Woman of His Dreams - Part VI
Welcome to Part 6 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
Anthony pushed against muscled silk, Cynthia’s bottom cradling his cock intimately.
He blinked and saw the morning sun in bloody lines of light between the mini blinds, and he remembered, just on the threshold of waking, that something had gone terribly wrong, but Cynthia’s skin, the press of her warm, bare flesh against his, burned away all dread. He leaned into her, enjoying the slow hardening of his cock against the enfolding heat of her butt.
She pushed back against him and made a sleepy sound, a gurgle of half-aware delight.
Anthony closed his eyes and insinuated his hand under her left arm to cup a breast, exploring the weight, his palm cupping the stiffening nipple. When he licked her neck, she tasted like salt and spices.
Nothing better, he thought, than waking beside you.
Something terrible had happened.
She shifted, arched her back, pressed her breast hard against his palm, her left leg rising at the knee. His cock, fully erect, bumped against the offered prize and he moved his hand from her breast to the slit of her pussy, open and wet. They shifted together and he entered her with a slow, deep slide.
With slick motion, in fluid undulations, they fucked, each stroke more vivid than the one before, the harmony perfect, the connection primal and true. He drank the nectar of passion from the salt on her neck, felt the climax rising in his cock, and as their passion approached a peak he reveled in the joy of union.
She growled.
Wet fur. A smell like snakes.
Melting.
They moved together, a practiced rhythm he knew in his blood, as though they had danced this way for ten thousand years. Anthony’s mouth watered as he bit Cynthia’s neck and shoulders, and his cock pulsed with each sure stroke into her cunt. The rippling heat of her body against his, the shared, single breath, the conjoined racing heartbeat, he could not imagine life existing before this moment without what they shared, nor another moment alone beyond it.
He cried out as Cynthia screamed. He came, hard, hot, his cock pounding into her, overflowing along his shaft. Amazing, he thought with some shred of his consciousness, as he gushed into her, to still be so full after a night of such delirious sex.
Brigitte and Cynthia and another. So many possibilities, divine in diversity.
The ultimate climax.
He came, dark, bright, racking him with unimagined pleasure and pain.
Melting.
Cynthia breathed against him, her panting in spent delight almost as satisfying as the emptying of his own balls. Basking in the glow, he barely heard her clear, sharp voice. “Wake up, Anthony. Please wake up. Oh god, please.”
The bloody lines of morning had turned white. The room smelled of stale sweat and something like blood. Anthony’s head sagged with a skull full of raw hamburger. His cock ached and he reached for Cynthia, but she wasn’t beside him after all.
She stood by the bed, half dressed, her eyes wide with worry.
Who? He wondered, unsure for a moment whether he still dreamed.
“Thank god,” she panted her voice shrill with, what? Panic? “You were dreaming. We both were. I got up half an hour ago and I tried to wake you but you wouldn’t get up.”
He wanted to tell her he had been dreaming about her, but the fear in her voice, the wildness in her eyes, froze his tongue. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.
“Brigitte,” she said.
Brigitte. He remembered the tang of Brigitte’s cunt, the ecstatic sense of union with her, with Cynthia with…another. Smells and taste and lush sensations on his lips, his tongue, overwhelmed him. Such tangibility such incredible explosions of vibrant life – pleasure and precious agony, wonder and terror.
“Was…that a dream?” he asked Cynthia, catching her sudden panic. “A dream. Had to be,” he offered hopefully.
Cynthia shook her head, pale and uncertain. “I found her clothes by the couch,” Cynthia said, almost in tears, “But she’s not here. She’s not in the house, Tony.
“Where the hell is she?”
Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own...
~AC
"Woman of His Dreams"
Part 6
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Part 6
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Anthony pushed against muscled silk, Cynthia’s bottom cradling his cock intimately.He blinked and saw the morning sun in bloody lines of light between the mini blinds, and he remembered, just on the threshold of waking, that something had gone terribly wrong, but Cynthia’s skin, the press of her warm, bare flesh against his, burned away all dread. He leaned into her, enjoying the slow hardening of his cock against the enfolding heat of her butt.
She pushed back against him and made a sleepy sound, a gurgle of half-aware delight.
Anthony closed his eyes and insinuated his hand under her left arm to cup a breast, exploring the weight, his palm cupping the stiffening nipple. When he licked her neck, she tasted like salt and spices.
Nothing better, he thought, than waking beside you.
Something terrible had happened.
She shifted, arched her back, pressed her breast hard against his palm, her left leg rising at the knee. His cock, fully erect, bumped against the offered prize and he moved his hand from her breast to the slit of her pussy, open and wet. They shifted together and he entered her with a slow, deep slide.
With slick motion, in fluid undulations, they fucked, each stroke more vivid than the one before, the harmony perfect, the connection primal and true. He drank the nectar of passion from the salt on her neck, felt the climax rising in his cock, and as their passion approached a peak he reveled in the joy of union.
She growled.
Wet fur. A smell like snakes.
Melting.
They moved together, a practiced rhythm he knew in his blood, as though they had danced this way for ten thousand years. Anthony’s mouth watered as he bit Cynthia’s neck and shoulders, and his cock pulsed with each sure stroke into her cunt. The rippling heat of her body against his, the shared, single breath, the conjoined racing heartbeat, he could not imagine life existing before this moment without what they shared, nor another moment alone beyond it.
He cried out as Cynthia screamed. He came, hard, hot, his cock pounding into her, overflowing along his shaft. Amazing, he thought with some shred of his consciousness, as he gushed into her, to still be so full after a night of such delirious sex.
Brigitte and Cynthia and another. So many possibilities, divine in diversity.
The ultimate climax.
He came, dark, bright, racking him with unimagined pleasure and pain.
Melting.
Cynthia breathed against him, her panting in spent delight almost as satisfying as the emptying of his own balls. Basking in the glow, he barely heard her clear, sharp voice. “Wake up, Anthony. Please wake up. Oh god, please.”
The bloody lines of morning had turned white. The room smelled of stale sweat and something like blood. Anthony’s head sagged with a skull full of raw hamburger. His cock ached and he reached for Cynthia, but she wasn’t beside him after all.
She stood by the bed, half dressed, her eyes wide with worry.
Who? He wondered, unsure for a moment whether he still dreamed.
“Thank god,” she panted her voice shrill with, what? Panic? “You were dreaming. We both were. I got up half an hour ago and I tried to wake you but you wouldn’t get up.”
He wanted to tell her he had been dreaming about her, but the fear in her voice, the wildness in her eyes, froze his tongue. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.
“Brigitte,” she said.
Brigitte. He remembered the tang of Brigitte’s cunt, the ecstatic sense of union with her, with Cynthia with…another. Smells and taste and lush sensations on his lips, his tongue, overwhelmed him. Such tangibility such incredible explosions of vibrant life – pleasure and precious agony, wonder and terror.
“Was…that a dream?” he asked Cynthia, catching her sudden panic. “A dream. Had to be,” he offered hopefully.
Cynthia shook her head, pale and uncertain. “I found her clothes by the couch,” Cynthia said, almost in tears, “But she’s not here. She’s not in the house, Tony.
“Where the hell is she?”
Continued in Part 7
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 6/27/2010 9:57 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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