Woman of His Dreams - Part II
Welcome to Part 2 of "Woman of his Dreams"! If you're new to my dark little erotic tale, you can find the start here!
Enjoy!
~AC
Cynthia Rhomar bumped her hip into swollen wood and the door opened with a whining grind of hinges like an unholy cry of protest.
“Fuck, Tony, you’ve got to do something about this door.” She tossed her keys onto the narrow marble-topped table in the hall, cringing at the clatter as she dropped her overnight bag beside it. Never again. How in the world had she ever thought she could mix tequila and wine and not suffer the consequences? And yet, as ripped up as she felt, she knew Brigitte would feel worse and was likely to spend her day with the cold porcelain of Cynthia’s apartment bathroom. Cynthia had felt little guilt leaving her best friend asleep on the sofa.
Late morning sun filtered in through the slats in the blinds, painting bright lines on the living room floor. She pulled the scarf from around her neck and sloughed off her coat, hanging them on the coat rack beside the table. She looked around the entry hall and into the living room, dust motes the only movement in the space. She stopped, straining her ears, working hard to filter out the hiss of her headache. Muffled traffic noise provided the usual background, and the gurgle of the refrigerator in the kitchen played in time with the ping of the heater.
“Tony?” She called into the too quiet house, Nearly noon. Tony never slept past nine.
She stepped into the living room then turned sharply around the corner to the kitchen, her smile a brief bloom against the dull crack of her skull. The new tile backsplash behind the stove had been their latest joint project, and it really did look good. She and Tony had laid the tiles themselves. She enjoyed sharing the work with him and tried hard not to think of it as a down payment on her eventual move-in. They were approaching the point in their relationship where keeping two residences would feel silly.
The coffee in the pot was cold. A wine glass and fork in the sink, a pizza box in the trash.
“Tony, are you home?” She called out, her voice louder, her brain punishing.
Where was he? Her cell phone had been silent all night and this morning.
She went upstairs, the doors to Tony’s office closed, the door to the bedroom cracked open just a little. She took the handle of the bedroom door in hand and shivered. A flashing image clicked in her brain.
Tangled bodies and sweat, the slap of violent penetration and clawing ecstasy blurred red inside the vision, and yet the vivid shimmer of a golden collar and chain hooked to the floor tickled the question of where the missing pet might be lurking.
She closed her eyes, clung to the door as though it were a talisman, and pushed the fevered visions out, out, out. She hated when the images came, hated how they punished her worse when she drank too much or slept too little. She ground her teeth and calmed her breath, then opened the door.
Tony’s bed had been stripped clean, a stack of fresh linens a messy pile in the center of the mattress, the down comforter a fluffy fence on the floor around the base of the bed, and the old linens balled up in the corner along with some clothes. Paranoid jealousy stabbed her stomach. She sniffed, smelling only stale, heated air, no lingering perfume, no trace of hair spray or lotion. The deco bronze lamp on the nightstand misted pale light on the odd black-leather binding of what appeared to be a very old book.
Cynthia looked at the bed and sheets and surrendered. The spring-loaded band around her head pulsed dull pain through her brain and fatigue drowned her anxiety. She released a measured breath then took up the sheets to make the bed. Tony would be back with take-out or coffee depending on how he slept – or didn’t sleep, she conceded with a tinge of cynicism. Either way, she would be able to take advantage of some kind of sustenance.
She stripped off her jeans, unfastened her bra and removed it without taking off her sleeveless top. Wearing the thin shirt and her satin thong, she crawled between the chilly sheets and heavy comforter, snapped the lamp off, fluffed the pillow with a clap and embraced her role as Goldilocks. Her lids fell like lead and she waited for sleep to wrap her like so much spider silk.
Waited.
Waited.
The bed warmed with her body heat, the cocoon complete. The subtle groans and bumps of the townhouse settling around her, the muffled static of traffic from beyond the windows, the muted barking of a deep-throated dog, tapped at her ears, and sleep hovered cruelly within sight, but beyond her reach.
She tossed onto her side and opened her eyes, the big book on the nightstand level with her gaze. Why not?
She stuffed the pillows behind her back, turned on the lamp, and picked up the heavy tome. Bibliophilia had brought her and Tony together initially, a love for leathery spines and arcane typography. Tony knew more than she did, but she had her own areas of expertise and knowledge and together they had explored new avenues. Tony had a taste for old German texts, but his German wasn’t as robust as hers and she helped him decipher some of the books he found. For Tony, the books were often commodities, while Cynthia had to fight the compulsion to keep every book she had ever owned. Shelf space would be an issue when she moved in.
