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Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6 EVIL as Intellect and Banality
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From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel
http://www.taximurders.com/ (updated August 28, 2000)
mirror site: http://www.txm6.com
TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher.
0279XCGADAbelandLilth
Number of words: 5016
The Diary of Antonio Joseph Corvino
The Man Called Abel
Saturday, August 14, 1987
NOTE: The Gadfly is a spiritual and personal
inhabitant of some of the characters.
Sometimes he can resemble a common house fly.
He is neither good nor evil, male nor
females, old nor young. He is never easy
and never fair, but generally tells some
of the truth
ABEL: The Gadfly says that I am God's lost son.
That's libel. I am not he. I am your arranged,
planned, alleged kidnapper and rapist. I do not kill.
Sister does that better than I do. She loves the
folds of women's skin, "and the parade of a pregnant
belly, protruding like a planetary necklace consumes
the sky like uncommon madness."
NARRATOR (The Gadfly): Do not deny yourself. Stand my
wall and this watch. Identify the varieties of murder
and death. Show yourself to be the honest sociopath.
ABEL: What, how dare you. I am not crazy.
GADFLY: I didn't say you were (Gadfly loved to bait
ABEL). Let me see. You know wrong from right have a
fine immoral character. You even skin careful the
lips from the eyes, preserving the entire aspect of
personality. How I enjoy your madness, yes my dear I
provoked it.
ABEL: I am not your queer. Don't fucken call me dear.
GADFLY: Sir or Madam, I am neither man nor woman.
Does it matter? What is gender? A blind accident? A
darling calamity. What of it? I can kick the shit out
of you just by laughing.
ABEL: (Insistent) I am Antonio Joseph Corvino. I am
twenty-eight years old and a Medical Student, someday
a Psychiatrist; really, and continuing this litany,
if you insist. My mother is Victoria Anne Bradford.
Lilith murdered her mother in 1989. I watched. Mother
had many children. Lilith murdered two of them. My
sister was not my first but second lover.
GADFLY: Not really I know all. Nothing can shock
outside the anterior domain. What is that you ask? Do
you want to know the residence of the rear end of the
mind? It is there we twitch and derive the dubious
pleasure of taking a good dump as in shooting our
semen into a rare cunt for procreation.
Think I am crass and obscene. An educated man could
be different. I am. Just a pose. Watch the curl of my
profile.
ABEL: My father was James Albert Caine IV. Died the
last day of Saigon, April 30, 1975. Now, they say he
has been a POW and will be repatriated next week. It
is now 1990. Caine was captured, held, died in
prison. I heard he lead a charge against the NVA. A
solitary soldier and an impossible grave. Does it
matter?
GADFLY: I read the letters. Don't bore me with all
the details. So he was MIA, KIA; He won two CMH
decorations.
ABEL: Maria Corvino is my older sister and foster
mother, I call her Lilith, but you cannot. I am her
vessel.
GADFLY: You think I give a fuck.
ABEL: Only I know Lilith. Do not libel my names. I
repeat that sanction. I am not the dance capital M
for Murder. I am not that graceful, I am a liar, but
that's a bit part, an ordinary sin, but its
foundation, is that horizon, fake masterpiece, an
undecided hue and texture, value and dimension. I
said I could lie. Do you know the positions for truth
in the last row of the cemetery? Here is a recent
paper of mine. "One Element of Style: Erotic
Maladjustment." By Anthony Joseph Corvino
"What is the scale of the thing itself"? Beneath a
repeated and singular dream, there are stacks of film
carts, canisters.
Like atoms, they cluster and the molecules, twinned
crystals, when the image, as Ezra Pound preached, or
as William Carlos Williams dictated: the thing
itself: "say it, no ideas but in things," like
unbearable Triple A or Double D, gender free breasts
[stop being nice, I really mean tits, when music, or
its void, no matter how ordinary, classical or
corrupt, the cleavage pressed home, restless,
invincible, as any sexual mouth soft and moist and
fat fingers filled with fast breath and the sad
remains, not after birth, really, but that which is
transposed somewhere.
Add to the mix, what? Sexual spectacle will keep
parallel what was not, within where you were once.
LILITH: You're my second witness stroking the inside
of Antonio's thigh, reckless, without care, or
concern. It doesn't matter who watches, does it?
GADFLY: Who was first? None were; what, Antonio sat
there, bemused, Immaculata, he sighed;
LILITH: Sometimes, I don't like you.
GADFLY: OK. But why?
LILITH: You have no eyes and you play deceptive.
