Woman of His Dreams - Part VII
Welcome to Part 7 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
Cynthia’s kneaded Brigitte’s shirt and ignored the steaming coffee Tony tried to hand her. He set the cup in front of her on the kitchen table. A hammering pain pushed against her eyes and ears as she struggled to control her panic.
“What about the police?” Cynthia ventured. “She’s missing…” She couldn’t look at Tony, could only watch the tissue thin cotton of Brigitte’s shirt bunch and stretch in her twisting, crimping grip.
“What would you say to them Cynthia? ‘We had a mind-blowing orgy, and we think our friend melted and dribbled down between the floorboards?’”
“Don’t say that, Tony. She has to be okay. It was just a dream.” Cynthia’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the shirt. The shirt was solid and real and its tangibility unimaginably comforting.
“Stop, Cynthia.” Tony said.
The heavy throb in her pussy and the tingling ache of her anus shattered every miserable attempt to deny the truth. She looked at Tony, at his haggard face and crazy, mussed hair and wanted to push back against the cold acceptance in his eyes.
Maybe with her thumbs.
Unshed tears ached at the back of her throat.
“Truth is, Cyn, do we really know what happened? I remember dinner clearly, and coming back here with Brigitte.”
“The book.” She whispered, an icicle in her stomach. “You read from the book before last night, right? I found it on your night stand.”
Tony nodded and his body stiffened as he leaned on the kitchen table, his head down, his brow creased in concentration. “Yeah. Yeah, I did, and thought I dreamed.” His voice trailed off, uncertain and uncomfortable. “And when you found it, you read it?”
Cynthia released Brigitte’s shirt, the rope of it relaxing once freed. She put her hand over Tony’s, found his skin cold but the pulse strong and rapid. She squeezed and when he looked up, she nodded. “I did. I fell asleep here yesterday while I was reading, and I dreamed too.
“Brigitte read from the book, Tony. Is this really possible? Is the book, I don’t know, haunted or something? Cursed?”
Tony sighed, his anxiety like a web, soon smothering them both. He sat beside her and took her untouched coffee. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s some explanation … mold in the pages or something.”
Cynthia’s mind spun centrifugally. She felt her thoughts separating, reality from possibility with impossibility floating uneasily to the surface.
Hot memories pushed against her fear. She breathed in and tasted Brigitte’s pussy on her tongue, relived the full lust of two cocks moving inside her, taking her, binding her…
“Tony, we have to accept the possibility that this is something unnatural. Have you ever met Professor Wentworth?” The question fell from her lips, breaking the rising fever of the vivid memory. “At the college?”
“No, but I know the name. Didn’t he work for old Professor Amiad? In the philosophy department?”
Cynthia nodded. She’d met Professor Amiad only once before the tottering old man had retired to his home in Turkey. Steven Wentworth, on the other hand, she knew pretty well, had even dated him once. He had grown from Amiad’s quirky younger apprentice to a bearded, prematurely grey bastion of the school, charming in uneven moments.
“Tony, Professor Wentowrth studied at Miskatonic. He knows a lot about magic and such … academically I mean. Maybe he can help.”
Tony brought the coffee cup down onto the table with an agitated thump. “I know a little bit about the subject too, Cynthia, especially about old books. I’ve bought and sold plenty of grimoires and canticles. It’s all nonsense.” He didn’t wait for her to respond before kicking back his chair and taking the cup to the sink, his stiff frame radiating his absolute dismissal of her suggestion.
Cynthia’s gaze glazed red. She stood and left the kitchen, her eyes drawn to the dark binding of the book on the coffee table in the living room. Fuck him. She’d take the book to Professor Wentworth. If he could help her figure out what happened to Brigitte – no, where Brigitte was – that was all that mattered. If Tony wanted to be obstinate, then fuck him.
A whip of fear cut across her resolve, but she pushed past it and picked up the book.
When she touched it, her pussy, slick, hot, ready, pulsed, ached.
Begged.
She panted, looked down at the heavy book in her arms, a sheen of sudden sweat on her face.
A cock, long, glistening, that bead of perfect liquid crystal at the tip, thick veins promising texture and living pleasure, waiting for her to open.
Open.
