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Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6: Angela, Aaron and Henry  Foursome?
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 From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel
http://www.taximurders.com/  (updated August 28, 2000)
http://www.farragher.com   poetry site updated 9/8/00

mirror site: http://www.txm6.com

0854XA The Stairwell from 0058Xyam angela.txt
File: 0854XA from 0058xyam angela.doc


Foursome? 
Aaron, Angela, Henry with Christina
and a year later, Laurie

June 1990 
ANGELA

At 34, Angela, was truly dazzling: open red blouse 
against faded bronze lipstick. 

Reclined, sexually involved, Angela revealed ample 
breasts and their cleft center lifted hugging prick 
and balls rose with the arch of her cobalt eyes. 

Blasted with Holst's and his tense strident harmony, 
out of his Planets, when Jupiter's Heart closed too 
early. Angela's wet mouth, luscious but too warm from 
hours of kissing, rode now above Henry, covering his 
face, loins, cock, keeping the dark in his place, and 
as she devoured him, and he swallowed her. 

Nothing was held back, then nor now. Angela remembered 
how the two men had fucked her ass, cunt, tits and 
mouth. 

Holding Henry to her nipple she felt the warmth, the 
drawing out and inside, as the rush, pulled down to 
empty her milk in thin pools on his belly. Squirting 
him in the eye, he slapped back playfully at her 
nipples, striking them softly, pinching the left one 
and sucking the right while she pushed him deeper 
inside, grinding. Swarming above Henry, Angela 
imagined the double cocks of her two lovers. Riding 
his harness, she swirled her ass long black hair with 
Henry's vibrating counter bass finally brushed 
against, clutched by contoured clit and their blind 
compulsion. Angela called fucking blind and in the 
dark the one geographic compass that never spins out 
of bounds unless he moves wrong and then you grab it, 
insert it, almost annoyed, but driving after more, 
making the multiple infusions from two cocks that 
ultimate cocktail. 

When she rested after fucking Henry and Aaron, Angela 
let the semen leak onto her fingers, spreading her 
legs wide she would rub it on her tits or into the 
mouths of the men making them taste the other. Henry 
welcomed it. Aaron, well, he would struggle, and I had 
my way. I liked the struggle.

"This nectar keeps me alive," she said. "I thrive. Watch 
the bloom, notice how my eyes are full and my hands a 
fever, dancing with fragrant musk."

When sex radiated, Angela played perfectly round with 
sharps and flats, and every whole in one sharp breath, 
more than a scream rising out of temporal waves to 
flutter past eyes and fingertips.

During this mass, her breasts, arms, wings, branches, 
twigs were deftly gathered then tenderly bound by 
Henry and Aaron, as offering. 

In Angela's church, Nave and transept were generous 
and graceful, softly gathered, entirely glamorous, her 
natural veils framed her pale neck, dark, thick sienna 
nipples, bounded with the pale blue sky of mother's 
milk.

Angela simply had, more than that voluptuous sheen and 
flesh arbor that Rubens and Renoir seduced more simply 
and with greater resolution than Euclid's ancient 
Greek wistful theorems. How sex changed when there 
were four outer arms to caress one woman.


Good friends: Henry and Aaron, (when the stars were 
right, Angela often quipped), took turns making love 
with Angela, who had four months earlier, given birth 
to a daughter by Aaron, named Sarah, who now slept in 
a cradle in a small well lit room off this larger 
darker one. That it was morning and the sun washed hot 
and bright seemed odd when you consider how night 
dominates the calculus of sexual play. 

We forget how daylight and that other side, fear, step 
up to the horizon and pull us to oblivion. We need 
that gray twilight. 

We aspire towards absolute abandon as lovers' creep 
atop tits, ass, balls, cunt, cock, clit, armpit, and 
cleft, to rub, penetrate, stimulate and simulate. 
Henry, Angela and Aaron bent knee to suck whatever was 
there and not. 

Now, after several orgasms, for her, had finished, 
really finished the morning well.  

As any good mathematician or artist, you must throw 
another stroke or two. The dice never quit, and the 
stars spin brighter than ribald climax or orgy. Dull, 
bright, rusted and luminous, but never morose, the 
colors congeal, as the ejaculating dark. If you're 
innocent, you fell the thick semen or woman licks the 
back of your thighs, coming between the ass and the 
sun. 

Few of us are truly innocent (man, woman, priest, or 
Rabbi). We are not done in by too early, too furtive 
passion. We are murdered by fear, hidden agendas, and 
that simply too awful prescience, we scrambled in a 
thousand million dreams, and called death parts one to 
ten octillions (10 to the 27th power).