GADFLY: You mean, I was invisible.
LILITH: Yes, and what you did was selfish,
unbearable. You refused to let me touch my own tits.
You said they needed to grow without stimulation. You
tied my hands up so I could not masturbate. My mother
wanted me to learn. You had no fucken right.
GADFLY: I thought if you did that you would not
murder like your sick mother. How did I know?
LILITH: Measure them now. Feel them. Turn me on
before I did.
Lilith lifted her tits, first, uneasy, took quick
breaths, poised for flight, puckered and rouged, and
then suddenly, taking up the stretch. Is that wrong,
crossing the street sign? Where is the Glide path? I
heard it was five miles north on the inverted highway
as she takes out clothes pin (the kind with a spring)
and clips them on to her nipples and the Gadfly's
nose, and that beak like appendage promptly changes
into a cock.
II.
Antonio & Maria (ABEL AND LILITH)
[Internal Monologue without regard to person]
But you must catch them.
He did.
Here, Maria caught on, flushed, red faced, restless,
take this, reciting again the poem he had written.
It's good, she said. What is, he asked.
Your hands. No, your mouth.
Wait, I have none. Can't tell the difference.
What touched them? Great spirits. They invest you.
That's why. Why. Larger, right?
Sure, don't be nervous, Maria said. Holds it all
together. Yes, rewind. Pause. Record. Drag it away,
edit, and that's all I dreamed. Make up the rest. You
can't remember it! How can you? No nipples? Let me
paint them.
We can't pause in the middle of failure or speed up
within success. There were middle range boundaries,
of course, like simple-minded romantic sentiments,
should be sediment. No, We waste floral effusions,
and the pleasure wafts in the pace, as if you can
concentrate pain in a spray or as glue, or maybe as
the wild spit passing as lubricant.
Don't ask? Here. Pull it. Spare change, yes. It was
thrown about as grass seeds, as cheap curses, to
refurbish. No leftovers. Use up the paint, and now,
we transfer the codes, and mark the negatives. Movies
are fluff and truth, and good bedfellows, at least
for an instant, when we split the atom as antecedent
whim slashed from conclusion. Look at her cleavage,
again layers. Precedent before aftershock. Doesn't
seem really right, now, does it. Who said she
couldn't walk away, before the shots. Applause.
Publicity. Media attention. Dirt, as we struggle, as
we drink, before the steps, as we stagger away, not
drunk, but there was a blur, and when she stood above
the mouth, mine and Maria, open, expectant like small
birds, pecking with the source, eager, and Mother
chooses, as Mum did. Beg, she said, and we rolled on
the bed. Maria gestured, as she lifted her bare tits,
folding them in my hands, pressing her mouth into my
lips, as she danced holding me up, balanced in her
arms, open mouthed, she kissed, flushing her tongue
through my milk. Now, Lift up, sweet stuff, Mum said,
separate. Lift pull up arms. Twist, crawl, life,
shift; keep the deaths down, we said. Lift, exercise,
one, two, three, four. Pause. Lift 'em up, dear, got
to get 'em to fit right, now honey, I say, and no,
please ...say it was a hallucination and be off with
you.
Inside the flood, what? No water, just damp moss.
Here's my late map, - notice, the non-symmetrical
grid.
Standing up, quickly, the subject, Maria, 25 years,
turned her back, and screamed, when the music became
uneventful, almost too noisy, she said to hear. What.
The inside. I want the core, she said. I have one you
know. I want my name. She said the word name, and the
dream stripped itself. I am naked, opening her palms,
and spreading her legs, sitting down, falling back,
lifting her legs, opening the pocket, and then
turning her head away, shy, ashamed.
We are exploited. With the beat, Maria gestured.
Raised up finally. What a melodramatic faint after
all. He was frothing on the map. How did he do that
and rest so easy. (Music changed. Resonant. Calm. No
incidents).
Nothing false struck the mask today. We were
peaceful, and when the cops gathered to protest the
daily demonstration. Herein, Alma Mater. College
Walk, east to west, suddenly turned left, standing,
upon the podium, Barnard on the right, Amsterdam
Avenue on the left, facing Burgess Carpenter Library,
on the sixth floor, rush up the stairs, Maria was
chased, and then relieved, as the blessed priest,
lifted his finger, and bless the crowds. , Weighed
down, we paused.