She hefted the book onto her lap, curiosity suddenly buzzing in her belly. What book had garnered such a prestigious position as Tony’s nightstand, but had been left there seemingly without care? Tales, the spine read. Her lips twitched into a half smile as she opened the scrolled leather cover.
Her breath caught. The type appeared to be at least early Nineteenth Century, maybe earlier, the stiff formality of it a tease to her curiosity.
The paper quality appeared different from signature to signature, as though the book had been assembled from many sources, or perhaps at different times, and the variety of typefaces supported her theory. Mostly English, but she saw German and whole passages of unfamiliar words in some other tongue. The margins had been heavily annotated in places, and the text appeared to be broken into sections, chapters perhaps, or separate stories. What had Tony found?
Definitely short pieces, she guessed, by the diversity of titles. Short stories didn’t really exist as a genre, Cynthia knew, until later in the 19th Century, later than this book’s likely origin, although there were collections of folklore and other tales. In her shaky condition, she found the titles in the old book oddly elusive, slipping from her memory almost as fast as she turned the pages. Too much effort, she thought, feeling the first real tug of sleep, and then the book seemed almost to fall open of its own volition to the first page of a story with the intriguing title “Night of the Jester.”
With her eyelids heavy, Cynthia strained to read the words, elegant in the turn of ink, heavy with the stilt of the language, a story of a maiden, innocent and naïve, who finds a sleek mink curled on her bed. A simple tale told in lovely old-fashioned prose, oddly sensual and – was it possible – laced with sexual innuendo? Mink? Right… More like silky hide against the maiden’s skin.
Yes, she thought, quite a story. She would have to finish it later. Sleep took her and she slipped back under the covers, the book falling beside her. Distantly she heard something. Tony’s home, she thought. Good. She was ready to see him and to hold him. Maybe he’d join her in bed. She turned over to greet him, saw nothing but the dim room, rolled back onto her stomach, snuggling down.
A hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back, while another reached under her, mauling her breast through the thin shirt, tweaking her suddenly stiff nipple hard. Teeth clamped her shoulder; the spice of masculine musk burned her nose as she arched against the pleasure. She wanted his cock, needed the slick hot line of him splitting her, branding her, ruining her for anyone but him. She slammed her butt back to meet his thrust, strained against his grip as he shifted his calloused hand from her breast to her stomach, pulling her up. Hard pressure choked her hips as he caught her thong and tore it away and then the long heat of his cock slid across the cleft of her ass, seeking her cunt. He entered her smoothly, deep, all the way in and she shrieked against her restraint, howled with the waves of pleasure each long ramming gave her. She writhed and cried and bucked, his skin sliding so soft and silky inside hers, his hands cuffing her wrists, sharp and feral. He fucked her – fucked her! – with the ferocity of an animal, wild, driven, desperate.
And she loved it.
Her lungs burned with the fire of her panting, her cunt wept and pulsed and clenched even as it winced against the hard, savage penetration. Her clit screamed as his fingers mercilessly teased it.
He owned her, he fucked her, she hovered above the chasm begging to fall and he refused, the silky sheen of his hair arousing her further, his sharp teeth claiming the juncture of her neck.
He fucked her from behind, hard and blazingly fast, and she wanted more – more!
Then he slipped out of her, preparing for something new.
The luxury of silk, the strength of steel, he held her at the precipice, his fingers busy against her clit, his cock pulsing, but stationary at the gate of her pussy. She looked over her shoulder and into his feral face, saw the cunning, the guile, and she arched in surrender.
An artful thrust, a precise flick, and Cynthia soared, spread against the stars and she came harder than she had in months.
Panting, sweating to soak the sheets, she screamed her orgasm into the quiet of Tony’s townhouse.
Awakened by her own cry, she sat up, alone, the covers kicked aside, her shirt hiked above her breasts, her nipples still tender from the astonishing wet dream, naked below the rolled tank top her thong missing – not lost in the tangled sheets as she first thought, but gone, vanished.
Taken.
Enjoy!
