Woman of His Dreams - Part III
Welcome to Part 3 of"Woman of his Dreams"! If you're new to my dark little erotic tale, you can find the start here!
Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own...
~AC
When Anthony finally talked to Cynthia, they arranged to meet for dinner at a little restaurant called Temptations. Cynthia sounded weird on the phone, but then Anthony was feeling pretty fucking weird himself. The wound on his side throbbed under its bandage and half a tube of antibiotic goo, and his head had been pounding since he found Cynthia’s note upon his return to the townhouse – just a “Call me,” on crumpled paper. Later, he found that same request in his unreliable voicemail, five times, with Cynthia sounding a little more stressed each time.
He had found her note atop the tangled linens of his bed,left while he had been out walking along the waterfront trying to clear his head in the morning. Cynthia had been there, made the bed and crawled in to sleep, but what then? What the hell had happened? The room smelled like a frat house after a gangbang and the sheets were mussed and knotted and sweet with Cynthia’s scent. His cock jerked and stiffened even as his mind raced with possibilities.
Then he remembered the book. He had left it on the nightstand. Where was it? He searched the pile of sheets and comforter but found nothing. Not under the bed either. Had Cynthia taken it? She might’ve. He felt a shot of anger, quickly suppressed it and tried to call her. Her voice mail buzzed in his ear and he left a terse, “I’m here. Call me.”
She never got the message, she said later, after he’d texted her half a dozen times. When they finally talked, after five o’clock, the conversation started off strained, settled into reassurances and mutual curses for the entropic disintegration of their communications, then coalesced into the plan for dinner. He would meet Cynthia and her friend Brigitte. Right, Anthony thought, bring Brigitte along for cover.
On the phone, he didn’t ask about the book, but it lay constantly in his thoughts, like something immense, wonderful, and terrifying beneath the surface of a lake. He found it hard even to think directly about any of it, about the dream, about the implications of the tangled sheets and the hole in his side.
When he arrived at Temptations, Cynthia and her friend waited in a corner booth. The restaurant managed to seem smoky even under a public smoking ban, a quality of the light and the red-brown tint of old, leaded glass windows. Anthony dropped onto the leather seat beside Cynthia. They exchanged a kiss that Cynthia prolonged with the tip of her tongue. When she pulled back, leaving the spice of her lips on his, he smiled across at Brigitte.
“How’s our nation’s capital?”
“Same old swamp,” she answered. Anthony envied Brigitte’s job at the Smithsonian, part of the extended world of rarities and preservation that sustained them all. She was Cynthia’s age, almost thirty, not much taller than five feet, slender and small-breasted, with dark, short hair and eyes like warm chocolate.
“You girls found someplace to party last night?”
“No, sweetheart,”Cynthia replied. “We found five places to party.”
“Six,” Brigitte corrected her.
Had she found someone at one of those places and been too drunk to care? No, that was ridiculous. She wouldn’t have brought a fuck-toy to his place. He couldn’t imagine such a thing, but he also felt an odd twitch of his cock at the thought of her having another lover in his bed, of sharing her with someone.
“I feel pretty good, considering,” Brigitte said, sipping Napa Merlot.
Cynthia poured a glass for Anthony and they ordered steaks all around, the talk wandering through Cynthia’s work at the university library, trips taken and anticipated, Brigitte’s recent break-up, notable sales in the book trade, until the food arrived and they ate in a little bubble of wine and warmth.
“Brigitte, you have to see the tile we’ve put in at Tony’s place.” She put her warm hand on Anthony’s thigh. “Can we go there after we eat?”
“Sure,” he replied, his heart beating a little harder. “I have a good bottle or three if we want more wine.”
All through the meal, he didn’t mention the book and neither did Cynthia.Since he knew she must have taken it (or animal boy did, he thought, and pushed the thought away), her silence felt incriminating.
