Message-ID: <40306asstr$1041797404@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: <sfarragher@nj.rr.com> From: "Sean Farragher" <sfarragher@nj.rr.com> X-Original-Message-ID: <DAEAJLKEENNEGEBLGNPHGEFDDAAA.sfarragher@nj.rr.com> MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Priority: 3 (Normal) X-MSMail-Priority: Normal Importance: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1106 X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Sun, 5 Jan 2003 12:48:39 -0500 Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Angela's Confessions: FIRST SEX inc M/g M/f Date: Sun, 5 Jan 2003 15:10:04 -0500 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/Year2003/40306> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, dennyw 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 -- 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> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+