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Father Figure is Copyright © 2003 by Ralph Robert Moore. All Rights Reserved.
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background on the excerpt
Eight Legs, Three Cunts introduces the first of three creatures that visit Daryl in the early sections of the novel, all three insect/human hybrids, this first manifestation based on two mythological hybrids (centaur, mermaid).
Although the creature has been designed to seduce, there's still too much insect in it for Daryl to be tempted. The second creature he encounters, in a passage not included on this site, is much more human in appearance, with just a tiny bit of insect.
As might be expected, this passage was enjoyable to write, particularly in contrasting the rough bristle of the insect against the smooth skin of the women.
Daryl's apartment is borrowed from our apartment in San Antonio, where this excerpt was first written.
eight legs, three cunts
excerpt from the novel Father Figure
Daryl swung the front door of his apartment closed, the swollen wood stopping at the frame. Using a palm, he pushed the door into the frame, then turned the lock. He switched on the lights, chair and table legs dropping criss-crossed shadows.
He stood naked in his closet, holding his favorite pair of black trousers up to his jackets' lapels.
The back of his head fell with a thump onto his pillow, his blue eyes fluttering open just in time to see a great glob of sperm complete its arc a foot above his tensed stomach.
He decided against another cigarette, turning off the TV, My Mother The Car shrinking into a tiny, glowing dot that bounced up once, then faded.
He woke up, rolling heavily onto his back.
His right hand lifted and landed on his eyes, trying to rub the sleep from his squeezed face.
The clock read 6:12.
He shut his eyes again, right hand drifting down for the sheet around his waist.
He lay perfectly still, eyes wide open in the darkness, hand frozen on the hem of the sheet he was about to pull up.
There, it just happened again.
Body motionless, his eyes switched left and right.
Something heavy shuffled just behind the TV set at the foot of the bed.
He feigned sleep, shutting his eyes until they were open only enough to peer out through the lashes.
He couldn't swallow. His limbs were paralyzed with dread.
The shuffling moved rhinoceros-like to the side of the TV.
In the dimness of the approaching dawn he could make out something the size and shape of a turned around easy chair.
I'm looking at the back of my easy chair, he told himself. My easy chair's moved to the side of my TV.
He lay frozen, trying to keep his breath regular.
It's my easy chair.
The easy chair shambled around in front of the TV set, its back facing the bed.
His stomach started jumping.
Don't move. Maybe it won't notice you. Maybe it'll think you're sleeping.
His limbs started twitching. Tears tickled down both temples.
I don't know what it is. I don't ever want to know what it is.
But the squat shape, the start and stop rolling movements like no mammal...
It moved again, its front crawling hugely onto the foot of his bed.
The musty ammonia smell wafted up the sheets to him.
Early rays of light from the distant picture window revolved into his room, putting a glow on top of the TV set, spiking light into the coarse black fur bristled around the multi-jointed legs, each leg as thick around as a man's arm, but much, much longer.
Six of the legs flowed up onto the mattress. Through the prism of his tears he saw what he had thought was the back of his easy chair lower onto the foot of the bed, separating into three long, thick protuberances. On either side of the middle protuberance two stout, short black limbs, balled at their tips, fuzzily raised up.
Daryl started grinding his teeth.
The three protuberances suddenly reared up.
Three beautiful, long-haired women rose, attached at their navels to the circular trunk of the eight-legged thing below them.
One blonde, one oriental, one black.
They swayed, six bare arms undulating, as the thing shambled sideways on its multiple legs, moving clumsily to maintain balance under the burden of its top-heavy front weight.
The three women reached their arms out hungrily for the bed, faces imploring, lips writhing without sound, hands tearing at their streaming hair, three sets of breasts gleaming white, brown, black in the brightening dawn.
Daryl crawled backwards against the headboard, babbling, shaking his head as the three silently mouthed their pleas.
The oriental stretched her lithe body out over the sheets towards him, hanging onto the furred black feelers growing out of her side. Her grimy, agonized face strained towards him.
Daryl read her lips.
Below where their navels disappeared into the rough black bristle, three vertical cunts popped moistly open and close.