Throw another and, yes, it grinds dark, almost 
painful, remote and skewed like a more dismal art than 
sun and invisible dancers. What is the key? How does 
pleasure mingle with pain, as if arousal and 
expulsion, acceptance and ache can be forgotten once 
proclaimed?



THE STAIRWELL From Aaron's Studio to Loft Apartment

Slowly and quietly, for such a large man (more than 
six foot three and 240 lb.), Aaron climbed the noisy 
iron staircase of his well-organized, three-story 
machine shop art studio to watch his wife make love 
with his best friend, Henry.

Wednesday morning was Henry's alone, as Thursday was 
Aaron's, and on Saturday and Sunday, the three lovers 
played, inviting Christina, Henry's lover, to the 
games, and although they tired of artificial 
divisions, as Henry often mocked, the use and abuse of 
schedules kept power and disorder divided.

"How artificial," Henry complained. "How do we know 
what we want"? 

Henry seemed to Angela, at almost fifty, more the 
ample, insatiable child than the gray and white hewn 
poet and flamboyant adult bassoon of writing workshops 
and taxi cab unions.

Having been Henry's friend for almost fourteen years, 
Aaron trusted the poet more naturally than his mundane 
CPA brother, David. It was more than the brotherhood 
of the arts, Aaron mocked, slightly defensive.

Angela understood Henry and Aaron's kinship, and she 
passionately helped them cross and protect what had 
been once for the three (or four) of them, a rigid and 
forbidden bisexual frontier. 

"OK for two girls and guy," Henry laughed the first 
time she suggested the three of them fuck. 

"But never two guys and a girl, right? Not even if I 
want it. Not even if I want your cocks in my ass and 
cunt and mouth all at once.

"You would need three men for that," Henry mocked.

"OK," Angela stood up, pushing her tits into Henry's 
arm and her mouth against his, expecting a kiss.

"Who," Henry pushed her away, playfully.

"Finn?" Angela said it quickly getting right back into 
Henry's face, this time rubbing her fingertips against 
Henry's nipples pushing his tee shirt up, grabbing 
him.

"Not that fucker," Henry pinched her back.

"Isaac," she teased, letting Henry play with her 
breasts, dropping her arms.

"He's 90," Henry continued to milk her nipples, softer 
now.

"So," Angela said much too loudly, pulling Henry down 
to the floor, letting them rest against the arms of 
the white couch, feeling his hands inside her thighs 
then inside her underpants rubbing her lips and 
carefully avoiding her clit. Knowing that teasing 
drove her crazy.

"Now, dear Henry, you know, if you can, you will be 
fucking at 90."

"He's also has only one arm and is crippled with 
drink," Henry added.

"No, he has a stump and that could be interesting. And 
besides, I have a young friend who fucks him. She told 
me all about it. Says it's great."

Henry laughed at Angela. "You're full of shit, you 
know."

Pausing, Henry looked away from Angela, shaking his 
head, almost doubled up. Suddenly, he stopped, Henry 
quickly asked. Who fucks that old Vet?

"Laurie, Aaron's model, she answered. She told Aaron 
and I about it when she posed last month. She told me 
how Isaac helped her keep her head straight. I wanted 
to give him something Laurie said. All I have is my 
ass. He didn't want it. I cried and made him fuck me 
with his stump.

"I met her. She's the most beautiful . . ."

Not letting Henry finish, "Laurie is more than that and 
Isaac is not 90," Angela pushed Henry away. And 
besides, she's not a whore.

"Doesn't matter, Henry added. OK OK. You like her. 
Good." 

Henry's sympathy for Laurie was obvious.

Angela loved Henry's compassion and she loved his 
masks. Underneath the hard man, she mocked is a soft 
dreamer.

"I know," Henry, added, turning to Angela, and 
suddenly he remembered Laurie's red hair, green eyes, 
and the turn of her long legs as they left his cab 
last week.

"Wouldn't you like to see?"

"What," Henry was in a different place.

"What," Henry quipped louder, impatient.

Whispering to Henry up close in his ear,
"Wouldn't you like to watch me fuck Isaac?"

Henry quickly returned to Angela, and asked what 
again?

"Fuck you," Angela said to herself, but she kissed 
Henry again, realizing she was also at fault for the 
Isaac Laurie distraction.

"Laurie and Isaac," Henry teased the question at 
Angela again. "I knew she modeled for you. I had seen 
her here, but I never thought you two were close. Have 
you had her? Has Aaron?