Frozen, panting, Cynthia slid her fingers between the pages, opened the book, her vision gilded and misty as she began to read…
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 7
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Part 7
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Cynthia’s kneaded Brigitte’s shirt and ignored the steaming coffee Tony tried to hand her. He set the cup in front of her on the kitchen table. A hammering pain pushed against her eyes and ears as she struggled to control her panic.“What about the police?” Cynthia ventured. “She’s missing…” She couldn’t look at Tony, could only watch the tissue thin cotton of Brigitte’s shirt bunch and stretch in her twisting, crimping grip.
“What would you say to them Cynthia? ‘We had a mind-blowing orgy, and we think our friend melted and dribbled down between the floorboards?’”
“Don’t say that, Tony. She has to be okay. It was just a dream.” Cynthia’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the shirt. The shirt was solid and real and its tangibility unimaginably comforting.
“Stop, Cynthia.” Tony said.
The heavy throb in her pussy and the tingling ache of her anus shattered every miserable attempt to deny the truth. She looked at Tony, at his haggard face and crazy, mussed hair and wanted to push back against the cold acceptance in his eyes.
Maybe with her thumbs.
Unshed tears ached at the back of her throat.
“Truth is, Cyn, do we really know what happened? I remember dinner clearly, and coming back here with Brigitte.”
“The book.” She whispered, an icicle in her stomach. “You read from the book before last night, right? I found it on your night stand.”
Tony nodded and his body stiffened as he leaned on the kitchen table, his head down, his brow creased in concentration. “Yeah. Yeah, I did, and thought I dreamed.” His voice trailed off, uncertain and uncomfortable. “And when you found it, you read it?”
Cynthia released Brigitte’s shirt, the rope of it relaxing once freed. She put her hand over Tony’s, found his skin cold but the pulse strong and rapid. She squeezed and when he looked up, she nodded. “I did. I fell asleep here yesterday while I was reading, and I dreamed too.
“Brigitte read from the book, Tony. Is this really possible? Is the book, I don’t know, haunted or something? Cursed?”
Tony sighed, his anxiety like a web, soon smothering them both. He sat beside her and took her untouched coffee. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s some explanation … mold in the pages or something.”
Cynthia’s mind spun centrifugally. She felt her thoughts separating, reality from possibility with impossibility floating uneasily to the surface.
Hot memories pushed against her fear. She breathed in and tasted Brigitte’s pussy on her tongue, relived the full lust of two cocks moving inside her, taking her, binding her…
“Tony, we have to accept the possibility that this is something unnatural. Have you ever met Professor Wentworth?” The question fell from her lips, breaking the rising fever of the vivid memory. “At the college?”
“No, but I know the name. Didn’t he work for old Professor Amiad? In the philosophy department?”
Cynthia nodded. She’d met Professor Amiad only once before the tottering old man had retired to his home in Turkey. Steven Wentworth, on the other hand, she knew pretty well, had even dated him once. He had grown from Amiad’s quirky younger apprentice to a bearded, prematurely grey bastion of the school, charming in uneven moments.
“Tony, Professor Wentowrth studied at Miskatonic. He knows a lot about magic and such … academically I mean. Maybe he can help.”
Tony brought the coffee cup down onto the table with an agitated thump. “I know a little bit about the subject too, Cynthia, especially about old books. I’ve bought and sold plenty of grimoires and canticles. It’s all nonsense.” He didn’t wait for her to respond before kicking back his chair and taking the cup to the sink, his stiff frame radiating his absolute dismissal of her suggestion.
Cynthia’s gaze glazed red. She stood and left the kitchen, her eyes drawn to the dark binding of the book on the coffee table in the living room. Fuck him. She’d take the book to Professor Wentworth. If he could help her figure out what happened to Brigitte – no, where Brigitte was – that was all that mattered. If Tony wanted to be obstinate, then fuck him.
A whip of fear cut across her resolve, but she pushed past it and picked up the book.
When she touched it, her pussy, slick, hot, ready, pulsed, ached.
Begged.
She panted, looked down at the heavy book in her arms, a sheen of sudden sweat on her face.
A cock, long, glistening, that bead of perfect liquid crystal at the tip, thick veins promising texture and living pleasure, waiting for her to open.
Open.
Frozen, panting, Cynthia slid her fingers between the pages, opened the book, her vision gilded and misty as she began to read…
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 7/3/2010 11:39 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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