Another long leg curled bonelessly up in the air, tapping its pad down on the mattress. He felt the weight growing at the foot of the bed.
He grabbed the lamp on his night table and flung it at the legs.
The bulb burst against the black bristle, flashing into detail the alien, sideways movement of the maw.
The thing reared back, its six breasts wobbling, knocking over the TV set and its stand.
The TV landed with an exploding crash.
Daryl flung himself over the half-wall counter separating the sleeping alcove from the kitchen, landing on his back on the stove, falling off onto the kitchen floor, back of his head bouncing off the linoleum.
He scrabbled to his feet so fast he fell, scrabbled up again, plowing backwards into the refrigerator, rocking it against the wall.
His broom slid out from the side of the refrigerator, clack-clack-clacking onto the floor.
He snatched it up, praying so fervently spittle sprayed over his jaw.
Crouching down, he aimed the broom's narrow end at the passageway between the kitchen and the living room.
Through the wall behind him came the pounding of a neighbor.
Daryl advanced slowly towards where the kitchen led into the living room, crouching further down as he got closer. This has to be a dream. Like losing my teeth.
Sweat rolled down his temples. The end of the broom shuddered.
He slid his back up against the sink on the far wall, peering out into the living room.
The TV set lay on its back, screen cracked.
Against the distant picture window, the dawn light outlined his rental furniture. He stared from the passageway at each blurred chair and table, making sure it was where it should be, and the size and shape it should be, and that there were no other sizes or shapes out there where they shouldn't be.
He craned his neck out past the side of the counter, to the left. The carpet between the half wall and his bed was safe. The gas heater glowed behind its horizontal grill in the half wall. The night table was on its side.
Extending his arm, he poked the broom handle under the bed. From his angle, he couldn't get the long straightness of the handle far underneath.
Holding his shaky breath, he rapped the handle of the broom against the bed's metal leg. Hard.
Nothing came out from underneath.
Across the way from him, the short hall leading to his bathroom and the rear room lay boxed in darkness.
He cocked his head, ears tilting this way and that.
On the wall next to him was the switch for the hall light. He reached across the wall slowly, flicking the switch up.
The glass bowl on the hallway ceiling flared on.
It was holding itself sideways on the white interior wall of the hallway, eight black legs spread from ceiling to carpet. As real as the glass light above it, as matter-of-fact as the curtained shower stall in the doorway beyond it.
It didn't flee from the light.
Its three women raised out sideways, eyes shuttered, different-colored fingers sliding in and out of each other's cunts.
The tip of his broom lowered.
I can't handle this.
The thing stayed on the wall, eight legs motionless, six bare arms criss-crossing urgently as it masturbated.
All three women stared steadily at him while their wet fingers chugged inside each other, inside the thing. The oriental swayed her breasts side to side. The blonde pushed her lips out into a red-rimmed cup. The black rolled her abdomen.
Staring back, not knowing how fast the legs could move, Daryl fumbled his hand around the base of the fan on the countertop. Not turning around to look, he lifted the fan up, its oscillating weight making it hard to hold. He brought it around him, feeling its breeze on the side of his face. When he felt tautness in the cord he yanked very gently. Behind him, he heard the plug drop out of its socket, rattling onto the countertop.
The thing stayed still on the wall, the women blowing kisses, offering their slicked fingers.
The fan's oscillating weight slowed in his grasp, the spin within the wire cage doing a last rotation before freezing into a four-leaf clover.
The three bodies growing out of the flat trunk flexed forward, thin spines twisting sweatily, three sets of long hair hanging to the left; flexed back, six gleaming breasts jutting, three long throats stretched to the side; flexed forward.
The fan hit the forehead of the oriental, snapping her face backwards.
The broadness of it scuttled eight-leggedly up onto the ceiling of the short hallway, the Oriental's upper body flopping down brokenly, arms swaying straight down, the other two upside-down women beseeching with nipples pointing to their chins, inverted faces splitting around teeth.
After a motionless hesitation the thing crawled casually across the ceiling through the top of the doorway leading into the back room, joints and pads lifting around the top of the door frame.
