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 The Art of Autobiography in the Multi-Generational Novel June 4, 1884-August 21, 1884: Bristol, England. Margaret Davis Wells Connelly, just 16, after five months of study with the defrocked Father Luther von Herrig in her home in Trier, Germany, yearned for the frivolous rest of a sensual summer with aunt Louise in Bristol, England. Yes, Luther, 41 took the lass to bed, or she took him. Yes, the sex of rivers ran through the Bristol streets while poor Luther, unable to keep up, ran down, letting his cock flood and quit. I almost died, he told Maggie, the next day. No, you just came too hard, Maggie said. I will watch it next time. Careful, you know my cunt can bite at your prick and make it as they say a tasty morsel for breakfast. IN BRISTOL: "Jenny Of course, you love me," Maggie said, sitting up in her bath, then sinking, rocking the waves, her minimalist breasts exposed, then hidden, as she bubbled backwards, adjusting her spine, finally at rest, hair tumbling down, outside the edge of the tub, shifting, glistening auburn, under control, fully stroked a hundred, no five hundred times later, each strand stimulated by a maid's hand younger than Maggie, as she, later, the bather, subject and object, surrounded by dressers, maids, attendants and a sundry other female servant, spoken as a question asking simply asking not to be left alone in this room of dead Egyptian Kings and Queers. Maggie was not alone. -"Jenny," Maggie said, "I can't stop looking at you." -"You are too kind dear, but I could extend that compliment to you as well. I loved the film of your shoulders joined to your breasts. Here, let me show you, Jenny said, and quietly she brushed her hands over Maggie's breasts while William, 16 watched, holding his cock that rocked in Jenny's hands. -"No, I'm the scholar, you know. I live in papyrus reeds and drift inside a hieroglyphic swoon as if I were the river Tiber, or should I say, the Euphrates," Jenny spoke up. Dressed in an open silken robe, Jenny leaned into the tub, revealed her long arms, hands, and the crisp flutter of the muscles in her thighs underlining her nature as Jenny's accented but perfect English competed the landscape. Sitting back again, relaxed, staring back into Maggie's waterscape, mesmerized, smoking a brown thin cigar with a long holder, Jenny Jerome would have been an anachronism in any age. Maggie saw no one when she talked with her glorious and very feminine friend, Jenny, the dark eyed, black hair daughter of that famous lothario and comic basso, Count Nunzio Pernicone. -"What did you say," Jenny looked up, reaching into Maggie, the spell almost broken except they both sat on the edge of the frame of a sky painting by Rubens. -"I'm not sure." Maggie loved Jenny as she called Jenny Jerome. -Maggie, you know my name is: Justinia Maria Louisa Pernicone D'Ambrussi. Maggie laughed at Jenny, and touching her own lips, opening her mouth, letting her tongue practice its tickle, Maggie kissed first Jenny and then the boy pulling him into her circle by the sack of his balls and utter shock and happiness. When you kiss, Maggie said, "you have to find the end of their throats, tasting that perpetual cock residing in memory. After the dancing, the dress up, and the teasing touches, the two girls and the boy modeled nude in long mirrors at the whims of their flanks and almost hairless cunnys and cock sack. "We are not mannequins at all, as Jenny held Maggie from the back, letting her hands fall over the younger woman's breasts, teasing the pink child like nipples. Although Maggie was just 16 and Jenny, who spoke perfect English, almost 20, they both seemed whole, women, fully in control, and as they were also lovers, intimate and complete in their gesture, they spoke gently with their eyes without words as they listening calmly to the breath, glance and playfulness of the other. Jenny was slight like Maggie, but Jenny never would be thick waisted, with large breasts, as Maggie would evolve. -I never noticed your breasts before, Jenny said, smiling at her friend. "They're wonderful, you know like dew drops, just a slight peak, and pink nub. Mine hang down already. "Let me see," Maggie said. "No, later," Jenny giggled. "I can never get used to them." "They speak perfect English, but refuse all commands. "They can see." Have eyes. "I know. They like to watch when you and I diddle the boys or they us. You and I cannot fully escape the 'servant circus.' "I appreciate the work they perform," Maggie said, whispering as an aside to her girl friend who had arrived while Maggie was taking her morning bath. Standing, dutifully, one child like maid held a towel and robe and another, a few years older, with soft hands, ready to massage her back with oils, as Maggie stepped gently up and out of the tub, taking her friend's hand," but I sometimes prefer," Maggie added, "to be truly and absolutely alone," Is that possible"? Maggie knew the answer. Her older friend could have answered that quite ordinary question. Maggie like her knew that when you lived with servants under ground