Message-ID: <25848asstr$966456613@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: "seanfarragher" <seanfarragher@email.msn.com> X-Original-Message-ID: <NEBBKECCNOEJHMGPDAFHOEHNCHAA.seanfarragher@email.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 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.50.4133.2400 Importance: Normal Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6 Forced Dream Journal VI Laurie as Christ herself Date: Wed, 16 Aug 2000 16:10:13 -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/Year2000/25848> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: Lambchop, english From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel http://www.taximurders.com/ (updated August 13, 2000) 1037XLaurieasChrist KIDNAPPED: Forced Dream Journal June 19, 1992 (three days post partum) Forced Dream Journal VI Laurie Fallon is Christ Herself: (some pathetic day in June again) I heard them say they loved June. Maybe it was another. Who the fuck knows. I had her hands on my breasts all night. She wants my milk. I will give it to her. So easy to satisfy a feeding frenzy. Yes, I know they wanted to murder shadows. I could handle the flesh being lost to shit. I could not handle losing my shadows or my passionate need for being fucked inhuman. I was a great gift to them. I made their possession my own property by that reversal. Must be Monday, I want the traffic inside my skin. I cannot bear the man to see my face. He looks at my eyes and I feel death, as some extreme. He seems so kind. Type dutifully, recording my impressions, and he pats me on the ass, or touches my face, sometimes reaching around my back and fondling my tits. I love it. I hate that I love it. He is so calm; I forget that I am his captive. Abel spoke like an echoic child, said Sheila, and I repeated, Sheila, and then to Lilith my retort did not vary, mocking victim and terror what had been said. Who is Sheila they laughed. You are Laurie and there is no one else. I stopped, felt the pressure inside my vaults collapse as cloth and ether made me shift in time until my days were lost, beyond it all. I woke naked, hooded, shackled, prone, open, hurting, alone, as hands taunted my breasts and cunt. Four hands. Two people exploring apertures and summits, rubbing my tits with oil, sucking the textured brown skin, and teasing textures of dreams we have paraded. Able moved me distant like a house or a buggy, and I heard the sand shift underneath the wave. Lilith helped Abel release my legs and I kicked bloody, hoping to clip a face or crack teeth. Something must be done, I thought or dreamed. Looked away, and that cold played easily, I swam upward, out of a funnel, in the dark, photographer's room or closet: paint against the ceiling. My Aaron or Michelangelo Buonarroti's fresco. Plaster and paint fucking in clay like Eve or Adam made from Lilith or that true God. I was the model for Christ not her fucken mother. God, so he identified herself underneath the titter of the stings and barbs. He directed me to pose naked as communion in the extreme broken down, my Coochie open. I was Christ as the mother lifted my frail veil's apart for seduction of brides. My hands were cold, and the finger tips shimmered, shining with clear polish; my nails long dug ass blue and red foul scars gleaming stark bronze lip gloss. I shine like the white halter invisible against my mature breasts, or the cloth stuffed into my bra, cunny, against my gender defined fat crazy dance, strutting as the risen mound under cotton underpants, naked outside, with pubic curls, twisted, dropping down, six inches of purple silk., Wounded with a thick rope, much more than a tampon, almost like the hangman's sky attached it seemed led me to trap door where the season swing from the loop. Inside his deadly room, I was always undressed. Fully naked (which meant I had no illusions), and protection, what clothing shifts, as a wasted artifact: Turned inside out, my interior as blood and spoils. Imagine the internal silvery lining of a latex condom, aluminum package flickers in the bathroom light. Blood on the floor. Danger in the mouth; semen tastes like salt and viral spirochetes, an alluvium, semen water river, a soil for dying some time alone on the back of the alley under the mushrooms, without decay, just wasting away illness, as the speed of light closed beyond the chart, and its now 1975 (hopefully before AIDS had an announcement). Time, birth is, of course, one darling myth like knowing the origin of new life, even the genesis of a probably always fatal monkey humanoid AIDS caused by the retro-virus, HTLV-III. Bottom line: taste of come. 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 8/13/2000) 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: <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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+