"Ask Aaron. I never kiss and tell. Yes, I have loved 
her. I don't keep tabs on Aaron. If I did, or he did, 
you wouldn't be fucking me right now."

Henry had just slid into Angela silently feeling her 
heat swallow him while he carefully watch her eyes 
slowly close as he slowly entered her.

"What are you thinking about," Henry asked Angela?

"You watching Laurie and I," Angela laughed, opening 
her eyes. Correcting herself, suddenly, she added, 
"No, you and Laurie and Isaac fucking. Shut the fuck 
up and fuck, please."

Half an hour later, Aaron slowly appeared. Angela's 
legs were wide apart. Her cunt was swollen, exposed. 
Her lips were thick. Her tits, milky. 

Angela had just had this most perfect orgasm, she 
claimed. "I kept thinking of that old man and his 
stump." 

Henry hearing her fantasies after they fucked 
imagined Laurie and Isaac while Angela made Henry come 
with her mouth. "Only she wasn't sucking Henry. Isaac 
fucked his stump against her cunt while she sucked his 
soft cock. He came in an instant. I knew he would. 
Next time will be better."


DOUBLER STUFF

Two weeks later, at a drunken party, Angela led the men 
to fuck her ass and cunt at once. It hurt, she 
remember, she had forgotten the KY.

For the past three years, Angela clearly had enjoyed 
the men. Never could go back to the simple number two,
Angela posed, crossing her arms, taking on that gray
delusion called physical strength. 

Isn't it wonderful how these men bless and anoint my 
life, Angela thought; they bring so much to our kids 
and us? We are in this together; Angela pressed Henry 
for more space, when Henry complained that he only 
wanted Angela and not Aaron. 

Amazed on how the threesome grew, planning for each 
event took on more and more attention.

I could never live with out them, she whispered to 
Christina, Henry's old lover, one of Angela's best 
friends and a long time sexual partner.

For almost five years Henry had lived with Christina
and her bisexual lover, Jean.

In 1989 Jean was killed in an auto accident. Jean had
been badly hurt but survived. Henry was not with them.

All of this was true, especially when Christina 
complained that Henry seemed too distracted when he 
makes love to me, but above all, Angela thought, 
Christina did make it clear she was not jealous. But 
just before leaving, returning back to the world, this 
image of this unholy man takes place within and at the 
end. Christina's voice would trail off, speaking to 
her, convincing some ghost, perhaps. 

"When Laurie was with Henry, living here with you, I 
often wondered how Laurie could stand it, I never 
could let him, keep all of you, I'm too selfish," 
Christina insisted. 

Got to keep some of him for myself, and then Christina 
would laugh at her silly objections, considering all 
that had happened these past years. How small jealousy 
is," Christina said, but "I'd give Henry up, Angela, to 
bring my lover Jean back." 

"One of the reasons I love Henry," and then Christina
paused. "Henry helps me keeps Jean inside. I know 
he does. When I love him," Christina kissed 
Angela and then Aaron and Henry; I feel her eyes, her 
mouth, and her breasts inside Henry. He is more than 
male, and less than female. He plays in Jean's heart 
with me. He is Jean. We were such an incredible play
of hands and mouths. All of us.

And when Henry comes I imagine Jean grinding against
him, and then, almost beside myself, I cry, when I come,
missing Jean's laugh as I would miss great rivers or
dark gray green sunrises.

"How I miss ... How we miss her, Angela kissed 
Christina, kissing her hair, and feeling the quiet 
lift of Christina's breasts pushing against her hand. 
How odd what we feel at times, Angela said, turning 
back to Henry or Aaron. Finding the closest man, 
that's what I need, Christina laughed, in a trance, 
sadder as we assumed. 

Death can claim more than our breath. Making the dream 
shorter than the folly. Is reality folly, after all? 
Wait.

"I am the Resurrection and their Light," Angela paused, 
intent. 

Aroused Angela loved to fondle human male or female 
nipples. Two cocks at the same time rubbed against the 
other was another fantasy she had made real. Two cocks 
in tow holes. Seems too natural to be perverse, she 
laughed at herself.  Suddenly taken back to her 
childhood. Angela played a fond movie over and over. So 
vulnerable sitting there she remembered. 