or attached to the house, you are part and parcel of that social disorder that comes with class, money and that unkempt moral-immoral society of the powerful and snobby" Maggie said. "Yes, I know I am a hypocrite. Why blush at that suffering"? Look, Maggie, said, "If I step here, there's a maid as you are with a smile turned frown and a blush and a brush. Nevertheless, if I step there, a butler with a silver tray, bows low, apologizing for his imagined rudeness, when I am the one who should defer. Do we have also have a place, and how must we change it. That's the question. But what can be accomplished within this unfair disorder, and yet, I know deep down that even as I live, they live as well, and if I did employ them, or if my father sacked them, then they and the children they produced would make it worse for the living poor competing for the rare crumbs of the gutter." Maggie craved solitude, but these household fixtures, she complained, somehow cluttered up the floor plan. Sure, they knew their place, and seemed on the surface unobtrusive, and yes, some of them were like special birds that I nurtured and who blessed me with their sensual bodies. "Women exploit as well as men," Maggie said. Engles could have written that property is not theft and we could rearrange order, and nothing at the end would change, and yes, I know, Papa would have insisted that my tutor Luther join us in England, bringing up the rear, as we a defrocked Priest, daughter, Father and entourage ambled through the gates of the old stone walled Fitzroy Tudor castle. Maggie also knew that her mother never make that journey. Constance or her Grace, as she frivolously called her mother hated England. Maggie's mother especially disliked, as Constance put it, the crude company of her wealthy Aunt. Mother always had somewhere else to visit, when a family trip was planned to father's favorite but distant relative. I, to my great joy, traveled to England from the intensity and scholarship of that dank sorrow of ancient Roman Trier. Early last March, terribly disappointed, Maggie had learned from her mother, Constance, (who seemed too pleased at the time), that Auntie Louise could not receive her grand niece Margaret for their usual summer holiday in England. -"Did she say why," Maggie asked. -"She's not well, I expect," Constance said, softly turning her daughter in a circle admiring how the swells of her breasts floated. "Where is the letter? Why didn't she write directly, Maggie asked. "Your father has it. Ask him?" Somehow, Maggie never asked, and plans were changed, and Maggie, Father Luther, her mother Constance, three maids, and a footman traveled by train to St. Petersburg. -Sometimes, my darling, there are no true explanations. Write her yourself, or have your father write. I thought you might prefer to spend some time on a holiday with me in St. Petersburg. You need to practice your Russian. You told me that last month, so I made some plans. I have connections there, and the city is cool and pleasant in the summer, not like Germany, or the rains of Bristol. Although she produced no letter, and speaking too quickly, Maggie moved away from her mother. Yes, mother, we will visit St. Petersburg and Uncle Shieffert. Mother also asked if Father Luther should join them. I know your father promised him Petersburg so we may practice our Russian. Margaret was pleased by the prospect of that holiday, but she would have rather spent the summer with her Aunt than done anything else, ever. But in life as in art, all's well that ends well, as Maggie often said, of 1884 in Bristol with her Great Aunt Lady Louisa Kenniston, 76, and her entourage of relatives, artists, poets, novelists, and Marxist free thinkers. Lady Auntie, as she was affectionately called by almost everyone, had a significant influence on Margaret's life. Recently, that influence and good counsel had extended to their precocious "child", Maggie, who personified, as Lady Louisa said, that special harbor for future woman where I wish my keel had been laid. Lady Louisa, above all, loved Michael Connelly, a distant relative. I only wish I had been his mother, she often said. Yet, when he married her niece, Constance Grace. Auntie been seriously disturbed by that marital relationship, counseling the man, enjoying his open mind, spirit and humor, she flirted with him as a school girl at times, and always supported his interests, art, and research. He was a special part of Auntie Louisa's life, and Michael's only child, Margaret, assumed that mantle. A woman out of time, Maggie wrote in her diary. When I am in her presence, my mind may wander beyond the fixed limits of my bound up life, and I leave the planet, rising far up out of control. The woman, married young, - -"Come Visit," Lady Louisa wrote to her grand niece, Margaret, ...