They walked six blocks to the townhouse, the girls arm-in-arm, talking, early spring breeze among the buildings, the street not full at all, a pause between the beating of the great subway heart of the city, the populace dispersed for the evening, these streets left to residents and a scattering of pedestrians. For a moment, as he walked behind the women,Anthony felt a sense of disassociation and the nearby skyline,light-spangled purple at the edge of night, seemed like something in a memory, another city of towers in another time. He remembered a room within one of the crystalline spires, a chamber of limitless desire and dread.
Three opened such possibilities, a tongue on his balls while he pushed into Cynthia’s dripping cunt, hands, teeth, the options multiplied, morphing into heat and motion, no direction, no bones in their bodies, only nerves firing pleasure, the border of intensity beyond tolerance, rhythm, heat, sweat…
Then the visionvanished, the moment gone. What the hell had he been thinking?
Theywere just going to look at the fucking tile.
**
Thom Yorke’s moody tenor laced the room with music. Cynthia had just opened the third bottle and the conversation had ranged over the politics of Brigitte’s job, the inarguable superiority of OK Computer to Hail to the Thief, dogs and how much trouble they were to keep, and now they had lapsed into comfortable silence, tasting the Riesling.
Cynthia and Brigitte shared the little sofa and Anthony sat at Cynthia’s feet,his head resting against one warm thigh. They should ask Brigitte to stay the night. No reason for her to go back to Cynthia’s place. She could sleep on the sofa. Of course the bed was also big enough for three. He grinned at the fantasy and then remembered the strange vision as he had passed beneath the shadows of a crystal tower.
He paused mid-sip, his breath suspended.
“What’s this?” Brigitte asked, her voice rising a little.
“What?” Anthony looked, even as Cynthia’s leg tensed beneath his cheek.
“This book. It was on the floor here. By the couch.”
Anthony looked up into Cynthia’s face, saw her widened eyes, the wet tip of her tongue on her lips, and he started to speak, but words failed.
Brigitte had already opened the book. “Wow,” she said, beginning to read. “Stories ...”
Continue to Part 4
Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own...
~AC
"Woman of His Dreams"
Part 3
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Part 3
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
When Anthony finally talked to Cynthia, they arranged to meet for dinner at a little restaurant called Temptations. Cynthia sounded weird on the phone, but then Anthony was feeling pretty fucking weird himself. The wound on his side throbbed under its bandage and half a tube of antibiotic goo, and his head had been pounding since he found Cynthia’s note upon his return to the townhouse – just a “Call me,” on crumpled paper. Later, he found that same request in his unreliable voicemail, five times, with Cynthia sounding a little more stressed each time. He had found her note atop the tangled linens of his bed,left while he had been out walking along the waterfront trying to clear his head in the morning. Cynthia had been there, made the bed and crawled in to sleep, but what then? What the hell had happened? The room smelled like a frat house after a gangbang and the sheets were mussed and knotted and sweet with Cynthia’s scent. His cock jerked and stiffened even as his mind raced with possibilities.
Then he remembered the book. He had left it on the nightstand. Where was it? He searched the pile of sheets and comforter but found nothing. Not under the bed either. Had Cynthia taken it? She might’ve. He felt a shot of anger, quickly suppressed it and tried to call her. Her voice mail buzzed in his ear and he left a terse, “I’m here. Call me.”
She never got the message, she said later, after he’d texted her half a dozen times. When they finally talked, after five o’clock, the conversation started off strained, settled into reassurances and mutual curses for the entropic disintegration of their communications, then coalesced into the plan for dinner. He would meet Cynthia and her friend Brigitte. Right, Anthony thought, bring Brigitte along for cover.
On the phone, he didn’t ask about the book, but it lay constantly in his thoughts, like something immense, wonderful, and terrifying beneath the surface of a lake. He found it hard even to think directly about any of it, about the dream, about the implications of the tangled sheets and the hole in his side.
