Woman of His Dreams - Part XIV
Welcome to Part 14 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 picked up the handset again, her fingers hesitating over the numbers. She’d called Brigitte’s apartment in Washington twice that morning, but only left one message. “Brig, please call me when you get in.” What else could she say? She’d already left a frantic message on Brigitte’s cell phone that morning. “Brig? Brig? Fuck, please, call me back. I’m worried about you.”
Maybe it was too early to start a panic. There might still be some good explanation for Brigitte’s disappearance. Conflict curdled Cynthia’s stomach as she stared at the phone, guilt and fear turning her fingers into boneless tentacles that wrapped around the plastic and left her unable to act. Her mind whirred like the spinning of a wounded fly. It wouldn’t be entirely unlike Brigitte, even under normal circumstances, to take off to seek some other adventure in the city. Hell, if she felt the way Cynthia had felt on the bus earlier, Brigitte might be in the locker room of the nearest football team, but it wasn’t like Brigitte to not let someone know.
Someone.
For instance, Brigitte hadn’t bothered to call Cynthia when she’d hopped the plane to Belize after Cynthia’s twenty-fifth birthday party. Cynthia hadn’t even known she’d taken off until she tried to call Brigitte a few days later and had gotten nothing but voice mail. Cynthia had nearly panicked by the time Brigitte called her back, her voice creamy with sun-kissed relaxation and spent lust. “Cynthia, I’m sorry. It was spur of the moment. Ben asked me to come home with him to Punta Gorda.” Ben, the DJ at her party. Brigitte had known him for all of ten hours and she’d run off with him for a week.
“Brig, you should have told me. What if something happened? What if you’d been hurt or something? Who would have known where you were?”
Brigitte clicked her tongue. “You know me better than that, Cynthia. I know people. Besides, I called Rascal to have him courier my passport and to have him feed Munch.”
Cynthia pulled at the collar of the heavy shirt she wore and rolled her eyes. Rascal would know if Brigitte had decided to jet off to Moscow or was in jail awaiting bail money after having streaked through the neighborhood.
Please dear God, no puppy dog sighs, Cynthia silently pleaded as she dialed Rascal’s number.
“Max Stykes,” the subterranean bass rumbled from the receiver.
“Hey, Rascal. It’s Cynthia.” She squeezed her eyes shut, cringing.
“Cynthia,” he half laughed and crooned, the voice aiming for sexy and falling well short. “I was just thinking about you.”
They’d slept together once eight years before, a clumsy drunk affair that to Cynthia had been more a session of misplaced pawing and her sucking him off in the back of his beat up Honda Civic than any real fucking, but Rascal, Brigitte’s youngest brother, took the encounter far more seriously. He had asked her out frequently, mailed her cards and presents on her birthday, and sent her poetry that dripped with overwrought romance. When Cynthia’s relationship with Anthony solidified, Rascal backed off, most likely with Brigitte’s sisterly gun to his head. Awkward hardly described how Cynthia felt when she and Rascal met on occasion. Even after years of rejection, he still looked at her with shining eyes, and he always uttered heavy, wistful sounds that tortured Cynthia’s conscience.
Unrequited love was not something she wanted to deal with today.
“I was looking for Brigitte. Have you heard from her?” Cynthia tried for calm and matter of fact, not bat-shit scared and nervous. She gave herself an 8.5.
His bass hummed, a vibration that swelled from pleasant to slightly stiff. “She’s with you, isn’t she?”
Cynthia released her pent breath, sagging under the weight of confirmation. “Yeah, she was, but you know Brig. She disappeared on me and I can’t reach her on her cell or at home.” Cynthia didn’t mention the fact that Brigitte’s clothes were balled on Anthony’s couch.
“Well…she knows I’ve got Munch covered. I...bet she’s fine, Cynthia. There ain’t no reason she wouldn’t be, is there?” The slightest rise of suspicion bit into Cynthia’s soul.” What did she tell him?
“You’re probably right, Rascal. Will you do me a favor? If she calls you, would you tell her to give me a call so I know what to do about dinner?” Cynthia hated how easily the lie slipped out, and worried about the course she chose by not telling Rascal.
“Sure,” Rascal said, his thick tone direct, the wisps of attraction thin against what Cynthia imagined was an instinctual concern for his sister. “And you do the same. When she calls or shows up, you tell her to call me so I know she’s okay.”
Fuck! Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“You got it, Rascal,” Cynthia swallowed the bile in her throat. She punched the off button and dropped the handset into the chair next to the book before leaning against the plush back, struggling to keep her knees from turning to jelly.
