“Lab Rat” available to read at Oysters & Chocolate!

I am very pleased to announced that my story “Lab Rat” is now available to read (free!) at Oysters & Chocolate!

“Lab Rat” is the tale of a  college student who volunteers for a controlled experiment in virtual reality and learns that some tests are far more interesting than others.

I hope you enjoy it, and if you do, let me know.

While you’re there, you should sample all the other goodies at Oysters and Chocolate.  There’s plenty to feast on!

Woman of His Dreams – Part XIX

Welcome to Part 19 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…


“Woman of His Dreams”
Part 19
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010

Anthony’s heart beat in urgent double-time at the sound of the hidden, dragging bulk behind the shelves. He had a sense of deja-vu, as though this room, this moment were reflected in the fractured glass of memory. This had happened, late one night in Videotopia.

Or he had seen it in a movie.

One shelf shook with a peristaltic wave, rippling from bottom to top, tapes, no, books falling out in a flutter of leaves. Dust rose up like smoke.

He saw his pants and his shirt lying near the end of the range of shelves and he stood up, wavering between the door (But the Goth girl had taken the fucking keys.) and his clothes. He’d run bare ass out into the street if he had to, much less in come-stained boxers, but having the pants at least would be nice and might keep him from being arrested. He had no idea what time it might be but the world looked dark through the shuttered windows of the old store.

The shuffling, dragging noise grew louder and he took a step toward the discarded garments. Torn between practicality and choking fear, he hesitated and then retched as something the size of a human head, but sickly white and glistening, a wet pulsing cone, appeared around the end of the shelf, snuffling close to the floor.

Anthony wished for better light but he also knew what a terrible idea that might be.

It’s the chick, he thought. The Goth girl, Cassie, trying to scare him.

“Okay,” he yelled. “Whatever you want. Anything.”

The white thing made a noise like a woman laughing, the cone opening into a full-lipped mouth. It rose on a shimmering trunk as it cleared the aisle and emerged into the room with Anthony. Behind the rising stalk, more length crept in coruscating ripples.

Only a dream, he said, but he felt the edges of his reason fraying, his heart slamming his ribs now, breath and mind gone to some other world where such things did not crawl. He saw it bend its unspeakable head and sniff at his clothes on the floor.

“Mmmm,” it said, in a voice that mimicked someone Anthony had once known, someone he could not name, but the voice touched something inside him and, amidst the gathering colors of insanity, he felt himself growing hard.

Now, he guessed that most of the monster must have emerged from behind the shelves, fifteen feet or more in boneless, pallid undulation. The head changed, like putty in an animated film. The cone grew eyes and the elongated outline of a face emerged from the waxy slime.

His side stung with sudden pain and he clapped his hand to the bandage on his bare ribs, backing toward the door, praying he had left it unlocked. He couldn’t remember what he had done when he came in. Even if he had left it open, the Goth bitch might’ve locked it.

Even if she was still here. The last traces of reason in his head strained to knit themselves together, trying to see how she might play this trick, make this monster crawl and flow. It’s a movie, he thought. I’m in a movie.
As it wriggled nearer to him, the creature stank, not emitting an overpowering reek but a faint, awful smell, like sickly sweet mildew and soured milk.

Fucking smell-o-vision, he thought, mad laughter erupting from his mouth, threatening to steal his last breath.

The bandage on his side pulsed under his hand and the wound throbbed, a sharp pain, as though it had opened anew.

He remembered more of the past, or the dream that had been like this, remembered being tied to a chair, the worms circling him, three or four of them, like this one but smaller. He had seen this happen. He had lived it. Someone had fucking video-taped it.

That’s impossible, he thought. How did I survive? How am I not insane?

The worm made its laughing noise again and oozed toward him.

He tore at the door and it opened. Something cold looped his ankle and he tripped, sprawling in the open portal, the street ten feet away, dusk at the edge of night, people, the city, safety. He clawed at the hardwood floor as the cold tourniquet about his bare leg tightened, creeping up his calf, caressing his knee.

Anthony forced himself to look and saw the worm had extruded a thin tentacle the color and texture of seared veal to encircle his leg and hold fast. Thin fluid, perhaps blood, began to seep from the wound in his side beneath the bandage, and he fought with all his strength against the creature’s pull, like struggling in a quicksand fantasy. The tentacle entangled his boxers and tore. He felt its tip probing between his butt cheeks, and suddenly escape seemed as necessary as breath to a drowning man.

