Woman of His Dreams - Part XVI
Welcome to Part 16 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
Every pothole the bus hit jolted insistent sensations through Cynthia. She came twice on bumpy roads, her brows damp, her shirt dark with sweat under her arms. She cut deep half moon grooves and angry burgundy lines as she curled her fingers in on themselves to keep from reaching out and stroking the thin, older man who sat next to her between two stops.
Could she get the dinosaur off?
When the bus arrived at the university, she hovered on the edge of a third orgasm, stumbled off past the fuckable driver, drunk, her knees weak, breath shaky. She bumped the door, a small metal spur cutting her arm, but the kiss of pain only added to her arousal. Her pussy pulsed, wet, and horribly pent in her jeans as she weaved to the tree-lined sidewalk that lead to the heart of campus.
Each step toward the sagging brick structure of the Humanities Building helped clear her mind, but did little to ease her aching, sexual need. She wanted to fuck, and the century-old building impressed her only with its solidity and its size.
Could she get the building off?
Stephen’s office was in the basement bowels of Morton’s Hall, just past the big building, a modest, older, ivy-covered palace with worn marble stairs and odd hallways that lead to locked doors and cobwebs. Amid the dust though, other hallways lead to labs with sophisticated equipment that could carbon date or scan and analyze minuscule particles on anything from ancient scrolls to a frisky, inquisitive TA’s dildo.
She slipped into the quiet hall, past a dead elevator, and into the stairwell leading into the underworld. Her vision held the blinding light of outside, even as she tapped and stepped carefully down a dozen or more winding stairs. The clang and thump of boiler pipes and doors, the muffled baritone of voices leagues above her erased any high tones from the world. She sank into the earth like she might water; sound and vision retreated to the tingle against her skin, the alluring scent of hot metal and unlikely chestnuts. Her mouth watered as much as her pussy as she pressed against the stone of the winding stairwell, thankful for the hard wall at her back, both for its cool kiss and for its sharp bite. The cut on her arm oozed blood that had run to her wrist. Let it bleed, she thought. Let my blood anoint my path, feed the book, paint me for Stephen.
For Tony. For Brigitte. Fuck, for anyone. Right fucking now.
The book grew heavy as it drank from her. She remembered other stories in its pages, ones she had never read but knew as certain as her own memories.
Fingers, stiff, cool, haunting, tugged at her bare arms, ran through her hair, pinched her nipples, bit her throat. She moaned, curled her fist against her belly, chewed her lip, as so many fingers, so many hands taunted her skin, teased her nerves, drove her toward a peak.
And held her there. Held her there, merciless and cruel.
She panted, her ankles turning under her weight. She fell. The edges of the stairs held against her bones, her flesh, she tumbled down five, six, seven steps, the deep bruising to her thighs, her arms, across her right breast, the jarring to her head as her chin met the marble, splitting it, more blood to anoint her journey.
She righted herself, the binding of the book pressing painfully beneath her breasts. She struggled for breath against the painful bruises to her ribs, the punches to her stomach by the book, by her own arms as she cartwheeled over herself. She wiped her chin, over her lip, her blood coating her lips and she tasted.
Sacrament.
Tears stung the backs of her eyes, but they cleared her vision. Pale light beckoned at the bottom of the stairs and she gripped the banister and pulled herself up. She trembled, and wanted to run the other way, but the light called to her even as the shadows gathered her into tendrils of binding sensation.
His kiss, his teeth, taking her as offering, devouring her as host. Her wrists twisted against the bindings, her thighs burned with the hemp that held her thighs apart against the stone alter, the cold cut of the stone as much a god’s kiss as the thin reed staff that crossed her bare ass, the sting radiant and hot with lined pain that turned her skin slick with sweat, her pussy dripping for more, for him.
Cynthia.
Her name on his lips, his hands pulling her red ass cheeks apart, probing her cunt with fingers thick and long, teasing her clit as they entered her, probing, stroking in and out of her, growing thick, pulsing, throbbing and taking her, pushing her against the rocks of orgasm her breath nothing but wisps of spray from storm-tossed waves. She tried to scream as her battered body hung above the foam, aching for his cock to fill her, his finger circling her puckered, ass, sliding into her as she came. He entered her slowly and entirely, filling her. She didn’t struggle against the hemp, against the stone, but fought for breath, fought to stay with the bliss of being so thoroughly used.
Fingers tangled in her hair, lifting her head, and before her, bare as midnight, Nikris, his cock pushing into her mouth, thick, salty, hard as the cock in her pussy, the growing finger in her ass.
“You desecrated my temple, Cynthia. Now you will pay me for what you have done.”
A stab of fear hovered beyond the bliss, even as the wizard’s cock slid deep into her throat, the need to gag causing her mouth to water even more as the man fucked her face, the cock in her pussy throbbed and pummeled her, stretching her, mercilessly driving her to maddened orgasm, her clit pounded against the edge of the altar.
He came, slick, salty streams filled her mouth, the god behind her filling her pussy, she dripped, panting, swallowing, wanting more.
Empty, wheezing, free, she slid to the ground, spent, weak.
Cold on the stairs of the university, bruised, her jeans half off and shredded as if cut by talons, angry red marks on her wrists. Where was her blouse?
And Professor Stephen Wentworth standing over her, his handsome, bearded face all concern but his eyes dancing with devilish things as he saw the exposed skin of her stomach and pelvis, her wet, wet pussy.
“Cynthia, dear. What on earth has happened to you?”
Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own...