~AC
"Woman of His Dreams"
Part 2
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Part 2
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Cynthia Rhomar bumped her hip into swollen wood and the door opened with a whining grind of hinges like an unholy cry of protest. “Fuck, Tony, you’ve got to do something about this door.” She tossed her keys onto the narrow marble-topped table in the hall, cringing at the clatter as she dropped her overnight bag beside it. Never again. How in the world had she ever thought she could mix tequila and wine and not suffer the consequences? And yet, as ripped up as she felt, she knew Brigitte would feel worse and was likely to spend her day with the cold porcelain of Cynthia’s apartment bathroom. Cynthia had felt little guilt leaving her best friend asleep on the sofa.
Late morning sun filtered in through the slats in the blinds, painting bright lines on the living room floor. She pulled the scarf from around her neck and sloughed off her coat, hanging them on the coat rack beside the table. She looked around the entry hall and into the living room, dust motes the only movement in the space. She stopped, straining her ears, working hard to filter out the hiss of her headache. Muffled traffic noise provided the usual background, and the gurgle of the refrigerator in the kitchen played in time with the ping of the heater.
“Tony?” She called into the too quiet house, Nearly noon. Tony never slept past nine.
She stepped into the living room then turned sharply around the corner to the kitchen, her smile a brief bloom against the dull crack of her skull. The new tile backsplash behind the stove had been their latest joint project, and it really did look good. She and Tony had laid the tiles themselves. She enjoyed sharing the work with him and tried hard not to think of it as a down payment on her eventual move-in. They were approaching the point in their relationship where keeping two residences would feel silly.
The coffee in the pot was cold. A wine glass and fork in the sink, a pizza box in the trash.
“Tony, are you home?” She called out, her voice louder, her brain punishing.
Where was he? Her cell phone had been silent all night and this morning.
She went upstairs, the doors to Tony’s office closed, the door to the bedroom cracked open just a little. She took the handle of the bedroom door in hand and shivered. A flashing image clicked in her brain.
Tangled bodies and sweat, the slap of violent penetration and clawing ecstasy blurred red inside the vision, and yet the vivid shimmer of a golden collar and chain hooked to the floor tickled the question of where the missing pet might be lurking.
She closed her eyes, clung to the door as though it were a talisman, and pushed the fevered visions out, out, out. She hated when the images came, hated how they punished her worse when she drank too much or slept too little. She ground her teeth and calmed her breath, then opened the door.
Tony’s bed had been stripped clean, a stack of fresh linens a messy pile in the center of the mattress, the down comforter a fluffy fence on the floor around the base of the bed, and the old linens balled up in the corner along with some clothes. Paranoid jealousy stabbed her stomach. She sniffed, smelling only stale, heated air, no lingering perfume, no trace of hair spray or lotion. The deco bronze lamp on the nightstand misted pale light on the odd black-leather binding of what appeared to be a very old book.
Cynthia looked at the bed and sheets and surrendered. The spring-loaded band around her head pulsed dull pain through her brain and fatigue drowned her anxiety. She released a measured breath then took up the sheets to make the bed. Tony would be back with take-out or coffee depending on how he slept – or didn’t sleep, she conceded with a tinge of cynicism. Either way, she would be able to take advantage of some kind of sustenance.
She stripped off her jeans, unfastened her bra and removed it without taking off her sleeveless top. Wearing the thin shirt and her satin thong, she crawled between the chilly sheets and heavy comforter, snapped the lamp off, fluffed the pillow with a clap and embraced her role as Goldilocks. Her lids fell like lead and she waited for sleep to wrap her like so much spider silk.
Waited.
Waited.
The bed warmed with her body heat, the cocoon complete. The subtle groans and bumps of the townhouse settling around her, the muffled static of traffic from beyond the windows, the muted barking of a deep-throated dog, tapped at her ears, and sleep hovered cruelly within sight, but beyond her reach.
She tossed onto her side and opened her eyes, the big book on the nightstand level with her gaze. Why not?
She stuffed the pillows behind her back, turned on the lamp, and picked up the heavy tome. Bibliophilia had brought her and Tony together initially, a love for leathery spines and arcane typography. Tony knew more than she did, but she had her own areas of expertise and knowledge and together they had explored new avenues. Tony had a taste for old German texts, but his German wasn’t as robust as hers and she helped him decipher some of the books he found. For Tony, the books were often commodities, while Cynthia had to fight the compulsion to keep every book she had ever owned. Shelf space would be an issue when she moved in.