Pointed on her toes. Graceful. Here's her list of
words carefully crafted. I've weighed them, and then
my dear Maria stirred her cheek, turned away too
fast, haughty, teased, vibrant, and outside the
stems, while cut flowers, striking blues and reds,
gray even, no, there wasn't a toss from the wings.
Nothing stood in the way. No boundary. Flat. Same.
Then when tension spoiled. No, not that easy noise,
some other scratch, when the summer had its awful
face, and then dragons drew her wings, she jiggled,
sashayed, circled, dangle breasts as a paradox of
Swing, when feet were a crowd, tangled, as hundreds
and then ten thousand, splashed as vague spasms,
lifted up, the breast flung forward, as the child,
proudly struts, chest out, one, two, one, two, three,
four. Poised confusion.
3. ABEL
In the nightmare Maria was ten and I was much older,
which is not the case. Three lines of travelers,
perhaps robots, weave down the bramble out off the
incline, thrown forward down the ravine. Come closer.
Whisper. Open. Pause. Let me undress your blouse. I
really didn't ask. I was her guide. She was now
eight, younger, sexy, out of control.
Sister Lilith was a weed, darted, Watch the stallions
cut inside, outside, the mares, twist, and dust
rising out of the cloud opens as bush of lilies, when
the white, browns, reddens, and the dirt, stirred
from the bottom of the silt, keeps the stream,
opened, and closed. Fall down. Stampedes of fair
horses, and tumbling along the ridge, the canyon of
the deep beneath the screams, as all dreams, are
alone, petrified within the brine, dried, and
drifting replacing carbon with silica schemes. You
cannot step out of a dream you know. It washes the
beach and blanched, the clear washed sky drifts into
the swart ink, and what was opened, closed, what was
possible, is singed held back. Herein, the theory of
dreams, particulate, detritus, waste, as a scam.
Murder has its own shoes. Are you listening?
4.
In August, 1970, at a desolate sea island beach,
waves high, surf heavy, half hidden in swamp grass,
higher up the dune, my mother, half sister, Maria,
and I imagined I watched my half brother, Edward, who
runs a Strip joint strangle his father, Edward L.
Wyman.
You are full of shit. Father died in the war, taken
out by a Communist sniper.
In August of 1944, the clouds were thin, translucent,
and the hazy hot spot sky made everything red for a
moment, beyond yellow, as the victim fell, dark
madder on his knees. Strict sand ramparts collapse.
No, that's not it.
Imagine, you were a sand castle, and out of bounds.
Who's chasing whom? Look around. There's a man on a
horse. He hides his hands, and leaps, over the dark
railings, circling down the finely sharpened edge of
the two-dimensional lighthouse tower.
Two terns dance; seem to get a long, as the dice
click, twice. They have three concentric walls, four
levels, details, fluting, and inner cunt and balls as
ribs, decorations, and then a loop of rope, trailing
out of the noose.
Above the silica and beyond the fingers and palms,
you step up, and resist the falling sky, and light
held up, resisting, as if the dike were six miles
thick, and when air, loosened, and the heart reached
upward, as if to take inside one last blush of air,
and nothing closed. For the next six hours, we
butchered the 6 foot 1, 210 lb. man, and most of his
remains were buried at sea three miles off Fripp
Island, SC.
Mum did keep femurs, skull, and genitals as
souvenirs. We buried the skull and his sexual parts
in Mum's herb garden. Boiled, cleaned and pulverized,
we use the larger bones fragments as gravel for our
50-gallon salt-water fish tank.
I remember the quiet when Maria butchered Edward's
thing, as she put it. She said, it was a small thing,
but an honor bestowed. I laughed, and said it was
just something to do. Mom sighed. When sober, he
surely used it
Mum often spoofed with us from her dreams. Maria
said. Uncle's murder was just one example. Tune in
later for coming attractions.
Is he dead, I asked, then? Yes, but it was a dream,
she said. Did we do it, I asked? Yes, we did, but no,
we didn't take his life. He murdered himself. It had
the dream of death, and we assisted. Fascinated we
became part of the cast, and coincidentally, just
before Mum's murder, which was another story, sitting
Indian style, in a half circle, Mum said consider
dreams, and we did.
You didn't really murder anyone, then, I asked? No,
we did. He's dead. It really didn't happen, I asked,
now, did it? A dream is ephemeral and haunting, Mum
said, but don't worry, it's not substantial. Years
later, after Mum's death, I inherited the fish tank,
and inspired, I retrieved Uncle Edward's skull,
cleaned it, and used it as a cast for a small bronze
mask Maria wore while we made love. This masks make
it clean, she said, clear, and more intense. I focus
better and really seem detached from self.