"I watched. he playhouse walls so dark. He came with me. 
Was fifteen. We hid in much younger sister's 
playhouse. Told him in no uncertain terms. I wanted to 
play there. He said he felt foolish. He was 23. 
I kept his attention and got what I wanted. I was 
vulnerable. There was a dark gray ocean flashing into 
scarlet. I remember it every time Aaron and I make 
love. He had a sister who would sit there and watch. 
She was older. I loved the way she touched herself and 
hated that she touched her brother. She was my best 
friend. The first time June and I made love, she was 
fourteen. I was 13. I was never innocent and initiated 
the pleasures. She refused to love me when her brother 
was present, and couldn't stop touching him when he 
caressed my sex. She looked intent and I opened my 
arms. She shook her head, and her brother looked 
around like he had been caught fucking his own sister. 
Drunk, one darker night, she confessed that she let 
him touch her breasts while she made herself come. He 
never fucked me, she insisted. I sucked him off once, 
and he was shocked when I let him come in my mouth. He 
never fucked me, she repeated allowing the liquor to 
slur her kisses. I tasted her clit that night and she 
came screaming. I laughed." 

I am always bridge Angela would insist, faking it 
sometimes, pretended lamentations, as the men, really 
Roman twins, Aaron and Henry touched the rasp of her 
face kissing inner ears, shadowing the blush of her 
breast with the knuckles of clasped brows.


January 1992
TWO YEARS LATER BEFORE LAURIE IS ABDUCTED

Neither man had ever wanted a man, but in this 
bisexual triad, or quartet, - Laurie flew above 
divergent rivers, palisades and plateau to leap free 
style, seduced and ribald, playfully fucked out of the 
sky into canal, river, vagina, mouth, and anus.

Only the foretaste of some blessed anxiety slowed the 
pace and the lascivious chase. 

No hesitation. Neither soft tongue nor limp prick dark 
performance inhibited a very careful, well oiled 
penetration. 

Laurie laughed when Angela acted out the mimicry of 
ear lobe kisses, and breast fucking movies as one 
tongue became two, moving Laurie out of Aaron, or 
Henry astride with Laurie dressed between more 
lubricant than actor. 

Male or female parts were obscured, and the blur 
flashed opened cunt and ass warned by the close when 
semen rose in sails and milk flooded the swells.

I gave them my belly, and they healed my emptiness 
with their ardor. I gave them my breasts, and they ran 
my milk as blue words and red space, forging love from 
the chaste canvas of my cunt, their balls, pricks, and 
even the half dreams from phonetic whims of poem and 
unsettled verse. 

I called them my fountains for obvious effect, and I 
raged with each flare of semen, shine of saliva and 
rave of blood. I deeply dressed my orgasm with their 
tender satisfaction as they did mine with the congress 
of their fingers and lips. Each human face was 
becoming the foil for the other's grace.



The Bedroom:

Protected in her lap, Henry Whitman, poet and arm 
chair taxi driver, drew Angela's milk into his mouth, 
one half of his face concealed by her round breast, 
satisfying one thirst while Aaron, painter and a much 
quieter man than Henry perched in an ancient rocking 
chair. 

Perched under and leaning against one of his 
portraits, stretched halfway across the other side of 
the room, Aaron's feet up pushed slowly against the 
wall, rhythmically pumping his legs against the wall 
to propel him. 

Sometimes the loner, Aaron liked to sway in his 
rocking chair at the foot of the bed. Five or six feet 
from the couple, he seemed closer, rocking gently, as 
if he were holding an infant. Aaron, as the artist 
voyeur, had fused with Henry and Angela. 

Painting quite a picture he, Aaron was obviously 
aroused but also intent on not showing his feelings. 
His hands may have been clean, but his face, streaked 
with Payne's gray and umber, suggested that the 
assured painter was wild and possessed, possibly more 
out of control than his attitude suggested.

"I can't get enough of both of you," Aaron said, 
smiling, you're perfect.

"ow long you been there," Angela, smiled at Aaron 
brushing her hair back, and squinting. "I can never see 
you when I am not wearing my contacts."

"That's not important. I can see you," Aaron rocked 
softer. "Angela, you have the most beautiful breasts 
and Henry, your mouth is full like a sacrificial 
blowjob." 

Aaron laughed, almost giggled. Angela lifting 
her head, throwing her hair back, "you are one terrible 
con artist," Aaron, she laughed. "Why don't you pull up 
a chair, and I'll provide curb service, lifting her tit
up to him and making it streak blue against the white 
walls.

"That is if you don't think my ass is too fat," Angela 
sang. "You know. I love it."

"I'm looking inside, love," Aaron paused, motionless, 
trying to decide if he would stay put, or move closer 
towards them.