He pulled himself through the doorway, the tentacle slowly easing its grip as though the outside air repelled it.  He kicked once at the white face that breathed upon his feet, and he was out, standing, running down 57th Street naked, not looking back until he had run a block, past people who pointed and laughed.

At the corner, he stopped, breathless, his mind tattering as he tried to push away the reality of what he had just seen, what he had felt against his skin.

Blood had welled beneath the bandage and he looked down at it, wanting to remove it but not daring to.

He was standing there, holding onto the edge of sanity, when the ambulance arrived.

And the police.

Continued in Part 20.

Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Cemetery Dreams – Green Flash – On Sale!

Green Flash is my most recent book from eXstasy, appropriately published on Halloween 2009 and, like the other three, is on sale (25% off) at All Romance eBooks through September 23rd.

Green Flash is more romantic than some of my other stories, but there are strong elements of the supernatural woven through it too.

The novella tells the story of a young woman named Claire on a pleasure trip with her lover Ian to the annual bacchanal that is Fantasy Fest in Key West, Florida. Fantasy Fest is a celebration of sexuality, among other things, renowned for colorful public displays of flesh and eroticism.

But Claire really isn’t that kind of girl and Ian’s plans for body painting and threesomes are unlikely to happen. Claire works at a historical cemetery and she is more interested in the historic burial grounds at Key West than in sharing Ian with another woman. In the cemetery, she finds new friends, Dwight and Ashton, who seem to walk the line between the revelry of life and the mystery that lies beyond it.

The book’s title comes from an atmospheric phenomenon that is sometimes observed at sunset, and can sometimes be seen from Key West, when the sky turns briefly green as the sun slips below the horizon to create an eerily majestic demarcation between day and night.

In this excerpt, Claire has fled from the party into the sanctuary of the old necropolis to a grave marked by a statue of St. Teresa, where she meets Dwight, the companion of her other new acquaintance, Ashton.


Claire reached out to touch the base of the statue, her fingers caressing the marble. She thought about what he had said. “The dead need all the help they can get.” She stood, facing the statue and looked over her shoulder at him. His eyes glowed ocean blue in the fading light. “It’s not like they can fight back.”

Dwight chuckled. “I wouldn’t say that. Don’t you believe in ghosts?”

“I’m a sexton. It’s part of our job description to believe in ghosts. Alone in a cemetery, I think everyone does.”
He smiled. “You don’t get scared?”

Claire shook her head. “No, not really. I think ghosts are the dream images of those who have gone on to the next adventure. People who can’t let go of the past.”

Smooth as silk, confident as summer, his arms slid around her waist, the heat of his body pressing against her back, his iron strength not hostile or intimidating, but honest and true. His body formed so naturally to hers for a dizzying moment Claire wondered how she’d survived so long without this.

His lips touched the curve of her ear, the sensation a tremor that drifted toward her center. He exerted just a touch of pressure, an ounce of persuasion. His words floated through her ears into her blood. “Look,” he said, and with a trail of fingers down her arm and away from it, he positioned and pointed west. “Watch as the sun falls. Watch Teresa,” he murmured. The masculine musk of him filled her, churned long forgotten impulses. The hard bulge between his legs should have shocked, should have frightened her, but only wonder and an open, natural lust bloomed inside her.

The western horizon blazed with colors-the intense oranges and reds of the falling sun beyond the capture of any art, the line of deep purple clouds that hovered over an unseen sea blazing along the edges with white-hot sunset fire. She held her breath, her eyes locked on the brilliance beyond the headstones and monuments. Claire saw Saint Teresa’s sublime face bathed in the dying sunlight. Slowly, as if by a languid pour of magic, light danced around the statue, glimmering and winking gold and silver, ruby red and citrine. Claire pressed Dwight’s arm against her stomach, amazed, enchanted and somewhere deep within her, knowing. She felt Dwight’s smile, and as the glamour died with the fallen sun, she heard the voice she expected, that she wanted with all her heart, Ashton’s voice.

“They say the marble holds small particles that make the light dance, but I think it is magic, fire from the souls that are freed into the night.” Somehow, he had appeared before her, though she had not seen or heard him approach…

Seven Bites of the Apple – Passions of Pearl – on Sale!

