Woman of His Dreams - Part X
Welcome to Part 10 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 took Tony at his word. With the old book in her arms, she dashed out of his apartment, her thoughts a tumble of dread and a numb sense of lust that had hardly been diminished by the savage fucking she had initiated only a few minutes earlier. Tony’s jism drew a line on her leg and she realized with a new twinge of wickedness that she wore no panties or hose under her short skirt. When she boarded the bus, she felt exposed and arousal rolled through her even stronger than before.
She had little doubt that the book had somehow poisoned her, probably both her and Tony, with an aphrodisiac magic. What had Tony said? Mold in the pages, like ergot on rye bread, distilling desire from delirium and, what else? Cynthia chewed her lower lip, squirming on the seat, the material of her skirt barely covering her ass. Ergot. She remembered reading about it in school. The nasty shit gave gangrene along with the acid trip. Happy trails! She crossed and uncrossed her legs. It was so hard to think straight with the itch between her legs.
A young man took the seat beside her, his gaze going to the creamy white of her thighs. She wanted to pull her skirt higher, to show him her cunt and invite his fingers, to leave the bus with him and go to a park, an alley, anywhere and fuck his brains out. Drawing a shaky breath, she looked away from the stranger and out at the passing building, holding tight to the book, and counting idiotically to herself in a pathetic attempt to control the madness.
The man beside her smelled like deodorant and dryer sheet perfume. And sex. She smelled sex on him. Had he fucked his girlfriend or wife? Did he have anything left for her? Her heart pounded in her chest, her fingers curling around the binding of the book as if it were an anchor. She needed air, needed movement before she threw all sanity to the wind and straddled the man and fucked him right on the bus!
She got off at the next stop, a full six blocks from her apartment. She walked fast, breathing the diesel-fumed air, thankful for the sharp flavor to mask the tang of lust that made her mouth water. She relished the breeze that ruffled her skirt and for a moment wondered if the very air held jinn and spirits, that airy fingers massaged her, tempted her, readied her for more exploitation.
She didn’t remember walking into the building or up the stairs, and considering her state, it amazed her she’d made the whole trip without propositioning anyone or ending up in jail for incident exposure or public acts. When she laid the book down on a table near the door, the waves of mad passion abated a little, but not entirely.
If it weren’t for Brigitte, she thought, this unreal trip wouldn’t be so bad. With a clearer head, she appreciated the wonder of what Tony had found and the possibility of real magic made her dizzy and excited in a way she had not felt since childhood. But Brigitte was gone, whether naturally or supernaturally and that fact had to be faced, as tempting as the book’s spell might be.
She remembered the dream, the press of fur like mink, sweet musk, and one cock in her pussy, another in her ass, like nothing she had ever imagined doing, but so right.
Like a dream.
Stripping off her clothes, she stepped into the shower, turning the cold spray higher, lashing herself with needles of water, but even the freezing torrent aroused her, the chill blooming sensation on her bare skin, beating insistently at her nipples and the wet, open lips of her cunt. She touched herself, jolted at the intensity of sensation in her clit. She rubbed, gently at first, then rough, almost frantic, letting the shower strike her, writhing under the frigid stream, breathless, touching, teasing, coming, her cries mixed with tears at her own helplessness in the grip of her body’s craving.
The shower helped. Along with the intense orgasm, the water seemed to have washed some of the craziness away. Maybe it was mold after all, or some chemical. She toweled off and dressed modestly, jeans and panties, a substantial bra and a heavy cotton shirt. She checked her phone first, but had no stored number for Stephen Wentworth. The college website was no help either, all staff lines were carefully hidden behind the main number. She knew from experience how useless that number could be but she tried it anyway. She navigated a voice menu and entered enough of the professor’s name to make a phone ring somewhere.
But no one answered it. She dialed the main number again and this time punched up a real person who gave her Dr. Wentworth’s consultation hours, when college policy “guaranteed” he would be in his office. Today from two to three, he would be there. Did she want an appointment? No, she’d take her chances.
She made herself a light lunch, pacing, flipping the television on for background noise, the parade of faces and products surreal and meaningless. She had the sense that she might really be dreaming now and her sandwich held no flavor. She should go on to the college, maybe catch Dr. Wentworth early.
She called Tony, just to be sure he was okay, but he didn’t answer his phone and she left no message. The thought of him alone in his townhouse frightened her. A dark, sudden dread washed over her, the strong realization that she might never see him again. She stared at her plate, not seeing or smelling, the bread looking like cardboard, the lettuce hanging over the edges like children’s sun-faded construction paper. She walked to the trash, ready to toss the nearly whole sandwich, but stopped herself. She needed to eat. She needed to stay strong if she was going to find Brigitte, find answers. She brought the sandwich to her lips and forced herself to eat, and bland as the sandwich tasted, it anchored her. Steadily, her anxiety and agitation eased.
She washed her dishes, the soapy washcloth like silk in her hands, and with steam rising from the sink, she remembered the book and remembered the story she had not finished reading. She looked over her shoulder into the living room. Tales lay where she had dropped it, a black rectangle on the modern table, like a hole in reality.
Her lips draw back and a chill ran under her skin along her jaw and down her neck. She turned off the water and dried her hands on a towel as she walked back into the living room, back to the book. She could hardly bring herself to touch it again, but the hesitation was not fear as much as anticipation. She picked it up.
The old leather felt cool beneath her warm fingers, the book’s weight wholly ordinary, and for a moment she knew that all of the events of recent days and nights had been a delusion or a nightmare.
But the book opened, almost by itself, and she found herself staring down at the story of the apprentice girl in the tower of the master wizard.
Exactly where she had left off reading it…
Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own...
