Woman of His Dreams - Part IV
Welcome to Part 4 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
Brigitte read aloud.
In the seventh year of the reign of King Theodosius, when the Queen had borne him no heir, the servant named Hannah, who loved Queen Jiliah more than the ant loves honey, went into Ah-Seba and spoke with the wise man who lived alone in the tower called Ygg’s Needle.
“I-salah,” she said to him, “I come on business of the queen. King Theodosius desires with all his heart and soul to father an heir and my mistress has – so far – disappointed him, though not for any failure of effort on my mistress’ part. Now, with all the lust of a man seven years’ wed, and eager to beget a son, he begins to dally with ladies of the court, and worse, with wenches and whores.
“I bid you do that which Miriam and Alliah say you can do, make a woman of wax who moves and breathes, who loves in ways no mortal woman can, but who can bear no child. The queen only needs more time and fortune…”
I-salah thought for a time, a crease on his brow, but then nodded. “It will be done.”
Seven days later, a woman appeared at the court of King Theodosius with skin the color of silken sand and hair like midnight sky, graceful as a good poem and scented with the spice no man can name, the scent that stiffens even old men when they sniff it.
Word of her reached the king almost instantly, borne by lords eager to curry favor, and he received her alone, in a chamber guarded by two fierce hounds. The girl’s name was Irina.
“I am your king, Irina,” he said to her. “What will you do for me?”
“Anything,” she answered and then she showed him all that she meant, eager as a woman with a husband dead three years, but winsome, almost shy, the reflection of all the king desired in the mirror of his own eye. He mounted her and plowed the field of her bountiful desire, his seed generous in the pleasure she gave him.
Even as he lay with her, Hannah, the servant of the queen, whispered to her majesty. “I-salah’s maiden has come. The king lies with a woman of wax who can bear him no heir,” and the queen smiled at the news. Who could be jealous of a woman of wax?
On a day not long after Irina came to the palace, Queen Jiliah bathed in her pool of gold and reached out for the towel that Hannah always gave her, but when she took it in her hand, she felt a difference and when she looked at the attendant, she saw a girl with skin the color of silken sand and hair like midnight sky, graceful as a lover’s song and scented with the spice all women know, a scent to tighten the belly and draw rain between the thighs.
I am your queen,” Jiliah said to Irina. “What will you do for me?”
“Everything,” she answered and then she showed the queen new joy, as a woman weary of clumsy men might show another, with patience and fever, veneration and a touch like the kiss of a moth’s wing.
So the weeks passed and Irina lay with each of them often and, in time, all the court buzzed with tales of new debaucheries, the king and Irina rutting atop the Treasurer’s desk while the harried man counted the last of the silver, the queen and the beautiful girl tasting each other in the presence of an envoy, diplomacy abandoned, the ambassador invited to the revel, whispers of war.
New cruelties arose among the courtiers, jests at first, then blades of rumor, followed fast by knives of steel. One lord killed another in a duel. Three ladies were accused of witchery and one of them flung herself from a tower. A promising young scholar drank lye. In every tale, Irina figured.
Hannah, horrified by all that had transpired, ran to Ygg’s Needle and pounded on the door, but she heard no answer within, no footfall, no servants, only silence, so she went in.
She found a vat of wax the color of silken sand and she found tufts of the midnight hair of dead women, and she found I-salah, the wise man, dead, with his eyes bitten out and his pizzle in his mouth. No breath in her lungs, she ran with all her strength back to the palace, to warn the queen, to save the king.
But of course, she came too late.
Brigitte closed the heavy book, the old, black letters and blacker words sour on her tongue. She reached for her wineglass, surprised to feel its full weight.
“Wow,” Cynthia breathed out on a heavy sigh.
“Yeah,” Brigitte drained half the wine from the cup, the Riesling turning her tongue sweet and soft. “That’s some bedtime story.”
Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own...