[never Maggie]. "Your cousin, Allison, and I need your company. We have all been such good friends in past summers, and I had hoped you would return in early June as in years past. We had planned such a splendid summer, but yesterday, I was informed by your mother, who rarely writes, that you could not attend this summer, for you had planned an excursion to St. Petersburg with your new tutor. I realize your plans may be difficult to change at this late day, but there are special circumstances this year that would allow your to postpone your holiday in Russia until the early autumn. Please come, as Allison especially needs your bright society. The tragic death of her parents, as would be expected, hangs around her countenance never leaving her a chance to smile. Your cousin is such a brave child, but I fear that sorrow has altered her bright disposition. Before it is too late, your influence could make more than a significant difference. Every night, Allison grieves quietly, and I can only supply bare comforts for her when she allows that contact or requests company. Allison, although filled with laughter as always keeps her sorrow and hurt inside, and these losses only make that subtle privacy more severe and a sharper disturbance. By the way...my grand daughter, Catherine and her son, live with us in Bristol now. Last summer, you did so enjoy her confidence and friendship, as did your father did mine, I know. Catherine begs me to ask you to come so you can know her new child while he is an infant. Like you, she is young; perhaps too young to have the responsibilities of a child, but natures govern these things, and are not always under our complete control. I tell you this because I remember how you have always loved to be around small children and being an only child yourself have lived within that closed adult world that has discounted your childhood. Catherine has also invited several of her London companions to visit at various times, flitting about the gardens and fields all summer. One wonders what their activities will procreate. I have sent your mother a separate letter, that I will post several days after this letter, please your influence to change your summer holiday plans, and I will be in your debt, my dear. My child, we have always shared, all our life, a higher conversation than child and adult. I have written this letter in consideration of that relationship. Please, If you can change your plans and come, although you have not yet of age to come out, will be because of your wit and intelligence be treated more like an adult. Yes, I do know that your life is hardly conventional. Your father was always a social revolutionary of the worst sort, which I find privately delightful, and if in public I seem more reserved, well, that comes from old habits that I do admit has dissipated and not advanced with each increasing year I live. ...As always, Margaret, I never isolate the children in my household, so you will be free to absorb what transpires. You are such a brilliant young woman, as much a prodigy of the mind as Mozart in music. Sometimes, I wish you had been born man so you could pursue what you fervently desire. You bring me back to my childhood, the books I read, and my extraordinary father who encouraged my trials of mind and mystery, hiring a governess who could teach Latin and Greek as well as the female arts. I know you father approves, so I have send this letter sealed inside my letter to him> I know his respect for you, and I am certain you will have a chance to choose and we will not, of course, compromise your father, with your mother. Part II Last April 4, Allison, not yet 16, had lost both her parents in a terrible London fire. As the only child of an only child, ebullient, scatter brained, but not senile, Allison and Maggie's great aunt Louisa at 75 years of age agreed to become the legal guardian of young Allison. What a delightful and beautiful child, she said, when the solicitor made the suggestion. She loves you, he said, and as asked if you would become her guardian. Of course, Lady Kennison In many ways, it was a good choice. Allison was intelligent, inquisitive, and subject to similar sensual influences of an old Victorian household with all the comings and goings of maids, and footmen, gentleman, and ladies. Aunt Louisa loved people as Allison did. Rich beyond her ability to spend having inherited a fortune (œ 3,000,000) in her own right from her father, Aunt Louisa's Bristol estate, especially during the hunting season, bristled with people, events, marriages, love affairs, arguments, and yet what was public, was always appropriate and seemly, keeping up an aristocratic attitude, and yet, this household assumed an aristocratic distance to what festered within. No one kept notes on who slept with whom. No one asked if that lady was estranged from her husband, and loving friendship, arranged affairs, clandestine love affairs within the secret world abounded. At eleven years, Allison lived at its center. Her maid was duty bound to tell all about this one or that. Who buggers who or what happened when that housemaid gossip under penalty of the child's pique with her had wonderful parties, weekends, and generally, an assorted collection of artists, intellectuals, and gentlemen free thinkers. END PART I ---------------------------------------------- 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