~AC
"Woman of His Dreams"
Part 10
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Part 10
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Cynthia took Tony at his word. With the old book in her arms, she dashed out of his apartment, her thoughts a tumble of dread and a numb sense of lust that had hardly been diminished by the savage fucking she had initiated only a few minutes earlier. Tony’s jism drew a line on her leg and she realized with a new twinge of wickedness that she wore no panties or hose under her short skirt. When she boarded the bus, she felt exposed and arousal rolled through her even stronger than before.She had little doubt that the book had somehow poisoned her, probably both her and Tony, with an aphrodisiac magic. What had Tony said? Mold in the pages, like ergot on rye bread, distilling desire from delirium and, what else? Cynthia chewed her lower lip, squirming on the seat, the material of her skirt barely covering her ass. Ergot. She remembered reading about it in school. The nasty shit gave gangrene along with the acid trip. Happy trails! She crossed and uncrossed her legs. It was so hard to think straight with the itch between her legs.
A young man took the seat beside her, his gaze going to the creamy white of her thighs. She wanted to pull her skirt higher, to show him her cunt and invite his fingers, to leave the bus with him and go to a park, an alley, anywhere and fuck his brains out. Drawing a shaky breath, she looked away from the stranger and out at the passing building, holding tight to the book, and counting idiotically to herself in a pathetic attempt to control the madness.
The man beside her smelled like deodorant and dryer sheet perfume. And sex. She smelled sex on him. Had he fucked his girlfriend or wife? Did he have anything left for her? Her heart pounded in her chest, her fingers curling around the binding of the book as if it were an anchor. She needed air, needed movement before she threw all sanity to the wind and straddled the man and fucked him right on the bus!
She got off at the next stop, a full six blocks from her apartment. She walked fast, breathing the diesel-fumed air, thankful for the sharp flavor to mask the tang of lust that made her mouth water. She relished the breeze that ruffled her skirt and for a moment wondered if the very air held jinn and spirits, that airy fingers massaged her, tempted her, readied her for more exploitation.
She didn’t remember walking into the building or up the stairs, and considering her state, it amazed her she’d made the whole trip without propositioning anyone or ending up in jail for incident exposure or public acts. When she laid the book down on a table near the door, the waves of mad passion abated a little, but not entirely.
If it weren’t for Brigitte, she thought, this unreal trip wouldn’t be so bad. With a clearer head, she appreciated the wonder of what Tony had found and the possibility of real magic made her dizzy and excited in a way she had not felt since childhood. But Brigitte was gone, whether naturally or supernaturally and that fact had to be faced, as tempting as the book’s spell might be.
She remembered the dream, the press of fur like mink, sweet musk, and one cock in her pussy, another in her ass, like nothing she had ever imagined doing, but so right.
Like a dream.
Stripping off her clothes, she stepped into the shower, turning the cold spray higher, lashing herself with needles of water, but even the freezing torrent aroused her, the chill blooming sensation on her bare skin, beating insistently at her nipples and the wet, open lips of her cunt. She touched herself, jolted at the intensity of sensation in her clit. She rubbed, gently at first, then rough, almost frantic, letting the shower strike her, writhing under the frigid stream, breathless, touching, teasing, coming, her cries mixed with tears at her own helplessness in the grip of her body’s craving.
The shower helped. Along with the intense orgasm, the water seemed to have washed some of the craziness away. Maybe it was mold after all, or some chemical. She toweled off and dressed modestly, jeans and panties, a substantial bra and a heavy cotton shirt. She checked her phone first, but had no stored number for Stephen Wentworth. The college website was no help either, all staff lines were carefully hidden behind the main number. She knew from experience how useless that number could be but she tried it anyway. She navigated a voice menu and entered enough of the professor’s name to make a phone ring somewhere.
But no one answered it. She dialed the main number again and this time punched up a real person who gave her Dr. Wentworth’s consultation hours, when college policy “guaranteed” he would be in his office. Today from two to three, he would be there. Did she want an appointment? No, she’d take her chances.
She made herself a light lunch, pacing, flipping the television on for background noise, the parade of faces and products surreal and meaningless. She had the sense that she might really be dreaming now and her sandwich held no flavor. She should go on to the college, maybe catch Dr. Wentworth early.
She called Tony, just to be sure he was okay, but he didn’t answer his phone and she left no message. The thought of him alone in his townhouse frightened her. A dark, sudden dread washed over her, the strong realization that she might never see him again. She stared at her plate, not seeing or smelling, the bread looking like cardboard, the lettuce hanging over the edges like children’s sun-faded construction paper. She walked to the trash, ready to toss the nearly whole sandwich, but stopped herself. She needed to eat. She needed to stay strong if she was going to find Brigitte, find answers. She brought the sandwich to her lips and forced herself to eat, and bland as the sandwich tasted, it anchored her. Steadily, her anxiety and agitation eased.
She washed her dishes, the soapy washcloth like silk in her hands, and with steam rising from the sink, she remembered the book and remembered the story she had not finished reading. She looked over her shoulder into the living room. Tales lay where she had dropped it, a black rectangle on the modern table, like a hole in reality.
Her lips draw back and a chill ran under her skin along her jaw and down her neck. She turned off the water and dried her hands on a towel as she walked back into the living room, back to the book. She could hardly bring herself to touch it again, but the hesitation was not fear as much as anticipation. She picked it up.
The old leather felt cool beneath her warm fingers, the book’s weight wholly ordinary, and for a moment she knew that all of the events of recent days and nights had been a delusion or a nightmare.
But the book opened, almost by itself, and she found herself staring down at the story of the apprentice girl in the tower of the master wizard.
Exactly where she had left off reading it…
Continued in Part XI
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 7/24/2010 11:15 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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