~AC
"Woman of His Dreams"
Part 16
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Part 16
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Every pothole the bus hit jolted insistent sensations through Cynthia. She came twice on bumpy roads, her brows damp, her shirt dark with sweat under her arms. She cut deep half moon grooves and angry burgundy lines as she curled her fingers in on themselves to keep from reaching out and stroking the thin, older man who sat next to her between two stops. Could she get the dinosaur off?
When the bus arrived at the university, she hovered on the edge of a third orgasm, stumbled off past the fuckable driver, drunk, her knees weak, breath shaky. She bumped the door, a small metal spur cutting her arm, but the kiss of pain only added to her arousal. Her pussy pulsed, wet, and horribly pent in her jeans as she weaved to the tree-lined sidewalk that lead to the heart of campus.
Each step toward the sagging brick structure of the Humanities Building helped clear her mind, but did little to ease her aching, sexual need. She wanted to fuck, and the century-old building impressed her only with its solidity and its size.
Could she get the building off?
Stephen’s office was in the basement bowels of Morton’s Hall, just past the big building, a modest, older, ivy-covered palace with worn marble stairs and odd hallways that lead to locked doors and cobwebs. Amid the dust though, other hallways lead to labs with sophisticated equipment that could carbon date or scan and analyze minuscule particles on anything from ancient scrolls to a frisky, inquisitive TA’s dildo.
She slipped into the quiet hall, past a dead elevator, and into the stairwell leading into the underworld. Her vision held the blinding light of outside, even as she tapped and stepped carefully down a dozen or more winding stairs. The clang and thump of boiler pipes and doors, the muffled baritone of voices leagues above her erased any high tones from the world. She sank into the earth like she might water; sound and vision retreated to the tingle against her skin, the alluring scent of hot metal and unlikely chestnuts. Her mouth watered as much as her pussy as she pressed against the stone of the winding stairwell, thankful for the hard wall at her back, both for its cool kiss and for its sharp bite. The cut on her arm oozed blood that had run to her wrist. Let it bleed, she thought. Let my blood anoint my path, feed the book, paint me for Stephen.
For Tony. For Brigitte. Fuck, for anyone. Right fucking now.
The book grew heavy as it drank from her. She remembered other stories in its pages, ones she had never read but knew as certain as her own memories.
Fingers, stiff, cool, haunting, tugged at her bare arms, ran through her hair, pinched her nipples, bit her throat. She moaned, curled her fist against her belly, chewed her lip, as so many fingers, so many hands taunted her skin, teased her nerves, drove her toward a peak.
And held her there. Held her there, merciless and cruel.
She panted, her ankles turning under her weight. She fell. The edges of the stairs held against her bones, her flesh, she tumbled down five, six, seven steps, the deep bruising to her thighs, her arms, across her right breast, the jarring to her head as her chin met the marble, splitting it, more blood to anoint her journey.
She righted herself, the binding of the book pressing painfully beneath her breasts. She struggled for breath against the painful bruises to her ribs, the punches to her stomach by the book, by her own arms as she cartwheeled over herself. She wiped her chin, over her lip, her blood coating her lips and she tasted.
Sacrament.
Tears stung the backs of her eyes, but they cleared her vision. Pale light beckoned at the bottom of the stairs and she gripped the banister and pulled herself up. She trembled, and wanted to run the other way, but the light called to her even as the shadows gathered her into tendrils of binding sensation.
His kiss, his teeth, taking her as offering, devouring her as host. Her wrists twisted against the bindings, her thighs burned with the hemp that held her thighs apart against the stone alter, the cold cut of the stone as much a god’s kiss as the thin reed staff that crossed her bare ass, the sting radiant and hot with lined pain that turned her skin slick with sweat, her pussy dripping for more, for him.
Cynthia.
Her name on his lips, his hands pulling her red ass cheeks apart, probing her cunt with fingers thick and long, teasing her clit as they entered her, probing, stroking in and out of her, growing thick, pulsing, throbbing and taking her, pushing her against the rocks of orgasm her breath nothing but wisps of spray from storm-tossed waves. She tried to scream as her battered body hung above the foam, aching for his cock to fill her, his finger circling her puckered, ass, sliding into her as she came. He entered her slowly and entirely, filling her. She didn’t struggle against the hemp, against the stone, but fought for breath, fought to stay with the bliss of being so thoroughly used.
Fingers tangled in her hair, lifting her head, and before her, bare as midnight, Nikris, his cock pushing into her mouth, thick, salty, hard as the cock in her pussy, the growing finger in her ass.
“You desecrated my temple, Cynthia. Now you will pay me for what you have done.”
A stab of fear hovered beyond the bliss, even as the wizard’s cock slid deep into her throat, the need to gag causing her mouth to water even more as the man fucked her face, the cock in her pussy throbbed and pummeled her, stretching her, mercilessly driving her to maddened orgasm, her clit pounded against the edge of the altar.
He came, slick, salty streams filled her mouth, the god behind her filling her pussy, she dripped, panting, swallowing, wanting more.
Empty, wheezing, free, she slid to the ground, spent, weak.
Cold on the stairs of the university, bruised, her jeans half off and shredded as if cut by talons, angry red marks on her wrists. Where was her blouse?
And Professor Stephen Wentworth standing over her, his handsome, bearded face all concern but his eyes dancing with devilish things as he saw the exposed skin of her stomach and pelvis, her wet, wet pussy.
“Cynthia, dear. What on earth has happened to you?”
Continued in Part 17
(Image: Nude Descending a Staircase by Marcel Duchamp)
Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
(Image: Nude Descending a Staircase by Marcel Duchamp)
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 9/4/2010 8:28 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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