"At my fat. Yuck," she softly shook her head, and 
Henry, who had seem truly the silent infant looked up 
for a second, without fully releasing the nipple, 
before Angela gently pushed him back down.

"No trouble from you now," she admonished Henry.

"Fucking Madonna, you agree Henry," Aaron said in his 
fake Irish accent affected to mimic Henry, adding at 
the end, "I'm just not sure which one." 

"Jealous, dear one. There's one here for you too," 
Angela said, grasping her free nipple, teasing it, 
making the swollen tip, shine. 

Sometimes Angela called Aaron dear one as she called 
Henry, Sir, mocking them. Angela liked to play, and 
what she loved about both these men were their 
capacities to laugh at themselves with her. And when 
Aaron didn't immediately respond to Angela's 
invitation, suddenly, she playfully, directed a wisp 
of her pale, white milk towards Aaron missing him by 
several feet. Actually, the milk had landed on Henry's 
arms and chest, and Aaron, pretending to dodge the 
track, stood up, moving towards Angela, who now closed 
her eyes, shifting her face upward in a grand gesture 
that was obviously sincerely felt but at the same time 
could be interpreted as affected. 

Aaron licked Henry's arms and chest, cleaning the 
milk, and then leaning into Angela, Aaron caressed 
hair, eyes, and open lips. Quietly, Aaron settled 
down, moving forward back to the most distant corner 
of their bed. Resting, at peace, he leaned hard 
against his mural sized, massive but serene, blue, 
gray and russet painting that he had set up to reflect 
late morning light from the front bedroom window, and 
within that heat, the painting, luminous, framed the 
NYC skyline.

The effect of the changes could have drawn Aaron 
physically closer to Angela, but his stiff, closed 
posture although superficially jocular and light 
strained at the noose of indifference. Aaron said he 
felt odd, but turned on, when he encouraged Angela's 
intimacy with another man. Sex was not usually a 
problem. They, by agreement, could be sexually 
involved with any partner. Angela recently had 
explored her attraction to very feminine women.

"I wish I had my camera," Angela said.

"Why," Aaron was startled by the comment.

"You're beautiful," Angela said, "especially when your 
body frames your larger than life paintings. Set 
against the flat blue field of your work, you would 
make a dynamic and inscrutable photograph."

"I always wanted to be the subject of a coffee table 
book. What if I was naked, would that work?"

"Only if you had a hard-on," Angela laughed, caressing 
Henry who seemed almost asleep, his wet lips 
presumably pressed to tit.

"I know the caption," Aaron stood up, walking back 
towards Angela, as he drew an imaginary line against 
the field of his painting, "The artist fucks with 
naked friends and children."

"Better save some for the baby," Aaron teased, forcing 
his head against Henry's, jostling his friend to 
dislodge his mouth from Angela's nipple. Failing to 
move, Henry, pretended annoyance. Aaron, starting from 
her belly button then licked and suckled at Angela's 
other breast, accepting the quasi equality.

"I've plenty," Angela said, "the more you take, the 
more I make." 

"Paraphrasing Lennon, now," Aaron paused, grinned.

"You mean Lenin," Henry stopping for a second, pulled 
Angela down, pinning her arms, very much alive.

"Quiet, you." 

Pushing Henry back up, and then quickly kissing him,
Besides, I nursed the baby just before you guys got here.
She'll be sleeping for a least an hour more.

"You hope," Henry said, as he stopped for a moment, 
smiling up at Angela who stopped playing with Henry's 
ear. 

"Don't," Henry purred, "that feels too ..."

"GOOD," Aaron cried, leaning up, stopping, his chin 
wet, "now I am jealous," he teased.

"You should be," Henry mocked, "I got the chocolate 
one," opening his mouth, self satisfied, almost smug.

"You always did have a preference for the darker 
values," as Aaron, who sometimes played the outsider, 
the black, the Jew to Henry's holy WASP, seemed almost 
sarcastic, which seem somewhat out of character. 
Perhaps, he was slightly put off by Henry's 
possessiveness of his wife. Aaron truly loved Henry, 
and Angela, who was in perfect tune with Aaron, 
understood the disruption, and she took control.

"Hey," Angela protested. "Get back there," as she 
gently pulled Henry's hair, directing him into her 
liquid breast. "You guys have no idea how good 
this...sure you could have two women suck, but there's 
much ...more. I can't believe how wet... " 

Henry and Aaron resumed furiously, ignoring Angela's 
hint. Quietly they fed like twins. Angela noticed how 
Henry curled up his fingers like Sarah and Henry 
suckled harder than Aaron, used his teeth, gently, but 
the discomfort was good and she encouraged Henry to 
nibble by her sighs while she twisted his nipples, 
then twisting him as hard as she could.

