Posted from Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction (c) 2000 Sean Farragher. All Rights Reserved. Comments are desired, welcome, and helpful. Please reply to: seanfarragher@msn.com Full site at: http://www.taximurders.com 31 August 1879: Margaret's Note Book: Eighteen year old Margaret Jean Connelly, Maggie, as she called her self, was deflowered by the younger brother of her Governess, the horse breeder and groom, Adam Sterling, then 29. Adam was an expert at most things, living that open life, his hard lean body pressed up to the woman child as his dear sister, holding the child, calming her, excited, I wasn't scared, Maggie said. You forget I have ridden horses and have watched them. What did you see. The mare's eyes struggled with the weight but she pushed back, and the horse rising up crushed her back. I felt weak when it happened. I was eight, curious, and lucky, knowing that I was not shunned away by my father. He loved horses, and I enjoyed the wooden fence I threatened with a dark force, as I looked at what happened. Later, what I remember, more, was how long the Arabian stay with the dark mare. Later, that night, in front of my mirror, naked, I stared my mirror down, become the weapon that long spear, as it fell out, leaking and the dark mare, screaming her flanks away, marking the dust, and I felt my belly fold in on itself, and I actually felt that horse. The next morning, when the grooms were away, running the horses. The Arabian was kept in his stall. The mare in another barn, also alone, ears up, I brushed her shoulder, feeling her flank, walking under and towards the rear, I clean her withers, then quickly brush the white silk scarf against her cunt, speaking to the horse in German, using that English word in my mind, my scarf stained, I quickly leave, cross the yard to the Arabian, who, as soon as I enter, restless in his stall, agitated, I wear the scarf, let him smell my neck, patting his foreleg, calming his drive, his ears are straight, and his cock extends, almost falling out as I rub it with my scarf through the space in the stall, the stallion rises up, pulling at the restraints, banging hard, and then suddenly calm, allows my hands to rub it, as I saw a groom do once. Using both hands, my scarf soaked. I step back, let go, suddenly he let it go, all at once, at least a liter of semen which is Latin for seed of the male but sticky like a lake I watched myself, hands covered, the stud looked back, twisted, screamed, as if human and not an animal, or was that my voice, and back in my room, I rubbed my flanks and cunny with that ambrosia, refusing to wash, or leave my room, I wanted to know how it felt, as it passed inside, so taking a large radish, cleaning it, peeling the skin, I felt it pass into my lips, mouth, cunny, like the stallion I stank, and on my knees, my head up, I plunged through the wall, shivering, my belly heaving, out of breath, my back straight, I fainted, waking moments later, my cunny sore, and the radish, wrapped with silk, having fallen clear, bled, I felt my mouth, and held the cold vegetable warn, and falling back asleep I rose early, and when my maid complained of a terrible animal stink, I said, it was the dog, but she smiled, helping me into the warm tub, I soaked, healed, thinking how that horse and burst, as a shower of pollen, wet, like a deep musk, and for a week I ached for something more, when suddenly, father and I left the farm, returning to our beds, and father was drunk, asked if I was sore. The old groom told me what you did. You are a terror, darling, he laughed patting my legs. You take too many chances. Must not, dear. That stallion could have crushed you, in an instant. I would have said something sooner, but nothing happened, and I realized I could never have stopped you in any case, and having been a curious young man, I realized that curiosity could never be confined to one gender. That would not make sense. As my father talked, I saw the stallion, held back, muzzled, as I made that horse only shout in a human voice. I felt that radish plunge. I held my father's hand as he slept, as we rode the carriage home, letting it go, cuddled, I was bound, reaching up to the terror in the mare's eyes. Not fear, no, I realized at once that the edges of passion are terror, or terror is a cliff, falling down from the flanks of the stallion, reaching up for the mane, riding bare back, not cross saddle, father taught me to ride as a boy and a girl, so you are prepared for all company and opportunity, he said, and as he woke, I felt him caress the inside of my upper thigh, having pulled up my dress, letting him feel the skin while he slept. arranging my mirrors inside, I was out of breath, when we fell out of the carriage home from the farm, mother waved, and I turned my back. Looking back at the sky, I walked around the carriage, patting the read quarter of the outside horse, I felt the brush of his tail, switching on and off the flies gathering around the manure, almost bound, I touched nose, jumped fence with the beast, all in my mind, as I felt my legs as they had closed around my father's hand, knowing he took liberties, father said he was sorry, and I said, please Papa, I am bad and need to be punished. Not yet, Papa smiled, making someday, and he laughed out loud, my heart racing, as he twitched away, his ass tight in horse pants, coat, tie, and full, rustled with military bearing, I wanted Adam. My horse's name. I wanted father, Adam's semen, as a flood of sour honey, scalding my countenance, turning my sexual taste into a terrified but agitated freak. Am I bad, dear father, for loving the horse, riding the summit, letting my self fall down into the valley wanting to expire, holding my papa's hand, watching him kiss mother, turn away, so fickle, the scoundrel. Just like Adam and Eve and daughter. Lilith. I am not sure what's there. ---------------------------------------------- These Sites reflect my life in writing and are offered to readers free of any cost to further share my work with ASSTM Readers. http://www.taximurders.com Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel http://www.farragher.com the Selected Poetry of Sean Farragher http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon The Journal and Poetry of Laurie Fallon Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Thomas Farragher under US and International Copyright laws. All rights reserved. May not be re posted to any site without the express written permission of Sean Farragher. If you are downloading for your own reading enjoyment there is no charge solicited. Please note statement copied from ASSTR Site Terms and Conditions: ASSTR's Copyright Agent for notice of claims of copyright infringement on or regarding this site can be reached as follows: Copyright Agent 6425 South IH-35, Suite 105 PMB #288 Austin, TX 78744-4230 Email: copyright@asstr.org