Woman of His Dreams - Part IX
Welcome to Part 9 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 saw fear in Cynthia’s eyes, and his rage fed on it.
“What were you reading?” he asked, reaching for the book to tear it from her shaky hands.
“That story,” she said. “Don’t lose my place. I need to finish it…”
“What story? There’s nothing on the page. It’s blank.”
“That’s ridiculous…oh God, Tony.” She took the book back and turned the pages desperately. He saw bewilderment and fear in her face. “It’s not here. Jesus. I have to find it. I have to see how it ends.”
She clutched the book when he reached for it, and he hit her lightly with his open hand so she let go, reeling with surprise bright in her eyes. She drew back for a moment, tears starting, then she changed, passing in an instant from fear to fury. Her snarl shocked him. She bared her teeth and growled, a feral noise that made him hard instantly.
Cynthia flung the book aside and leapt at him. Anthony braced to meet her but her force overwhelmed him and they fell backward. She tore at his shirt and loose buttons rattled around the room like flung stones. Her eyes looked glassy and unfocused and her strength seemed more than human.
He fought back, tipping her off balance and then, swinging his right leg up, he caught her in its crook and twisted. She resisted him, her hands clawing at his skin, tearing strips of flesh from his chest and stomach.
“Fuck,” he screamed and tried to sit upright, to give himself leverage to hit her with force, but Cynthia had no intention of letting him up. She threw her weight across his stomach and chest. His breath rushed out and the room spun in a black cloud. She tore at his waistband, apparently heedless of whether her nails found fabric or skin. He grappled at her, still fighting to breathe. She gouged his ribcage with an elbow, jabbing with painful effect.
Then she swung her leg over him and he realized she had bared his cock and that it pointed toward the ceiling, more than ready for her. She paused for a moment, tore off her panties, then speared herself on him, grinding down hard.
Still gasping, he tried to meet her, but she didn’t seem to care whether Anthony was a consenting partner or not. She rode him, used him like an ancient priestess on the stone prick of an idol, relentless and hard, her hips rocking and her cunt pulling at him like a mouth. Her eyes rolled and she drooled a little, crying out and shaking as she came.
Then like a wave, it rose in him too, a surge of incredible sensation starting in his lower back, running up through the rigid pole of his prick, up his backbone to explode in white light inside his skull, out into her, fusing her to him, the acolyte and her god’s graven image.
He felt her breasts press slickly against his chest as she settled atop him, crying, her tears mingling with those that leaked from his eyes. He felt overwhelming pleasure from the orgasm, but also from the wounds she had made in his flesh. He smelled the metal tang of blood and knew he lay in a thick smear of it. He wondered just how badly she had hurt him, but he could not find the strength to stir.
Time melted and stretched, taffy in the room’s airless heat. Her weight lifted as she sat up and, still straddling his hips, she looked down at him. “Oh, god, Tony. Don’t move.”
“Don’t worry,” he groaned as she climbed off him and hurried out of the room. He sat up with effort. He saw she really hadn’t hurt him much at all, though his blood flowed from superficial wounds in half a dozen places.
She returned with a wet towel, some antibiotic goo, and a roll of bandages. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice shaking with the power of her regret.
“I…I’m sorry too.” He nodded, as if his bobbing head could telegraph the black soul sickness that threatened to overturn his stomach. “I shouldn’t have hit you. That book…”
They both looked around to see if it lay where Cynthia had thrown it and a wave of relief eased his sickness when he saw it there.
She cleaned the scratches and torn places with tenderness until she came to a spot on his side, just under his left breast. “What’s this?” she asked. “I didn’t do this.”
He looked down at his chest and remembered the first night with the book, the worm, the woman who had bitten him. Since then, the wound had festered, the ring of red marks had deepened and his skin had puckered into a red line that glistened with fresh shed blood. He touched the gash and the skin parted under his finger, slippery and deep but not sore or raw. He saw the horror in Cynthia’s eye and a piercing coldness frosted his heart and punched his stomach.
“Oh god,” he mouthed, then he told her about the dream.
“We have to get help,” she told him. “Let me go to Steven, to Dr. Wentworth. Come with me.”
He felt a stab of jealousy and started to tell her that there was nothing Wentworth or anyone else could do, but the seeping lesion in his side made his resentment seem petty and meaningless, and Brigitte was missing.
“All right,” he said. “But I’m not coming with you. You go see your professor and see what he says.”
“What will you do, Tony?”
“I’m going back to the store where I found the book.”
They looked at each other and Anthony knew her unspoken question. Could she take Tales to the professor?
“Yeah,” he said to the silent plea. “Take it. Take the damned book to him. Hurry though, before I change my mind.”
Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own...