~AC
"Woman of His Dreams"
Part 4
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Part 4
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Brigitte read aloud.In the seventh year of the reign of King Theodosius, when the Queen had borne him no heir, the servant named Hannah, who loved Queen Jiliah more than the ant loves honey, went into Ah-Seba and spoke with the wise man who lived alone in the tower called Ygg’s Needle.
“I-salah,” she said to him, “I come on business of the queen. King Theodosius desires with all his heart and soul to father an heir and my mistress has – so far – disappointed him, though not for any failure of effort on my mistress’ part. Now, with all the lust of a man seven years’ wed, and eager to beget a son, he begins to dally with ladies of the court, and worse, with wenches and whores.
“I bid you do that which Miriam and Alliah say you can do, make a woman of wax who moves and breathes, who loves in ways no mortal woman can, but who can bear no child. The queen only needs more time and fortune…”
I-salah thought for a time, a crease on his brow, but then nodded. “It will be done.”
Seven days later, a woman appeared at the court of King Theodosius with skin the color of silken sand and hair like midnight sky, graceful as a good poem and scented with the spice no man can name, the scent that stiffens even old men when they sniff it.
Word of her reached the king almost instantly, borne by lords eager to curry favor, and he received her alone, in a chamber guarded by two fierce hounds. The girl’s name was Irina.
“I am your king, Irina,” he said to her. “What will you do for me?”
“Anything,” she answered and then she showed him all that she meant, eager as a woman with a husband dead three years, but winsome, almost shy, the reflection of all the king desired in the mirror of his own eye. He mounted her and plowed the field of her bountiful desire, his seed generous in the pleasure she gave him.
Even as he lay with her, Hannah, the servant of the queen, whispered to her majesty. “I-salah’s maiden has come. The king lies with a woman of wax who can bear him no heir,” and the queen smiled at the news. Who could be jealous of a woman of wax?
On a day not long after Irina came to the palace, Queen Jiliah bathed in her pool of gold and reached out for the towel that Hannah always gave her, but when she took it in her hand, she felt a difference and when she looked at the attendant, she saw a girl with skin the color of silken sand and hair like midnight sky, graceful as a lover’s song and scented with the spice all women know, a scent to tighten the belly and draw rain between the thighs.
I am your queen,” Jiliah said to Irina. “What will you do for me?”
“Everything,” she answered and then she showed the queen new joy, as a woman weary of clumsy men might show another, with patience and fever, veneration and a touch like the kiss of a moth’s wing.
So the weeks passed and Irina lay with each of them often and, in time, all the court buzzed with tales of new debaucheries, the king and Irina rutting atop the Treasurer’s desk while the harried man counted the last of the silver, the queen and the beautiful girl tasting each other in the presence of an envoy, diplomacy abandoned, the ambassador invited to the revel, whispers of war.
New cruelties arose among the courtiers, jests at first, then blades of rumor, followed fast by knives of steel. One lord killed another in a duel. Three ladies were accused of witchery and one of them flung herself from a tower. A promising young scholar drank lye. In every tale, Irina figured.
Hannah, horrified by all that had transpired, ran to Ygg’s Needle and pounded on the door, but she heard no answer within, no footfall, no servants, only silence, so she went in.
She found a vat of wax the color of silken sand and she found tufts of the midnight hair of dead women, and she found I-salah, the wise man, dead, with his eyes bitten out and his pizzle in his mouth. No breath in her lungs, she ran with all her strength back to the palace, to warn the queen, to save the king.
But of course, she came too late.
Brigitte closed the heavy book, the old, black letters and blacker words sour on her tongue. She reached for her wineglass, surprised to feel its full weight.
“Wow,” Cynthia breathed out on a heavy sigh.
“Yeah,” Brigitte drained half the wine from the cup, the Riesling turning her tongue sweet and soft. “That’s some bedtime story.”
Continue to Part 5
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 6/13/2010 10:40 AM 
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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