If Brigitte didn’t call Rascal in the next day or two, he’d be calling her back, and while Rascal might swoon and sigh at Cynthia, Maxwell Stykes wasn’t above calling his cop buddies and sending a whole herd of police – complete with super hero crime scene investigators – to her and Anthony’s place to find out what happened to his wild-child older sister. Assistant DA’s, unfortunately, had those kinds of friends.
The world edged closer, thick grey walls of fear pressing her heart and head. Long layers of ignorant razors cut her resolve and confidence to thin, aching slices of indecision.
Ki’langa. Eliana. Cynthia.
Cynthia looked at the book in the chair. She’d dropped it there after reading Eliana’s tale, after seeing her name in the fine text, then not.
She huffed out a breath, sucking in hard gulps of air like a swimmer readying for a sprint, her gaze on the book, predatory. She walked around the chair, circled the book on the cushion, assessing, building her courage to touch it again. The movement helped, the air, the adrenaline created by Rascal’s unspoken but imposed deadline.
Professor Wentworth. Stephen. He would know what to do.
She picked up the book, scooping it into a thin cotton shopping bag, grabbed her keys from the table near the door, and headed out, not looking back, not even when the phone began to ring. She walked, gaining speed, then ran down the stairs of her apartment, out the door, and on to the sidewalk, focused, purposeful steps taking her toward the bus stop where she would catch a number 8 to the university.
By the time she reached the corner, at least ten minutes from the next bus’s arrival, her clothing had begun to feel heavy, a barrier between her skin and the returning itch of desire. Her breathing deepened and the guys and girls at the stop, students mostly, all of them looked like movie stars, all hot and fuckable. She avoided sitting on the bench, not wanting to get too near any of them, afraid of what she might do.
She smelled raw sex and felt her pussy slick under the layers of heavy clothing she had worn like armor, instinctive probably against the urge she had guessed might return.
A couple of the boys looked at her, their pupils dilating, uncertain grins on their faces, as though they sensed the horniness rising like wildfire in her. Please god, she thought, let the bus come before I do.
One way or another, this was going to be a rough ride.
Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own...
~AC
"Woman of His Dreams"
Part 14
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Part 14
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Cynthia picked up the handset again, her fingers hesitating over the numbers. She’d called Brigitte’s apartment in Washington twice that morning, but only left one message. “Brig, please call me when you get in.” What else could she say? She’d already left a frantic message on Brigitte’s cell phone that morning. “Brig? Brig? Fuck, please, call me back. I’m worried about you.” Maybe it was too early to start a panic. There might still be some good explanation for Brigitte’s disappearance. Conflict curdled Cynthia’s stomach as she stared at the phone, guilt and fear turning her fingers into boneless tentacles that wrapped around the plastic and left her unable to act. Her mind whirred like the spinning of a wounded fly. It wouldn’t be entirely unlike Brigitte, even under normal circumstances, to take off to seek some other adventure in the city. Hell, if she felt the way Cynthia had felt on the bus earlier, Brigitte might be in the locker room of the nearest football team, but it wasn’t like Brigitte to not let someone know.
Someone.
For instance, Brigitte hadn’t bothered to call Cynthia when she’d hopped the plane to Belize after Cynthia’s twenty-fifth birthday party. Cynthia hadn’t even known she’d taken off until she tried to call Brigitte a few days later and had gotten nothing but voice mail. Cynthia had nearly panicked by the time Brigitte called her back, her voice creamy with sun-kissed relaxation and spent lust. “Cynthia, I’m sorry. It was spur of the moment. Ben asked me to come home with him to Punta Gorda.” Ben, the DJ at her party. Brigitte had known him for all of ten hours and she’d run off with him for a week.
“Brig, you should have told me. What if something happened? What if you’d been hurt or something? Who would have known where you were?”
Brigitte clicked her tongue. “You know me better than that, Cynthia. I know people. Besides, I called Rascal to have him courier my passport and to have him feed Munch.”
Cynthia pulled at the collar of the heavy shirt she wore and rolled her eyes. Rascal would know if Brigitte had decided to jet off to Moscow or was in jail awaiting bail money after having streaked through the neighborhood.
Please dear God, no puppy dog sighs, Cynthia silently pleaded as she dialed Rascal’s number.
“Max Stykes,” the subterranean bass rumbled from the receiver.