5.
The End? By Antonio, prose poem, first draft.
EPIGRAM:
"Ordinary skin floats, seems full of air, as my hands
flatten, bleed, and then simply decay, like a fire,
when the coals, cold, are blown by the dust across
the clearing when the livestock enter the pasture."
Antonio Corvino:
I have always been six years younger than my sister
Maria. I was never jealous. In 1975, when I was
eleven, I pushed Merry, my sister's two-year-old
first child, Meredith, down the large central
stairwell.
Merry was not really hurt, although she had cried,
but I knew it before it happened. Always did. Like a
movie in my head two seconds out of sequence. Why?
She was there. I knew endings. Could consult
timetables. I wanted to watch her out of balance,
struggling to catch her, in the brevity of the fall.
Slow motion. Meredith was not really hurt. At least,
she didn't die. No ambulance came. Bruises, I was
told.
Another Back Story:
When Antonio was one, his mother Victoria masturbated
her son, sucking on his penis after he nursed.
Sometimes, Antonio's seven-year-old sister, Maria
would milk his thing, as Mama directed, and while
Mama nursed the boy, he never cried. Antonio told
Maria, years later, How he dreamed himself as mother
and child, sister and brother, lover and infant. He
saw herself alive [what a curious thing to think or
say]; Maria told him she agreed, and that's what Mama
said. Mama, Maria had asked, did I kill the goldfish,
which had cooked one hot summer day, after a brief
vacation.
Did you feed them from your breast, Mama said? No, I
answered. I fed them fish food, silly. No, that's not
the same. They are not you. We could kill them. Can I
kill my brother, Antonio, Mama? I fed him. He fed
you, dear, don't you remember.
Just so you can know, after I had Merry, and had
milk, I made Antonio nurse. He was eleven. Didn't
really mind. One night he said he had been glued
there, and couldn't let go. I let him sleep. My tit
fell out, and the milk wouldn't stop running until he
woke, and I placed it back in his mouth.
Maria & Antonio:
I am angry and jealous. From the age of 14, after our
mother was killed, Maria protected us. I became more
than the father of her children, and a partner. I am
old when I was very small, Maria helped my mother
Victoria take sexual liberties. We certainly did
afterwards.
In 1957, when Maria was born, mother Victoria was
thirty. Maria helped her mother with Abel (born in
February, 1964), and sure, Maria knew her mother.
Maria had class, Antonio later said. She was tall,
and somewhat dominant herself. Antonio liked to play
the double game.
Maria and I were always partners. One day Victoria
dressed and fed, cleaned, another day, Maria cuddled,
simpered, and seduced. Pleasure was the air. I called
Maria, Sister-Mummy. When she gave birth to Meredith,
she would nurse daughter and child.
When Maria's first child, Meredith was hurt, after
that serious fall down the stairs when she was two,
Maria blamed Victoria not Antonio. What would have
happened had Maria know that the eleven year old
Antonio had let the child out of the crib, and when
she walked to the edge of the stairs, he pushed her
down them, walking away, down the other stairs, out
into the back yard, giving the appearance that he
wasn't home all afternoon.
MEREDITH IS NOT REAL!
Finally coming home with buddies, what happened, why
the ambulance, who got hurt? All of us are suffering.
Oh no, and the act completed, Maria asked how
Meredith get out of her crib and out the latched
door, she asked? Couldn't. Did you help Meredith,
Maria asked ten-year-old Antonio?
She is not real, you Stupid ass. You got to be
kidding. No, of course, you couldn't, you were with
your friends, and I saw you come back. From that day
forward mother and daughter never trusted the other.
Antonio laughed. He knew what had happened, and
wished he could run away, anywhere.
Maria was smart, and also savvy, Antonio told his
brother; She's no fool. Unusual connection. Antonio
let Maria have her way and the sister would back off
from the brother. Sure, when he was older, Able would
initiate the sex, beating her ass good.
One year, when he was seventeen, Antonio bought Maria
a huge strap on black dildo as a birthday present for
Maria. Antonio kept it himself for a month before
giving it. He kept it with his prize collection of
silk underwear, bras, and corsets stolen from a
French factory.
Sure, Antonio laughed, she'd fuck him in the ass,
call him a miserable queer fuck, and then pee in his
mouth. Antonio actually believed, when he was tied up
(Maria shaved his pubic hair), that Maria would cut
his cock off, as she threatened him with a large
knife.