~AC
"Woman of His Dreams"
Part 9
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Part 9
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Anthony saw fear in Cynthia’s eyes, and his rage fed on it.“What were you reading?” he asked, reaching for the book to tear it from her shaky hands.
“That story,” she said. “Don’t lose my place. I need to finish it…”
“What story? There’s nothing on the page. It’s blank.”
“That’s ridiculous…oh God, Tony.” She took the book back and turned the pages desperately. He saw bewilderment and fear in her face. “It’s not here. Jesus. I have to find it. I have to see how it ends.”
She clutched the book when he reached for it, and he hit her lightly with his open hand so she let go, reeling with surprise bright in her eyes. She drew back for a moment, tears starting, then she changed, passing in an instant from fear to fury. Her snarl shocked him. She bared her teeth and growled, a feral noise that made him hard instantly.
Cynthia flung the book aside and leapt at him. Anthony braced to meet her but her force overwhelmed him and they fell backward. She tore at his shirt and loose buttons rattled around the room like flung stones. Her eyes looked glassy and unfocused and her strength seemed more than human.
He fought back, tipping her off balance and then, swinging his right leg up, he caught her in its crook and twisted. She resisted him, her hands clawing at his skin, tearing strips of flesh from his chest and stomach.
“Fuck,” he screamed and tried to sit upright, to give himself leverage to hit her with force, but Cynthia had no intention of letting him up. She threw her weight across his stomach and chest. His breath rushed out and the room spun in a black cloud. She tore at his waistband, apparently heedless of whether her nails found fabric or skin. He grappled at her, still fighting to breathe. She gouged his ribcage with an elbow, jabbing with painful effect.
Then she swung her leg over him and he realized she had bared his cock and that it pointed toward the ceiling, more than ready for her. She paused for a moment, tore off her panties, then speared herself on him, grinding down hard.
Still gasping, he tried to meet her, but she didn’t seem to care whether Anthony was a consenting partner or not. She rode him, used him like an ancient priestess on the stone prick of an idol, relentless and hard, her hips rocking and her cunt pulling at him like a mouth. Her eyes rolled and she drooled a little, crying out and shaking as she came.
Then like a wave, it rose in him too, a surge of incredible sensation starting in his lower back, running up through the rigid pole of his prick, up his backbone to explode in white light inside his skull, out into her, fusing her to him, the acolyte and her god’s graven image.
He felt her breasts press slickly against his chest as she settled atop him, crying, her tears mingling with those that leaked from his eyes. He felt overwhelming pleasure from the orgasm, but also from the wounds she had made in his flesh. He smelled the metal tang of blood and knew he lay in a thick smear of it. He wondered just how badly she had hurt him, but he could not find the strength to stir.
Time melted and stretched, taffy in the room’s airless heat. Her weight lifted as she sat up and, still straddling his hips, she looked down at him. “Oh, god, Tony. Don’t move.”
“Don’t worry,” he groaned as she climbed off him and hurried out of the room. He sat up with effort. He saw she really hadn’t hurt him much at all, though his blood flowed from superficial wounds in half a dozen places.
She returned with a wet towel, some antibiotic goo, and a roll of bandages. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice shaking with the power of her regret.
“I…I’m sorry too.” He nodded, as if his bobbing head could telegraph the black soul sickness that threatened to overturn his stomach. “I shouldn’t have hit you. That book…”
They both looked around to see if it lay where Cynthia had thrown it and a wave of relief eased his sickness when he saw it there.
She cleaned the scratches and torn places with tenderness until she came to a spot on his side, just under his left breast. “What’s this?” she asked. “I didn’t do this.”
He looked down at his chest and remembered the first night with the book, the worm, the woman who had bitten him. Since then, the wound had festered, the ring of red marks had deepened and his skin had puckered into a red line that glistened with fresh shed blood. He touched the gash and the skin parted under his finger, slippery and deep but not sore or raw. He saw the horror in Cynthia’s eye and a piercing coldness frosted his heart and punched his stomach.
“Oh god,” he mouthed, then he told her about the dream.
“We have to get help,” she told him. “Let me go to Steven, to Dr. Wentworth. Come with me.”
He felt a stab of jealousy and started to tell her that there was nothing Wentworth or anyone else could do, but the seeping lesion in his side made his resentment seem petty and meaningless, and Brigitte was missing.
“All right,” he said. “But I’m not coming with you. You go see your professor and see what he says.”
“What will you do, Tony?”
“I’m going back to the store where I found the book.”
They looked at each other and Anthony knew her unspoken question. Could she take Tales to the professor?
“Yeah,” he said to the silent plea. “Take it. Take the damned book to him. Hurry though, before I change my mind.”
Continued in Part 10
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 7/17/2010 1:26 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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