mother's
panties, pulled up into wedgies, baring her pubic pear. Billy
laughed when I walked on his belly, wearing shoes, of course,
he said, for an edge, but I carefully danced falling on his
think, taking it into my hand like clay or finger foods.
Billy was spent, limp, soft. No good. Carol just left he
said. She got it.
"Fuck no, I was mad. We could have shared," I said. He really
didn't hear what I said, he was off and I was mad.
Carol was fifteen, and deep black, like African niggers,
Billy explained not like our child Beatrice who is tan like
gold sand.
Carol had dark skin, with a pink and white cunt. I loved how
they were darker on the outside, Laurie wrote in her De Sade
Diary. I loved that tight fur that you could scratch up, and
in the diary Laurie drew the tight hair of Carol's cunt as
she had imagined it long ago. Best of it, Billy always said,
"I loves the way she fucked me with her ass." Deep in her
shitter, he said. I love to watch them, Laurie wrote. Had me
a head too at my cunt. Any head do. Carol loved it when I
watched back, said she was younger than I was when her Daddy
had fucked her. That would have made her 7 and she was a cow
big as an utter of a cow.
I didn't fuck until I was 7 Laurie wrote speaking of De Sade
and his imaginary brutality. I did all else to everyone. Just
didn't fuck until I took that on myself. No one raped me. I
know that is a narrow definition of rape, Laurie wrote,
describing De Sade's fantasy of death while fucking.
I know because my sister Bea was dark. Part nigger Daddy
said. Not his. Carol's father fucked your Mom. I helped him,
Billy laughed. You were there too. Right?
I knew Carol from this zoo park. Race mixed here. Came with
the music, and the students, and the fact that no one could
stop it. One girl got fucked up here at fourteen. Mama said
she was twelve. Had the baby in the trailer.
Billy reached up, spend, dangling, somehow, spirit was
willing but, and he reached for Laurie's nipple.
"Barbie been fed," Laurie said.
"Good Billy laughed," now how about me.
"Mama got plenty of milk. All dried up, Daddy, I squealed at
eighteen pretending I didn't want him to suck my nipples.
Reaching under the mattress, Billy found it. Just like the
one Mama' had used long ago. I owed many dildoes. Some were
small and others huge. Smaller. About three inches, Billy
pushed it into my ass.
Just my size I laughed when I saw it on her dresser later
imagining how Billy used it. "Never mind," I said, "don't
wear out the batteries.
"What you mean," Billy said, and he turned the top and the
thing buzzed against my clit and I could not help but have a
mechanical come. I felt cheated Laurie wrote in her paper.
Falling back in my chair, legs apart, "I watched Mama get
happy when I was a girl, but not pushing it inside, like me,
when I did it for myself, I rested it on my blip, as I called
it, and then tapping it, playing with one nipple, eyes
closed, Mama came as I did with Billy.
"What kind of batteries it use, Mama, Double AA," I imagined
what my mother said in the days before the fire. Fuck no,
Laurie, Mama said, no batteries tonight. Just pump it in for
Billy.
"Why, you want it," I asked as child?
Now, years later, I imagine how it made its song and falling
back, legs up, well practiced, months later, Billy finally
soft, I shook out of my mama's panties, and Billy spread my
legs, kissed my cunt, separating the lips, finding the buds,
holes, and bud, sweet anus, his face became mine.
Billy reached each part, tapping his white plastic singing
toy, and then giving it up to Laurie's hands, it was bigger,
larger, D battery size this time.
Let me Laurie said, pleased at the comfortable buzz that made
her tummy tickle, she said.
Not stopping inside Billy, Laurie pushed the tip of the tool
inside the lips it disappeared half swallowed, pulled out and
then deeply churned, leaving again, disappeared in the thread
was expected, closed eyes, eager, touched by Mama now in
Laurie's memory.
Opening the door, Laurie enters the dream, put down her
dress, taking the infant boy to her breasts, she felt Mama's
back sway, shook, while Billy watched, his eager mouth
closed, intent, setting legs off bet while infant nursed.
Mother wore her white shorts open to the waist, a bulge of
soft fat, small, not too large, soon to be lost, after
babies, and gained again.
Laurie sucked, milk dripping out of her mouth letting her
body fold up, release, fold, like the conformation of a
molecule with mother ruffling the infant's hair while it made
Mama open wide, settle back, fold, release with the
unspeakable gain still present.
First a building then another spasm, quickly tumbled off the
cliff.
Laurie pulling back to her mother's breast again (feeling her
own nipples with one hand) and taking vibrator in hand to her
own sexual mouth and then the whale of her hole opened.
Laurie came with Billy engaged cumming inside her cunt giving
her the chance of earning his last child so she imagined.
Billy fucked me when I was 7 and 23. I never knew him before
and after. Something is wrong. All the youthful shit was a
dream set up to disguise my guilt, Laurie wrote, half serious
in the margin of it all. I like to pretend I am a little girl
again and having sex with my father. Is that a crime. I am an
adult and can pretend. Nothing wrong, right? What lies I
write Laurie wrote later.
I was De Sade with Billy. That old man was a phantom, Laurie
insisted writing again in the margin of her paper on De
Sade.
Are you sure De Sade existed? How about Billy? Check the
newspapers? Think I am kidding.
How wonderful to be a liar and make it all real.
I set the fire. Watched it burn. I wanted to kill Billy by
killing Ariel. I hated her. He never touched her. I was 11.
Sure he did. Pat was eight. He fucked her too. I helped.
She's my natural child, Billy said of Ariel. How could she.
In 1992, Malachi proved he was my father. DNA results in.
Ariel was a twin. She was not yours after all. You fuck. You
had no one until Luther was born. He was the son of the devil
mama said. She said all her kids with you were the devil's.
She told me last year when our kid, yes, yours and mine
Billy, Adonis was five that he was the only child not
possessed. See I am lucky, right.
Ariel died not Billy. Peter also died. Pat and Ariel too. Do
I need to repeat it?
Billy's slave, the teenager, Carol, escaped, but she had her
face burned. Never quite there again.
I watched the smoke roll from the windows and Billy held me
as if he had saved me. I let the world believe that. I did.
Billy was called a hero for rescuing me. He had no idea I set
the fire on purpose to kill Ariel as I did. Did he
remembering his last taunt before leaving the prison at their
last meeting? Why did he shitten tell me the truth. There
must be some fucken hidden curse in all of it, Laurie
thought.
Now, that it was done, I wanted no one. I got away with
murder, Laurie thought.
Life is fucked up, Laurie thought writing the final lines in
the book of De Sade. I am glad De Sade is dead. No, I mean
Billy. Someday I will show Henry my story of De Sade. Think
Henry will trust me after that. Henry will. Why? He knows
that I need him more than he needs me.
Editorial Note by Henry Whitman:
All this was written weeks before Laurie Fallon was
kidnapped. Henry found the paper and Laurie's notes. All
Henry could think. She is a great writer. What a story.
Incredible, Henry said after he turned to the last page and
cried feeling the contour of his cock through his pants.
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
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.
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