In a tarot spread, the Seven of Cups sometimes signifies fantasies — each cup holds a vision. So when I agreed to write this book for eXstasy’s Tarot series, my first thought was a baker’s half-dozen dreams and wishes. But seven? I imagined seven cups, each belonging to a miner in a boarding house in Colorado, at the heyday of the great mines. Seven cups, seven miners, seven dreams.

Seven dwarfs.

Passions of Pearl is a long novella that tells the story of pretty orphan Pearl Frost working in a boarding house a few years before the turn of the 20th century and what happens to her when she falls under the spell of a wicked silver queen.

Here’s how it starts:

Lily Regis could not get enough of her own beauty.

Justin Prince watched her face, a perfect oval, ivory, skin as smooth as if a girl of twenty, only the shadow of a line here and there to show the passage of years.

And even those lines only graced the perfection of her features, eyes wide and blue as mountain skies, the delicate turn of her nose and lips that framed a mouth inviting ecstasy and ruin. Lily’s face hung in the mirror and reflected a hundred times in the faceted walls and ceilings of her boudoir.

Those perfect, crimson lips parted in a wild scream as Justin Prince thrust deep inside her. He mounted her from behind, his finger on her clit acted like the trigger of love’s own pistol.

Lily’s scream echoed and danced endlessly in the glass.

Justin thought of a white bird in a cage of reflective crystal, cascading around the walls and across a shining, depthless ceiling. She closed her eyes and moved with him, clenching her pussy to milk the last of his restraint, undeniable in the sweet pull and pulse. He clutched her breast and came, long and wet and deep inside the cunt of the most powerful woman in Colorado.
Fucking her was the kind of thing a man might lose his license over, Justin thought, or at least the contract with her husband, if old man Regis wasn’t way past caring.

“I’m gaining her confidence,” Justin told himself, even while he remembered that lying to a liar is even harder when you’re lying to yourself.

His spent dick shrank out of her and he gave her clit a last touch then stroked the ivory curve of her hip with deferential tenderness. She made a noise like a panther and collapsed onto the bed. The pale paradise of her back and bottom mesmerized him like a land where a man might live forever, a white island in the sea of red silk sheets.
Justin straddled her, his cock hanging in the cleft of her butt and she shifted beneath him, propping herself on her arms, staring into the depthless silver mirror beside the bed. He reached down between her legs and massaged the open lips of her cunt, smearing her, rousing her clit to slow stiffness.

Lily ground against his hand and tightened her ass around his lengthening cock. She spoke, but so softly he hardly heard her.

Then he realized she had not been talking to him at all.

“Tell me,” she whispered. “Am I still the most beautiful woman in the world?”


In last age of the great mines, there was a girl named Pearl Frost, who lived in the town of Eternity Springs, in the central mountains of Colorado. Pearl’s life had been very hard, but she had kept her virtue and, in time, had found a good job as the housekeeper and cook at Bighorn’s rooming house on Pike Road at the edge of town, between the curving breasts of two mountains.

In only twenty years, Pearl had already learned many valuable lessons. She had learned that most men were gentlemen regardless of their station, but that many of them, when offered a quiet moment, would whisper fevered endearments and attempt liberties.

Life in Bighorn’s rooming house was a constant education.

The spring had started damp and dreary, but on the first true warm day, a young man named Mr. Prince who said he was a poet, came to stay at Bighorn’s. Hardly settled in his small, windowed bedroom, he smiled at Pearl as she brought fresh linens to him and, when he approached her, his heat and fine smell sent strange shivers of excitement through her.

He smiled at her and, when he spoke, his voice was like thick honey.

“Young Miss Pearl, your skin is as light as whipped cream, and such hair—I’ve not seen such luster save that found in ripe blackberries fresh upon the vine. Lips, my dearest, your lips are like sweet, crushed cherries, and your eyes shine blue as the delftware found in fine parlors.” And as he spoke, his hands crawled up her skirt, gathering the rough wool so that his fingers brushed the cotton frills of her bloomers.

Pearl, not an innocent to such flattery, resisted, though she later wondered what might have befallen if she had not pulled away.


Don’t let the cover fool you either. It may feature a Chippendale dwarf, but the hot parts in this book are equal opportunity!

Pick up Passions of Pearl, and all eXtasy eBooks at All Romance eBooks for 25% off through September 23rd!