"Stop. Feels too good," she said. "No, Aaron, you 
can't bite. I told you that. You know I like it, but 
if you make me too sore, I won't be able ... to nurse 
...Sarah."

"Hey, that was me," Henry said, "not Aaron, got us 
mixed up."

"Who gives a fuck who it is," she laughed. Don't you 
fucken stop," she said, pulling Aaron back, who 
seriously resisted. He seemed annoyed, which was out 
of character for the placid Aaron.  

Aaron who had stood up, now, fully erect, played with 
his cock, as if it itched or needed something more. He 
looked at the happy couple, mother and child, he 
thought. Need my sketch pad, and he stopped feeling 
slightly put out by Angela's mistake. I guess I really 
don't mind, and he smiled, and Angela grabbed his 
playful hand pushing it away from his cock, startling 
Henry, with her loss of concentration.

"That's mine," Angela said, pulling Aaron back towards 
the bed by his cock. 

She did it gently, not insistent, and Aaron's knees 
buckled, as he sat down on the edge of the bed half 
facing Angela and Henry, enjoying the play. Suddenly 
Henry reached up, seeing the action, and placed his 
hand on Angela's, helping her, feeling her intense 
heat from Aaron's cock through her hands. Henry wasn't 
actually touching Aaron, exactly, not that he minded. 
In helping Angela soothe Aaron, Henry said to the 
husband and wife, I love you both. Henry didn't need 
to speak. They knew, and Aaron, falling closer to 
Henry, brushed Angela's hair, caressing it.

Suddenly Aaron pulled away, but sensing a turn, Angela 
held Henry's head firmly to her breast while she took 
Aaron's fully hard cock in her lips. Taking just the 
head, slowly, she leaned forward swallowing it, then 
pulling away, going back, licking the head, she 
concentrated on his hole. 

Allowing her tongue to linger on the ridges, she 
stopped, looking up into his eyes, she rose up on her 
knees kissed Aaron, pushing him against the now erect 
Henry who sat up in the bed, wondering not what had 
happened, but where this was going.

Suddenly, as if to say it's Henry's turn, Angela 
surprised Henry, and silently she tenderly elbowed 
Aaron off the bed. Aaron didn't resist. Getting up, he 
pretended to slump to the floor- a wounded bird, 
struck in his heart.

[Fade to White then Black, White again warming 
crimson]

Top of Leven Household Stairs... Moments Later.

"You fucken guys are too much," Aaron said seeming 
almost too sincere. "Anyway, have fun. I got to get 
back to work. Some of us have to earn a living," 
patting Henry's ass, slapping it hard, as he moved 
away, then returning, almost an afterthought, hitting 
Angela equally hard on her rounded ass, raised upward, 
on her side, striking what he knew was the sweet spot, 
showing no favoritism. 

"You deserve one too, darling, Aaron laughed, 
watching Henry nestle with Angela, looking almost too 
certain of himself, too comfortable, and then throwing 
his head back. Aaron left the room quickly, falling 
down the spiral staircase, looking back only once. His 
eyes reveled nothing of the longing he already missed.

Shit, my belly aches, Aaron thought, and for a 
moment, he fought the urge to return, as he paused on 
the stairs, near the last stair, out of sight of the 
busy couple, resisting the urge to fly up the stairs 
to join them. Knowing he could, but that he couldn't 
take back what he knew was not his. 

At that moment, when will and sense turned, Aaron saw 
the furious lips of his latest half finished mural 
pressed against the wall. Illuminated by interior 
light: reds, grays, browns, covering canvas 5 feet by 
8 feet, filled more than Aaron's hands and his cock
gently hardened again knowing the pleasure of
painting sometimes exceeded the pleasure of making love. 

Aaron painted to restore himself, and what he borrowed 
from life and dreams was not tangible unless he 
renewed himself with the fundamental work of mixing 
paint with canvas and, of course, lips with skin. More 
than synergism.

Painting was not better than making love; it was 
making love, and he knew that Angela understood that, 
and how unconditionally he loved her, and she him.

"What better bottom line, what sustenance," Aaron 
said out loud, to no one, laughing with himself at the 
"delicacy" of his allusions. Aaron knew the patterns 
of their pleasures. 

