A Moment of Doubt Read Free Page A

ever threw themselves over Niagara Falls in barrels. I am wrested off the toilet and into the wall with a crash, my head and shoulders jammed in between the bowl and the paper roll, down to the floor, still gnawing away, all my knuckles buried in her streaming orifices, her ass clutched to my face, gasping for air, for life, for meaning itself, where there is little or none, but more than most places.
    But wait. She’s found my cock. My hips are over the bowl and I’m upside down head first into a pile of Reader’s Digests with asswipe unrolling into my face. But she’s standing over me with this incredible leer on her face, her lips distorted into a Mardi Gras of lust, the blood teeming beneath her features, her lips swollen, her cheeks inflamed, my balls in her hands. She turns and bends over my cock and sets to work. She takes the whole thing into her mouth, its head rings her epiglottis like a test of strength in a carnival, we can both feel it, my balls heatedly throwing on a load of come like ten frantic sweating eight-armed Martians filling ten eight-doored baggage cars with huge sacks of letters with eight stamps written by octillions of people . . . . Her teeth drag off a layer of molecules on its way out. I howl in pain and pleasure— which is which? The rain is pouring on the roof now, the doorbell, audible throughout the four-story house, rings loud and long. People next door and on the street probably think someone’s getting murdered in here, and they’re right in a way, somebody is getting murdered here, in a parallel universe, underneath a computer magazine on my desk, somebody has to be getting murdered, it’s absolutely necessary, this thing has gone on for too long, for pages already, without so much as an iota of gore, kill now, stupid, now, kill before it’s too late, kill before they notice you can’t write, or that they can’t read, or that their dicks are hard and they’re on a bus where everyone can see and they’re too weak to be buying and transporting this kind of trash because they can’t stop themselves from reading it and getting hardons on buses because, after all, it’s so fucking long between stops . . . .
    My load chokes her, and if she dies, I can stop writing for the day. She makes that wonderful sound you frequently hear in bars, when some Perrier goes down the wrong way. The trouble with the cricoid. Good title for a medical thriller. But she’s an animal, her natural voracity overcomes the mere mechanics of the situation, by sheer desire and talent and uninhibited abandon she is able to warp the plumbing into the fulfillment of her lust. As a result, still the come comes. She’s opened a direct conduit from my balls to her tonsils, and it’s like her tonsils are singing in the shower, turning in it, cupping their little hands up to the flow, directing it toward their faces, their breasts, their cunts—they’re teenaged twin sisters—their hair, their necks, presenting their lovely long perfectly curved throats to it, bathing, exulting, lavishly reveling in the preposterous, opulent, hot supply of fresh, high-pressure, municipal sperm, on the planet Spermola.
    I discover I’ve been shouting a bit myself. Two stories below people are pounding on the door and frantically ringing the doorbell. You’d think they’d be used to this sort of thing by now. But people who don’t fuck all the time have no imagination, and no standard of comparison. Above me hovers the most fuckable asshole I’ve seen in a long time. It looks like the Masonic eye, radiating from atop a pyramid formed by two white, smooth thighs, it looks like an energy portal to another high-energy universe, a place where entropy is more than just a way of life, capable of sucking in everything that gets near it, particularly my cock, if I could get it up again, but likely also everything else in the room, the toilet paper, the