When he arrived at Temptations, Cynthia and her friend waited in a corner booth. The restaurant managed to seem smoky even under a public smoking ban, a quality of the light and the red-brown tint of old, leaded glass windows. Anthony dropped onto the leather seat beside Cynthia. They exchanged a kiss that Cynthia prolonged with the tip of her tongue. When she pulled back, leaving the spice of her lips on his, he smiled across at Brigitte.
“How’s our nation’s capital?”
“Same old swamp,” she answered. Anthony envied Brigitte’s job at the Smithsonian, part of the extended world of rarities and preservation that sustained them all. She was Cynthia’s age, almost thirty, not much taller than five feet, slender and small-breasted, with dark, short hair and eyes like warm chocolate.
“You girls found someplace to party last night?”
“No, sweetheart,”Cynthia replied. “We found five places to party.”
“Six,” Brigitte corrected her.
Had she found someone at one of those places and been too drunk to care? No, that was ridiculous. She wouldn’t have brought a fuck-toy to his place. He couldn’t imagine such a thing, but he also felt an odd twitch of his cock at the thought of her having another lover in his bed, of sharing her with someone.
“I feel pretty good, considering,” Brigitte said, sipping Napa Merlot.
Cynthia poured a glass for Anthony and they ordered steaks all around, the talk wandering through Cynthia’s work at the university library, trips taken and anticipated, Brigitte’s recent break-up, notable sales in the book trade, until the food arrived and they ate in a little bubble of wine and warmth.
“Brigitte, you have to see the tile we’ve put in at Tony’s place.” She put her warm hand on Anthony’s thigh. “Can we go there after we eat?”
“Sure,” he replied, his heart beating a little harder. “I have a good bottle or three if we want more wine.”
All through the meal, he didn’t mention the book and neither did Cynthia.Since he knew she must have taken it (or animal boy did, he thought, and pushed the thought away), her silence felt incriminating.
They walked six blocks to the townhouse, the girls arm-in-arm, talking, early spring breeze among the buildings, the street not full at all, a pause between the beating of the great subway heart of the city, the populace dispersed for the evening, these streets left to residents and a scattering of pedestrians. For a moment, as he walked behind the women,Anthony felt a sense of disassociation and the nearby skyline,light-spangled purple at the edge of night, seemed like something in a memory, another city of towers in another time. He remembered a room within one of the crystalline spires, a chamber of limitless desire and dread.
Three opened such possibilities, a tongue on his balls while he pushed into Cynthia’s dripping cunt, hands, teeth, the options multiplied, morphing into heat and motion, no direction, no bones in their bodies, only nerves firing pleasure, the border of intensity beyond tolerance, rhythm, heat, sweat…
Then the visionvanished, the moment gone. What the hell had he been thinking?
Theywere just going to look at the fucking tile.
**
Thom Yorke’s moody tenor laced the room with music. Cynthia had just opened the third bottle and the conversation had ranged over the politics of Brigitte’s job, the inarguable superiority of OK Computer to Hail to the Thief, dogs and how much trouble they were to keep, and now they had lapsed into comfortable silence, tasting the Riesling.
Cynthia and Brigitte shared the little sofa and Anthony sat at Cynthia’s feet,his head resting against one warm thigh. They should ask Brigitte to stay the night. No reason for her to go back to Cynthia’s place. She could sleep on the sofa. Of course the bed was also big enough for three. He grinned at the fantasy and then remembered the strange vision as he had passed beneath the shadows of a crystal tower.
He paused mid-sip, his breath suspended.
“What’s this?” Brigitte asked, her voice rising a little.
“What?” Anthony looked, even as Cynthia’s leg tensed beneath his cheek.
“This book. It was on the floor here. By the couch.”
Anthony looked up into Cynthia’s face, saw her widened eyes, the wet tip of her tongue on her lips, and he started to speak, but words failed.
Brigitte had already opened the book. “Wow,” she said, beginning to read. “Stories ...”
Continue to Part 4
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 2:27 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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