Later that night, after five or six hours of painting, 
and a few hours of mutual sleep, when Henry left his 
bedroom, retiring to his own room, Angela would be 
ready, horny, alone, and terribly turned on. Teasing 
Aaron with her blow-by-blow description of what she 
did with Henry -tempering her story. 

Adding, in her generous manner, layers of details that 
she knew fed Aaron's sexual imagination. She described 
Henry easily and demonstrated what he did by 
approximating (where possible) on Aaron.

"You know Henry." she said. "Aaron is always too eager. He 
likes it too fast. I slow him down. Can't have him 
finishing before I get going." 

Angela lied of course. Instinctively, she knew she
loved how both men took control. Henry wanted Angela
as he drove his poems through her skin. 

Angela wanted Aaron painting her body with his brush.
Laughing at the thought, she remembered how she almost
came when Aaron literally painted her body with schoolhouse
paints. "He made my nipples muddy." Angela laughed. "He
made my nipples leak through the paint. I wanted the grace
of both their arts." 

Lacking that essential control, "unlike you, dear Aaron, 
Henry seemed to give up too early," but he made up for it
later," she added, lying again. 

Aaron knew Angela liked to protect him. He knew she 
loved to be touched and fucked in a human way by men 
and women. He knew she loved multiple partners. He 
knew she loved sex beyond the experience of any one 
man or woman.

Actually, Aaron believed that Angela preferred women 
to men. She told him once that she would love to make 
love for hours with one woman, and then quickly fuck 
at the end, with one man or many, so at the end 
penetration would quiet the yearning for more.

"I never have enough," Angela said. "I never know when to 
stop. My body aches for days afterwards. I love to be 
taken and take. I love to control and be spanked. I 
loved to hurt and be hurt. I love to feed and be fed. 
I love to watch an orgasm as much as I love to know it 
from the inside." Saying this to Aaron, one night, 
Aaron walked away. He came back with Henry and some 
lady Henry was fucking.

"Fuck her. I want to watch," Aaron said. The girl 
laughing said to Henry, "you sure know some wild, 
fucken folks."

Henry, startled, stopped for a second. Tried to get 
out this challenge. Angela kissed the woman and took 
hold of Henry's cock, and the four of them were wound 
together like wondrous beasts sprawled into their own 
nebula.

"We love Henry," Angela added, trying to include 
Aaron, not that he needed her refrain. No chorus was 
necessary. Angela knew her partner, Aaron. This 
certainty made the threesome more than pleasure. 
Everyone knew what he or she could give or take back. 
Boundaries were not perfect, but sublime, and they 
teased one way, or another, at the edge curled back, 
or forward on the lip of the sea, as the flood pressed 
outside and one partner became the other's convoluted 
tease, and the spirits fused. 

Simple? Almost?

As Angela spoke, or didn't speak, Angela held Aaron's 
face in both her hands, possessing him by lifting her 
ass, tightening her thighs around his waist, pulling 
his (and then their) gasp inside, holding it by its 
rush, anticipating the tilt and lift of her cunt. 

Angela felt the lunge of his mouth or cock from that 
moist promontory to fact, fantasy and then the return 
as lifting up the hill the skier drops faster, or 
holding the line the yacht keeps high on the wave out 
of reach of the wake.

One orgasm becomes a thousand, in fact, uncounted.

Yes, Aaron and Angela and Henry had an easy, undefined 
longing. They knew the joy of enduring triangular 
proportions. Want and need were entangled, but not 
confused. Held in balance by the reasonable symmetry 
of patience and the knowledge that grace bestows on 
those who know how to let go of what they cannot 
possess.

The blend of their limbs with their sexual parts 
lifted the puzzle from the table to the mirror, and 
the two men and one woman laughed at that partial, 
distorted reflection. How can we know from the 
outside, what we cannot reasonably know from the 
inside, Angela mused, kissing Aaron, stopping him, as 
he quickly undid the buttons of his shirt.

"Let me catch up," Aaron said, racing higher, his mouth 
open.

"Slow down, darling," Angela continued, breathing 
softly, teasing Aaron, as she caressed and then lifted 
first one and then another of her breasts out from her 
nursing bra, feeling the comfort of the air and the 
loss of control. 

Finally, she threw the thin cotton tee shirt she wore 
for comfort and ease of access across the room. Tits 
arched upward, her low voice, its pitch reduced by 
ardor, trembling, amplified, she leapt as sorcerer 
into what once would have once been called, centuries 
ago, forbidden "dirty," prurient witchcraft.