She hefted the book onto her lap, curiosity suddenly buzzing in her belly. What book had garnered such a prestigious position as Tony’s nightstand, but had been left there seemingly without care? Tales, the spine read. Her lips twitched into a half smile as she opened the scrolled leather cover.
Her breath caught. The type appeared to be at least early Nineteenth Century, maybe earlier, the stiff formality of it a tease to her curiosity.
The paper quality appeared different from signature to signature, as though the book had been assembled from many sources, or perhaps at different times, and the variety of typefaces supported her theory. Mostly English, but she saw German and whole passages of unfamiliar words in some other tongue. The margins had been heavily annotated in places, and the text appeared to be broken into sections, chapters perhaps, or separate stories. What had Tony found?
Definitely short pieces, she guessed, by the diversity of titles. Short stories didn’t really exist as a genre, Cynthia knew, until later in the 19th Century, later than this book’s likely origin, although there were collections of folklore and other tales. In her shaky condition, she found the titles in the old book oddly elusive, slipping from her memory almost as fast as she turned the pages. Too much effort, she thought, feeling the first real tug of sleep, and then the book seemed almost to fall open of its own volition to the first page of a story with the intriguing title “Night of the Jester.”
With her eyelids heavy, Cynthia strained to read the words, elegant in the turn of ink, heavy with the stilt of the language, a story of a maiden, innocent and naïve, who finds a sleek mink curled on her bed. A simple tale told in lovely old-fashioned prose, oddly sensual and – was it possible – laced with sexual innuendo? Mink? Right… More like silky hide against the maiden’s skin.
Yes, she thought, quite a story. She would have to finish it later. Sleep took her and she slipped back under the covers, the book falling beside her. Distantly she heard something. Tony’s home, she thought. Good. She was ready to see him and to hold him. Maybe he’d join her in bed. She turned over to greet him, saw nothing but the dim room, rolled back onto her stomach, snuggling down.
A hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back, while another reached under her, mauling her breast through the thin shirt, tweaking her suddenly stiff nipple hard. Teeth clamped her shoulder; the spice of masculine musk burned her nose as she arched against the pleasure. She wanted his cock, needed the slick hot line of him splitting her, branding her, ruining her for anyone but him. She slammed her butt back to meet his thrust, strained against his grip as he shifted his calloused hand from her breast to her stomach, pulling her up. Hard pressure choked her hips as he caught her thong and tore it away and then the long heat of his cock slid across the cleft of her ass, seeking her cunt. He entered her smoothly, deep, all the way in and she shrieked against her restraint, howled with the waves of pleasure each long ramming gave her. She writhed and cried and bucked, his skin sliding so soft and silky inside hers, his hands cuffing her wrists, sharp and feral. He fucked her – fucked her! – with the ferocity of an animal, wild, driven, desperate.
And she loved it.
Her lungs burned with the fire of her panting, her cunt wept and pulsed and clenched even as it winced against the hard, savage penetration. Her clit screamed as his fingers mercilessly teased it.
He owned her, he fucked her, she hovered above the chasm begging to fall and he refused, the silky sheen of his hair arousing her further, his sharp teeth claiming the juncture of her neck.
He fucked her from behind, hard and blazingly fast, and she wanted more – more!
Then he slipped out of her, preparing for something new.
The luxury of silk, the strength of steel, he held her at the precipice, his fingers busy against her clit, his cock pulsing, but stationary at the gate of her pussy. She looked over her shoulder and into his feral face, saw the cunning, the guile, and she arched in surrender.
An artful thrust, a precise flick, and Cynthia soared, spread against the stars and she came harder than she had in months.
Panting, sweating to soak the sheets, she screamed her orgasm into the quiet of Tony’s townhouse.
Awakened by her own cry, she sat up, alone, the covers kicked aside, her shirt hiked above her breasts, her nipples still tender from the astonishing wet dream, naked below the rolled tank top her thong missing – not lost in the tangled sheets as she first thought, but gone, vanished.
Taken.
Continued
Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
Posted by Angela Caperton at 6/6/2010 1:45 PM 
Categories: dark erotica, Lovecraft, Angela Caperton, Woman of His Dreams
Tags: dark erotica Lovecraft Angela Caperton Woman of His Dreams
Categories: dark erotica, Lovecraft, Angela Caperton, Woman of His Dreams
Tags: dark erotica Lovecraft Angela Caperton Woman of His Dreams
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