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From: "Sean Farragher" <sfarragher@nj.rr.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Angela's Confessions: FIRST SEX  inc M/g M/f 
Date: Sun,  5 Jan 2003 15:10:04 -0500
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TxM6: Angela's Confessions: FIRST SEX   inc M/g M/f
(c) 2002 Sean Farragher
sfarragher@nj.rr.com


http://www.seanfarragher.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com/hyperfiction
http://www.seanfarragher.com/txm6
http://www.seanfarragher.com/Joss
http://www.seanfarragher.com/poetry




Angela's CONFESSIONS

When I shake from the pinch and pull of orgasm I let it flow down stream.
Afterwards, I ask where does it stop?

When I describe that to my husband, Aaron, he asks why does it flow like a
river and not like the flood of tides? I tell him my personal explanation:
Like the milk I express from my tits for the baby and you, I come every
time our baby sucks hard or soft. I bleed come when you fuck while I
nurse. I come when Henry joins my ass. I come from the let down and
that is the modern flow of the river.

Aaron, of course, says he understands, but I wonder. He has too powerful
imagination for such a simple tale. I am amazed that my straightforward
story satisfies his curiosity.

Henry, our lover, who often joins Aaron and I in bed, compared my orgasm to
the thundering surf when he felt us come as three separated jolts split by
seconds. My ass leaked for hours and my cunt was filled with Henry not
Aaron. When I complained to Henry that was an obvious cliché, he insists it
isn't. He proposed that the three of us should travel to the ocean during
the
next hurricane:
"When I body surfed in the thirty-foot swells off the Hawaiian coast," he
pauses, "my breath stopped like the moment before sex. Riding the waves
becomes the second best way to die."

I know the best way to die I interject. When you know it is your time let
me fuck you to death. I immediately ask another question.

What do you think I want, guys, I ask as I paint my nipples crimson with
used paint tubes retrieved from the garbage.

I lighten my halo and nimbus with curled fingers. Aaron helps this
particular time. Henry, the perfect voyeur, watches sitting two feet
downslope on the bed. My collaborative body painting grows extends through
my deep double cantaloupe breasts to wed in image with my vulva pushed back
to expose the pink with the deeper red of paint.

Let it flow down stream, I repeat diluting the watercolor stain with thick
paste secreted from urethra. Henry loves the taste of my piss, and I let
him suck there making Aaron wait his turn.

"Overflow cannot predicted," I repeat as one or other of the men sucks my
mound, almost laughing and then crying with the aftershocks in bedlam.

Begging more, Henry demands the ending before the beginning. Henry is one
thought welded to a mind with deep pain and hard sutures. He is a
continuous stream of sex, vendettas, and petty feuds that underline his
character. He is, however, always the best friend with Aaron and I.

Henry never allows his great schemes to become that serious burden that can
separate best friends.
Henry begs me to tell him how I felt when I was a girl. I need to know he
says. I want to write a story about how a woman becomes more than a girl.
Aaron joins in: "Tell him about your father."




TALES OF THE FLEXIBLE ROPE

As a girl and woman, courted by many "righteous men," I wanted more sex
than they imagined.

Taking liberties with hands or eyes they proved that the old south might
rise again (at least below the waist). If given the chance they imagined
fucking their daughters, but they were shocked when they learned that their
daughter might fuck back if no one was looking. This did not happen that
often in the actual world, I imagined as a child. When it did happen I was
ready. Yes, Mothers want it that way. It relieved them of that sacrifice of
sex with men they had grown to despise.

Daughters and perhaps a few sons gain immorality from the incest. Only a
rare sociopath escaped the guilt that is usually companion to the lust.
Sounds good doesn't it?

Growing up I expected good Catholic girls like myself to be sluts. It is
easy to understand why. Taught to hate our bodies by the Nuns and Priests,
we were sometimes seduced by piety and hypocrisy. Confusion lingers when
that same Priest offers to suck dick as a servant of God.

Nuns were not exempt. I knew a young Nun who had just taken her vows. After
reading an essay I wrote tickled my neck and brushed her hand across my
breasts. Her touch lingered until the end of the session. I met her at a
bar years later. She had renounced her vows. She told me she had come out.
We danced and had sex, but she was sad when I told her I preferred men. She
told me that she had wished she had had the courage when I was a girl. I
might have turned you then. I laughed and told her that I knew a man who
might turn her. No need she finally said. We are what we are good Roman
Catholic sluts to the core. Whenever I saw her thereafter she hugged me and
turned down a threesome with Aaron and I. One day she surprised me by
saying that she never forgave herself that she desired women. I thought it
an odd thing to say.




II.

Sex began when I was nine or ten. Yes, I know it probably started much
earlier. I often had a pink, sore vulva as a little girl, and I remember
when I was in first grade this older boy put his finger inside and made me
bleed. I never told my mother.

Remembering that sexual flight now, I know what it meant. Then, I wasn't
quite sure. Playing on the swings in the park, this young boy, about twelve
exposed his cock calling it his rope. He asked me if I would touch it. I
ran away, but thought about it every day thereafter until I saw my father
sitting in a chair drunk, his cock hanging out of his underwear. It was
soft. I reached up to it from the floor not wanting to wake him and I held
it for a second. I ran into my room, and that was my second fantasy. I was
eleven. I swear Daddy smiled when I held him. I know he was awake. He was a
big faker, but he rarely came to my bed to tuck me in after that morning.
For Years I grieved for Daddy. I wanted his stiff hands to muss my covers.
I actually prayed to Jesus that he would show me his rope again.




3. INCEST

"At fourteen I fucked often. I rewarded boys when they made me special. I
made them all work for it. I was not easy. Now, I laugh how easy I will
fuck a handsome strange man.

In digression, as a woman, my husband and I encourage the other to know
other partners. Most of the time we tell the other, and usually, once a
year, I will run away from home, ride a bus, and find some young man to
ravish. I love the power of seduction. I learned it from men.

The men I knew when I was a not too slight girl were tight not full,
scarred with precision. They wanting to know how every screw, how every
bolt might be preserved by memory. They watched me come or not, but when
they understood what I needed, they would never acknowledge it. They
studied my tits and I would stare back, and they shy, would turn their eyes
away, and run off most of the time.

My father was the worst of them. He might stare but never say what he
thought. I often wished as he leered at my body that he would simply have
said, you are sexy or something that would have shown me that I mattered.

Father did fuck me when I was sixteen. He'd never admit it now. That night
I was drunk and he was almost sober. After carrying me to bed calling me by
another name I opened my legs to him (I was not wearing underpants), and
hoped when he came inside that I get pregnant. I was a dangerous girl. When
his semen leaked I knew what had happened was real.

I cried horribly when I had my period. Father never touched me again.
Mother divorced him for an affair at the office. I wondered why she never
did that before. She must have known how many he had screwed there. I
laughed at the irony. Mother was not amused and called me perverse. I think
she knew what had happened with Father. I wanted her to know how much I
loved him. Last year, when we were drunk I told my mother. Father was dead.
She was dying. I wanted it to be over.






for More hyperfiction come to http://www.seanfarragher.com/hyperfiction







XXXX

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