Sometimes the songs Angela sang or uttered for Aaron 
resembled the echo of the whale as they returned to 
greet the long limber dick of the bull as it slithered 
underwater into a cunt large enough for a man's body.

Angela was wet as she thought about the great horses 
or whales copulating, and yes, oh so ready for Aaron 
to finish what Henry had started. 

"See," Angela squealed to herself, under her breath, 
racing her heart, feeling the moisture gather louder, 
lifting her fingers up, cooling them in the January 
air.

"Yes, you felt it too, that inhuman song didn't you," 
and Aaron whispering now, slowed, resuming his normal 
pace.

"More a human song, Sweets," Angela caressed Aaron's 
face, speaking softly, opening her mouth anticipating 
her kiss, trailing off, while he marked her in his 
mind with a half opened mouth and an expressive 
tongue. Whales are more profound. Whistling it, he 
said, "shut the fuck up," and laughed.

Aaron didn't hear the last phrase. His mouth, and the 
last phrase trapped Angela's breath, and its 
direction, was swallowed inside Henry, absorbed and 
comfortable in the fold of his hands on Angela's face, 
neck, and lips. 

"From no where," Angela spoke, breaking off the kiss, 
letting the last tease of her tongue linger as a fuck 
between his tongue and lips. 

"Yes I love," Angela continued, Henry's "unabashed 
"vulnerability (resuming the flow of the previous 
conversation), "but yours, my husband, is more rounded, 
complete." 

Angela mused, fondling Aaron's hands, then breast and 
nipples, pressing her breasts against Aaron's arm, as 
if to say, welcome, these tits are for you, they miss 
you, we are full, brimming, hurting, almost, please, 
now, yes, I've come home, found my own way back. 

"Thanks for your gift. Here's mine." she spoke so soft it 
was barely sound.

Angela ruffled Aaron's hair, charmed by its thinning 
and the crows feet around his eyes, as Aaron suckled, 
she felt his comfort and vulnerability.

"Good and Plenty," Aaron giggled, almost coughing.

"Now, hush, dear lover, swallow," Angela laughed at 
that reversal. "We don't want any mess, now do we?"

Aaron didn't laugh, but he smiled, returning, robust 
seizing Angela's nipple, and said absolutely nothing 
more, answering in his mind, "yes dear." 

Hopeless, he thought, looking up at Angela's eyes, 
mouth, and the mountains of her flesh, holding that 
flush as memory, while he tasted what was sweet, 
taking inside more than the milk that was truly 
perfect, as Angela directed. 

Angela turned suddenly crushing her other tit against 
his cheek, finding his dick, saying the word aloud, 
where is it now, that cock, dear cock, rubbing his 
balls deftly, squeezing them, making his belly rise 
and fall (like civilization she laughed to herself) as 
her breath lifted into that plateau before the fall 
and rise, nine times nine and more, but alas, perhaps 
no further. "How I wished I could rub my own cock while 
I nurse," Angela giggled as she held him. Wouldn't that 
be wonderful? Having dick and tits. "We could share. 
Perhaps in this other world," Aaron could bear the 
pregnancy and birth, endure the stress before periods, 
and the anxiousness of wondering, as the case may be, 
am I or am I not pregnant. 

When I was fifteen, I held those fears invisible.
I knew nothing. But now, here, inside with my lover,
I am well learning more about how full and complex
I can become when I am love and not just in love.

 He knows me. No, he thinks he does. I don't really
know him. Yes, I do. Now, here I do. I am inside his
skin. Wait, let me tell him.

"You know, dear, no you can't," Angela said aloud 
then stoking, starting from nowhere, yet speaking 
clearly and softly, "that ache before being empty. 
Now, don't say a word, listen ..."

"First you are full, then released. Years, later,
when you're dry, closed, angry, just looking backward
to this minute, now, restores that ache, no love,
and time compressed, simple resists until the letdown 
revives, and the ache quickly restored closes the 
circle between birth and termination. No, I mean 
death. Why can't I use the word "death" when I'm 
nursing. Why does nursing make me linger there? The 
milk will stop as my orgasm, no actually his. Yes, it 
does stop sometime, but while it lasts, let the ache 
linger outside, watching the skyline for deadly 
microbes and murder. How morbid? 

"Why do I feel as we all do, that call, backward to 
hell and salvation, or is it heaven and brimstone. 
Please dear husband stay with my breast and let me 
come into your ear with my growl."




-------

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 8/13/2000)

TxM6 Sites:
http://www.taximurders.com
http://www.taximurders.com/enfer
http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon

-- 
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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