Out on the town, Maria and Antonio were more than
matched. Hunting for all sorts, men, women, men and
women, children, they would pool resources, bait and
switch, haunting gay, lesbian and S&M bars, picking
up whomever fit their nightly scene. Dragging the
willing, and sometimes no so willing back to their
lair, they did what they could, or their guest/victim
would allow. Rape was not out of the questions.
Once, in they beat a woman, Hannah Kay Coffield, to
death when she refused Maria after Antonio had his
way with her. Hannah knew the score.
She laughed when they told her they worked as a team.
Who do you want? I'm no bleeding queer she said, but
you can watch, if you like, you fucken perverts. What
a night she kept saying almost to the end. It was
April, the drunken women said. I love Spring.
After Antonio finished, Hannah's head seem to clear,
and she asked to be taken home. Where am I. Fucken,
NJ, the tall, woman said. Shit. Did you like the
show? I am fucked up, she said, and when Maria helped
her on with her coat, while Antonio watched from the
couch, Maria kissed the woman, who started to
respond, and then pulling back, said, you are good
looking, and I like you both, but I'm fucken beat,
maybe another time, and Maria not appreciating No,
held Hannah while Antonio struck her down. OK, she
said. No, too late, and Maria hit the woman twice,
and falling down, ripped off her blouse, and sucked
her breasts, and then lifting up her ass, fingered
her cunt, smelling her brother's come, and picking up
an artist knife, she stabbed her belly, then her
neck, and bleeding, she beat her face and head until
she didn't move. Antonio stood stone-faced, doing
nothing, as the woman died. That'll teach her, and
then grabbing a dildo, she had strapped on, she
fucked the woman, who bled to death, unconscious,
when Antonio came again, in his sister's mouth, as
she sucked while she fucked, and afterwards in the
calm, they carried the dead woman down the stairs
into the back of their truck. Silent, invisible,
Antonio and Maria buried the woman woman's bones in a
well, underneath the concrete fallout shelter built
in 1948 by Antonio's Uncle,
Frightened, they cut up flesh, and then flushed the
small pieces down the toilet after grinding it in
Maria's sausage maker. At first, they reacted out of
fear. Finally, they kept the sausage, froze it.
The bones were boiled into soup, and the remnants
save, collected, buried, dropped in the river, or
lake. They never disposed of the bones in the same
place. They never murdered nine between April and
November 1990. Killing became life. What we did, our
passion, Antonio said, and whoever said a woman
couldn't match a man. She shows far less grief. I
truly don't care either once they are dead. While
they live, if they are pretty, and cooperate, or
don't cooperate, then I feel some remorse, although I
wouldn't use that strong a word Regret may be a
better word.
Antonio and Maria seduced many men and women. They
would enroll some of them in their bisexual antics.
Not murder or mayhem. Just run of the mill rough sex.
Sometimes, they went too far, and then, the feeding
frenzy would make them almost kill each other as well
as the victims.
They never completely crossed the line, but the new
the rage was possible. They protected each other as
kept outsiders, far away, except when they were
trapped, and bagged, as Lilith like to say. Rung up
for dessert, she'd laugh at Antonio.
Antonio knew she would take care of him. Hookers and
pimps are dysfunctional, but they are lonely and
rarely can find someone who will help them feel less
apart from themselves. Maria had turned one of her
girl friend's pimps into the police, a fact that
Antonio approves. Like some pimps, Antonio and Maria
dealt drugs but didn't use coke or freebase. What
Maria didn't know was that Antonio, while a taxi
driver, in college, had been a police undercover
informer. The cops knew him, but if there was any
suspicion, Antonio never worried; he falsely believed
he had certain "perks."
Maria couldn't resist Antonio. He was dark brown,
handsome, articulate, and could make her do whatever.
He had eyes reached into you; he would twist her arm,
and she would do anything he said, willingly. Maria
never resisted. She followed his lead. Antonio
symbolized what she never wanted but couldn't resist.
Like the times Maria's mother held her against her
much older brother's cock, and then grunted while she
was forced to sleep.
Maria was nine. Edward had crawled into bed; pull
down her pajama bottoms, reached under her nightshirt
pinch her invisible breasts while he rubbed his cock
against her ass. At first Maria who was three, liked
the attention. She had sex with Edward every day
until she was fifteen. Sometimes, her mother Victoria
would join. OK she said, and her life seemed to stop.
Maria even let her youngest sister, Catherine
explore. The children and adults would wind their
lives on the sheets making marks and spilling ghosts.