“Hey, Rascal. It’s Cynthia.” She squeezed her eyes shut, cringing.
“Cynthia,” he half laughed and crooned, the voice aiming for sexy and falling well short. “I was just thinking about you.”
They’d slept together once eight years before, a clumsy drunk affair that to Cynthia had been more a session of misplaced pawing and her sucking him off in the back of his beat up Honda Civic than any real fucking, but Rascal, Brigitte’s youngest brother, took the encounter far more seriously. He had asked her out frequently, mailed her cards and presents on her birthday, and sent her poetry that dripped with overwrought romance. When Cynthia’s relationship with Anthony solidified, Rascal backed off, most likely with Brigitte’s sisterly gun to his head. Awkward hardly described how Cynthia felt when she and Rascal met on occasion. Even after years of rejection, he still looked at her with shining eyes, and he always uttered heavy, wistful sounds that tortured Cynthia’s conscience.
Unrequited love was not something she wanted to deal with today.
“I was looking for Brigitte. Have you heard from her?” Cynthia tried for calm and matter of fact, not bat-shit scared and nervous. She gave herself an 8.5.
His bass hummed, a vibration that swelled from pleasant to slightly stiff. “She’s with you, isn’t she?”
Cynthia released her pent breath, sagging under the weight of confirmation. “Yeah, she was, but you know Brig. She disappeared on me and I can’t reach her on her cell or at home.” Cynthia didn’t mention the fact that Brigitte’s clothes were balled on Anthony’s couch.
“Well…she knows I’ve got Munch covered. I...bet she’s fine, Cynthia. There ain’t no reason she wouldn’t be, is there?” The slightest rise of suspicion bit into Cynthia’s soul.” What did she tell him?
“You’re probably right, Rascal. Will you do me a favor? If she calls you, would you tell her to give me a call so I know what to do about dinner?” Cynthia hated how easily the lie slipped out, and worried about the course she chose by not telling Rascal.
“Sure,” Rascal said, his thick tone direct, the wisps of attraction thin against what Cynthia imagined was an instinctual concern for his sister. “And you do the same. When she calls or shows up, you tell her to call me so I know she’s okay.”
Fuck! Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“You got it, Rascal,” Cynthia swallowed the bile in her throat. She punched the off button and dropped the handset into the chair next to the book before leaning against the plush back, struggling to keep her knees from turning to jelly.
If Brigitte didn’t call Rascal in the next day or two, he’d be calling her back, and while Rascal might swoon and sigh at Cynthia, Maxwell Stykes wasn’t above calling his cop buddies and sending a whole herd of police – complete with super hero crime scene investigators – to her and Anthony’s place to find out what happened to his wild-child older sister. Assistant DA’s, unfortunately, had those kinds of friends.
The world edged closer, thick grey walls of fear pressing her heart and head. Long layers of ignorant razors cut her resolve and confidence to thin, aching slices of indecision.
Ki’langa. Eliana. Cynthia.
Cynthia looked at the book in the chair. She’d dropped it there after reading Eliana’s tale, after seeing her name in the fine text, then not.
She huffed out a breath, sucking in hard gulps of air like a swimmer readying for a sprint, her gaze on the book, predatory. She walked around the chair, circled the book on the cushion, assessing, building her courage to touch it again. The movement helped, the air, the adrenaline created by Rascal’s unspoken but imposed deadline.
Professor Wentworth. Stephen. He would know what to do.
She picked up the book, scooping it into a thin cotton shopping bag, grabbed her keys from the table near the door, and headed out, not looking back, not even when the phone began to ring. She walked, gaining speed, then ran down the stairs of her apartment, out the door, and on to the sidewalk, focused, purposeful steps taking her toward the bus stop where she would catch a number 8 to the university.
By the time she reached the corner, at least ten minutes from the next bus’s arrival, her clothing had begun to feel heavy, a barrier between her skin and the returning itch of desire. Her breathing deepened and the guys and girls at the stop, students mostly, all of them looked like movie stars, all hot and fuckable. She avoided sitting on the bench, not wanting to get too near any of them, afraid of what she might do.
She smelled raw sex and felt her pussy slick under the layers of heavy clothing she had worn like armor, instinctive probably against the urge she had guessed might return.
A couple of the boys looked at her, their pupils dilating, uncertain grins on their faces, as though they sensed the horniness rising like wildfire in her. Please god, she thought, let the bus come before I do.
One way or another, this was going to be a rough ride.
Continued in Part XV .
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 8/21/2010 12:05 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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