Woman of His Dreams - Part I
“Woman of His Dreams” is my experiment with serial fiction, an erotic horror story I hope will entertain you. I want to publish an installment at least once a month, but no promises! This story is born in part out of my partner Drake’s love of Lovecraftian fiction and he will be my silent collaborator from time to time.
I hope you will keep checking back. I think this story has some…teeth.
And PLEASE! Comment or email me! Let me know what you think…
Stay sexy! Even when it hurts…
by Angela Caperton
Anthony St. Clair burned within the dream, amidst the scattered books, sweating and writhing beneath a woman the color of old ivory. She held his hips between her knees and ground the wet gash of her sex against him, refusing him penetration but teasing him to unimagined heights of arousal.
Only a dream, the last shred of his sense screamed, but her flesh felt real and hot as noon sun when she rode him, rising along his upright length, smearing him with her essence, her hands pinning his wrists, implacable as shackles, weighing him down with the force of her demand.
Remember, the voice said, or you will be lost.
Anthony had fallen asleep alone in his room, reading.
“Don’t wait up,” Cynthia had told him hours earlier. “Brigitte’s in town and I’ll sleep at my place.”
He had hardly heard her, lost in the mysteries of the book he had taken from the old store on 57th Street. More casualties of the digital age, locked and dusty, dead bookstores littered the streets of America, their inventory near valueless, and Anthony prided himself on his ability to perform forensics on the corpses, extracting the gold teeth and rare elements for sale on eBay or at auction, maybe one book in ten thousand worth his time. From the store today, he had taken only this book and a set of the Collected Arthur Machen, lacking the signature page, but still valuable.
“What’s that?” she asked, her attention caught by his absorption in reading.
“I don’t know,” he’d said, a little annoyed. “It’s old…hand-bound in leather…I think it’s calf. Late 18th, maybe early 19th Century.” He showed her the spine, where the single word Tales still displayed traces of gilt in the tooled letters.
She leaned down to examine it, curious but impatient to be on her way. “Show me later?” she asked.
“Course,” he said and kissed her, but he breathed easier when she had gone and he could return to the thick black type, archaic English words mostly, though the margins of the book had been heavily annotated in German and Latin by some previous owner.
Anthony did not know this book and his quick perusal among the cluttered shelves suggested it might be fiction or mythology, a series of stories, probably the unsigned work of some obscure romantic.
An hour of research on Alibris had turned up nothing and the more Anthony thumbed the pages, the more the text intrigued him. A true rarity, he decided, and possibly of some historic value, since it seemed to be a collection of fantastic stories. The market for such things had diminished, but enough hardcore collectors still existed to make the field worthwhile and an unknown, early work might be very valuable indeed.
With Cynthia gone, he stripped to his shorts, settled into bed, and opened the book. Most of the stories involved an alchemist or mystic named Eibon, and the narrative style changed from page to page, sometimes discursive and other times dramatic, as though the texts had been assembled from many sources. All through the book, long passages interrupted the dense, old-fashioned prose, written in a language that seemed to be an attempt to render phonetically some other tongue, perhaps Arabic or even Chinese. Maybe the juicy parts, he thought, hiding sensation behind a scholarly mask the way so many old books did.
After thumbing the whole book, he settled on a story called "The Labyrinth of Dreams", and as he read, he appreciated the title. The story’s narrative turned in upon itself, hinting without telling, but he caught the gist of it, a story of the alchemist and a monstrous thing that manifested itself in dreams. The unknown annotator had helpfully labeled the story with the word succubae and the name Institoris. The story seemed to be a parable, as though the creature held some special meaning for the author as a symbol of unlawful knowledge.
Alternately intrigued and annoyed, the more he read, the less he understood and finally, near midnight, Anthony laid the book on the nightstand, turned out the light, and closed his eyes.
He dreamed of the bookstore on 57th Street, pale light through grimy windows, books piled in shaky stacks, like columns to a ceiling so high above him he could not see it. Far vaster than the real store, the dream shop opened into corridors of shelves, dusty tables, and broken chairs that leaked horsehair stuffing.
To his surprise, he found a woman among the vaulted stacks, pale-skinned, dark-haired, and dressed in Victorian style, high-collar, corseted waist and crinoline-swollen skirt. She looked a bit like Cynthia and he reached for her, overwhelmed with desire.
Smiling, she lifted her silky dress and his hands found her thighs and her hips, lifting her onto one of the book-strewn tables, sweeping aside the litter of volumes, stirring the dust into misty clouds. Their clothing melted away with the magic of dreaming, and her hair fell dark and wild over high, full breasts, red-nippled and responsive to his touch. Her nails traced his back, down the small to the cleft of his buttocks, a single finger teasing the line.
She turned in his grip and pushed him onto the table. He felt the cold smoothness against his back. Strange, he thought, and more real than any dream he had ever known. When she kissed him, she tasted of musk and lemons, and then she trailed sharp nails down his throat, followed by her mouth, licking and nipping, teasing his left nipple with her tongue, pressing the white hot circle of her teeth just below his breast and biting.
Warm blood ran down his side as her hand found his cock, incredibly erect, and jacked him, thumb teasing the slippery head.
Then she mounted him, claiming his full erection, sliding along the rigid flesh, but not impaling herself. He growled, tired of passivity, and fought against her, meeting frenzy with force, bucking against her until she yielded and they fell to the floor amidst the clutter of ancient paper.
Remember, he thought. Or you will be lost.
Quick as shadow, he leapt upon her, his turn now to be merciless. He held her with one hand and forced her right thigh up, opening her to his assault.
She began to laugh.
Her left leg rose up behind him, pressing skin to skin against his back and he felt the leg turn, bending as though it had no knee, wrapping him in a soft, hot coil. He fought then, his desire crumbling ash, his hard length melting, as she folding, gelid and irresistible, around him, no bone in her at all, only the smooth, rippling muscle of a worm.
He closed his eyes so he would not see her face and he pushed up, out of the darkness and the dream, to wake in his room, thrashing about, hoping that Cynthia might be there after all, but he was, perhaps mercifully, alone. Breath returned to him and sanity, even as he dripped with fear-sweat, his heart beating like a ritual drum. Stomach churning with dread, he turned and regarded the book where it lay beside the bed.
He did not sleep again, but spent the night smoking cigarettes, drinking black coffee, not daring to touch the book. Answers could wait until daylight, but morning showed him the ragged wound, scabbed and sore to the touch. He had known it was there, but only in the light of day could he bear to look at it, to touch it, to apply a bandage.
A reddened, open oval, just below his left breast, a semicircle of marks like the bite of an unknown thing…
Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. Allrights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or partwithout written permission from the author.