At first when Maria played, she pretend to sleep,
then after a while, she would open her eyes and
pretend she had no idea what she was doing. Edward
never fucked her. He only rubbed against her ass and
pussy with his cock making her legs messy.
Later in her life when she saw the stains come made
on the sheets, she wondered why her mother never
discovered what had happened. What Maria didn't know
was that her mother knew, but kept it a secret,
hoping it would go away. It didn't disappear.
If she didn't suck him off, he would beat her legs
and back until she made him come. Most of the time he
didn't have to force her. When she was thirteen it
started to feel good. Antonio reminded Maria of her
Father, Edward. She feared and loved the attention.
One time just before leaving home, she watched her
Father when he left the closet door open, and Maria
watched Johnny Meyers fuck his mother.
Join them she thought. Maria knew she had to leave
the old family and join the new, but where could she
stay. It's either money or sex. I know what I want
she said. Some older guys from her job at the
supermarket. They always joked with Maria, begging
her to go out. She likes one of them, but she also
didn't want to leave her brother. My father is
invisible she said. Mom says he's a gay, fuck Men, so
do I, and I am clean. Maria was afraid of how her
brother could hurt her Mother. Maria liked the
attention. But she hated hurting her Mother. Killing
her mother, smiling at her, was as Lilith told Abel
the greatest pleasure of her life. My other great
pleasure was the murder of two our weaker siblings my
dear brother Abel.
Maria wondered why her Mother did not accept what she
had to know had been happening all these years. Seems
she wanted my ass for sale. Antonio wanted more than
Maria. He hated women. He loved to take their money.
In jail he had fucked several queens in the ass. He
protected one, and in return she would suck him off.
Sometimes, he wondered if he had turned, he started
to imagine women with cocks, and it turned him on. He
loved porno movies. He was as fascinated by the cock
sucking and huge cocks. How they were stuffed in a
mouth. Antonio felt the tug and pull. Two directions
at once. Antonio would imagine a man, with a huge
cock. He had breasts, a soft face, and dressed in
silk corsets and support.
He fucks his Bitch in the ass, and inverts her sex.
In jail, he'd fuck some screaming queen in the ass
and imagine it was his bitch. He'd beat the faggot's
ass black and blue. He'd beat Maria black and blue.
She loved it. The Queers loved it.
All violence, for Antonio, used the pretext of sex as
a medium. Antonio loved watching "Slope" bondage
films, as he called them.
Some Jap broad was tied with a thousand yards of
heavy rope. Her ass was full. Maria, or whomever
Antonio imagined, had her cunt broken open and her
ass bloodied. Her mouth was stuffed with pee and
shit. She didn't resist. Antonio came all over her
mouth, face, made her gag. He beat her until the
welts, raised, were rough and hot to the touch. Her
backside, tits, and cunt suffered the same abuse.
Afterwards, in prison, he'd kick the crap out of some
faggot kid doing the job. Tides do turn. Eighteen
months without a lady can turn any of us, Antonio
feared. He never completely turned like some cons. He
never willingly sucked anyone off, or give a quick
turn around, while be sucked off. He'd kick ass
before he would allow himself to be butt-fucked. Two
black dudes beat the crap out of him, pulled his
pants down. One raped his ass, and then a prison
guard broke his nightstick when over Antonio's back.
Antonio couldn't believe the punishment. Antonio did
think of Maria while he was raped. He wanted her as
well as a huge black cock surrounded with soft pink
tits. Milky tits even. Big tits and ass. Fat women.
Huge, rolling over him breaking his back, beating his
face with their cocks while he sucked their tits and
cocks. Making them come. Swallowing. Huge black and
brown women with enormous tits and telephone poll
cocks. In the movies, his mind directed the scenes.
Blood, piss, shit, come rubbed everywhere at once.
Young, old, passive, violent. Being beaten and
hurting back. Why both ends. Antonio was confused. He
couldn't separate the soft from the hard, his
mother's sex, the parts beneath the hair from the
womb from his penis or his hidden ass. Mum was my
skin and I was her nerve, he often said of Victoria.
Too bad Maria wasn't as strong. She would curse me
for saying that, I know. It's true just the same. And
my how she planned it all. I was certainly a willing
partner although when we have sex now, it's ordinary.
Nothing raw or out of balance, revealing as a silk
shirt worn wet on a barstool. Something more than
naked is being fully clothed in our own ego and its
dissolution.
-------
Comments appreciated
seanfarragher@msn.com
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 9/4/2000)
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.
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