Daryl slumped against the wall. He started to close his eyes, but then popped them open.
He studied the now empty doorway to the back room. His palms were slippery, so he lay the broom across the counter, wiping the insides of his hands on his bare thighs, sweat slicking over sweat.
Daryl poked his head through the doorway to the back room.
In his right hand he hoisted the broom, in his left, a heavy cast iron skillet.
Four blank walls, square ceiling, stacked boxes too short for anything to hide behind.
Opposite the doorway, on the rear wall, curtains flapped into the room.
He always kept that window locked, didn't he?
He advanced slowly towards the unfurling curtains, their lengths lifting to show the broad underside hems.
Some small dark thing lay on the carpet a few feet from the opened window. He didn't recognize it.
The top of his broom poked at it. When he was convinced it wasn't alive, he went down on his haunches over it.
The hems flapped above his down-turned head.
He lay the broom and skillet down on the carpet.
His profile turned around the object. Familiar, but out of place on the carpet.
He touched its side. Metal.
He picked it up.
Its heaviness fit in the palm of his left hand. It was the latch from the window.
He pulled the lifting curtains aside. The smaller, interlocking part of the latch was still in place at the bottom of the upper frame, but halfway uprooted on its paint-topped screws. Where the corresponding latch should be on top of the lower frame, the wood was split and splintered.
The lower window was slid all the way up.
The outside screen was missing.
Past the white-framed upper panes the town of Lodgepole below was as much illuminated by the moon as the dawn.
He cautiously stuck his head through the open window frame, shadow of the raised sill falling across the back of his neck.
Nothing poised beneath the window.
The grey rectangle of the window's screen lay three stories below, on the lawn.
Nothing spread left or right on the shingles.
He opened his mouth, drawing in sweet, pure night air.
Before he had a chance to exhale, across the back of his neck he felt a tickling caress.
He twisted around in the open bottom half of the window, facing up.
The thing clung above the window.
The Oriental's arms hung limply, upside-down features of her face dislocated off its jaw. The blonde and black on either side both reached down for him, elbowing the dead middle weight of the oriental against each other.
He jerked back into the room. The Oriental's face slapped lifelessly upside-down against the top windowpanes, beautiful fish eyes reactionless.
He slammed the window.
Realized he couldn't lock it.
The three bodies descended topsy-turvy into view, hair hanging straight down, six large breasts flattening against the panes, two upside-down mouths pressing their pleas against the window, sickled lips fogging the glass.
Behind their bare flesh, the immense furred bulk loomed blackly, rotating clockwise and counter-clockwise around the window to keep the inverted faces dangling where Daryl could see them.
He rapped with his knuckles on one of the panes.
The two women grinned upside-down, tongues snaking out, reaching across the dead oriental to each other, white knuckles pulling on black nipples, black knuckles milking white nipples.
The four upside-down eyes stared in at him, pupils dilated with pleasure.
Let us in.
The thing behind jerked them down, faces disappearing below the sill, window filling with the three cunts buried in black bristle, middle one a motionless vertical slit, flanking ones showing the swell of clitoris below the two different-colored, inwardly spiraling holes of cunt.
Daryl backed away, stopping at the doorway. He turned and ran into the bathroom.
His bladder ached like a blade, but he bent under the vanity instead, pulling out a hammer and a jumping box of nails.
Back at the window, which was empty now, he hammered slanting nails along its frame, too much in shock to flinch whenever he struck his thumb.
Finished, he yanked on both halves of the window. Neither budged.
He returned to the bathroom, standing over the toilet. He pulled his cock through the front of his underpants, strength seeping out of him with his stream.
Plodding out to the living room, he winced at the crashed TV set, the splintered screen.
The clock on the floor read 6:30. Work started in an hour.
Is it really time to get ready for work, or am I just dreaming it's time to get ready for work?
Standing at the foot of his bed, he looked down at the rumpled sheets.
I'm not in bed sleeping. I'm standing, looking down at the empty bed.
He reached up to his face, lightly touching his lashes.
I'm not sleep-walking.
My eyes are open.