Woman of His Dreams - Part XVII
Welcome to Part 17 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
“Hey, St. Clair. Wake up, asshole.”
Tony raised his head from the counter. Had he been drooling? Murphy, the middle-aged video store manager, looked mad enough to pop, his face red just like a tomato.
This had happened. This was real. The other stuff, the bookstore, the girl who drowned Anthony in her pussy, all that was some kind of fantasy. Maybe a sick dream.
This had happened a long time ago. Hadn’t it?
“What the fuck’s the idea of renting a porno to that girl?”
“What?” Tony sat up, testing the solidity of the metal and wood before him. “I didn’t.”
“The fuck you didn’t. You rented it to her. I got your name on the check-out slip.”
He tried to focus on the slip of paper in Murphy’s fat hand and on the tape the manager held just out of reach. He couldn’t really be back in Videotopia, but the counter felt cool and solid under his hands. He smelled the stink of Murphy’s pits, just as bad as he remembered it.
“Look at this, you fuckjob. Lookit.” Murphy popped the black tape into the counter-top VHS.
Through still-bleary eyes, Anthony took in the empty video shop, every chaotic shelf just as he remembered it. His first job after he dropped out of the university. This had happened.
Sick with the memory, he watched the screen on the little TV above the counter flicker, the image fuzzy and low rez. Crude, obviously shot with a home cam, the tape showed the figure of a man in a chair, in a room that seemed familiar, a student apartment from that same, long-ago time. The shaky camera zoomed and Tony saw that the man in the chair was himself, twenty-year old Tony St. Clair, with his trousers at his feet and his cock in his hand, beating off, eyes closed, performing for a camera he didn’t know was there.
“I didn’t rent this to anyone,” he protested. “I don’t even know what this is.” He felt his cheeks burning, probably redder than Murphy’s pocked face.
“It’s you with your dick in your hand,” the manager shouted, actually drawing back his hand as though he meant to hit Tony. “And that’s not the worst part.”
“Who did I rent it to?” he asked, not wanting to hear the worst. “Or who says I rented it…?”
“Some kid. Sixteen, seventeen years old. She brought it back pissed and says she wants to sue us. I don’t fucking blame her. I rent a tape, I don’t want to see you with your little dick and…here, watch this part!”
Tony turned his attention back to the screen, the counter still solid under his hands, but the sense of memory falling away, into a fractured now. He watched himself on the screen and felt the chair under his butt, his heart beginning to hammer as the shadowy, unfocussed edges of the picture began to ooze inward toward the man on the screen – toward him.
“Open your eyes,” he yelled at the man in the screen, and he felt the counter top under his hands suddenly slippery and warm, his fingertips sinking into the softness.
The snowy pixel shadows on the screen extended like coiling worms toward the man in the chair, as he pumped his cock, approaching orgasm. Anthony shook his head to clear cobwebs, tried to close his eyes, but the picture on the snowy screen burned through. This isn’t real, he thought. It never happened and, for a moment, he felt the hard floor of the bookstore against his cheek and knew that he lay in Carcassia’s shop where the Goth girl had left him.
But the nightmare was not finished with him and, as he fought to wake up, the TV pulled him in and he felt the relentless length of one of the worms enfold him, nudging his hand to release his erection, so the worm might fasten its toothless mouth around the shaft and begin to suck, even as the other creatures closed in around him, pallid and wet.
Murphy yelled at him, inarticulate now, the manager’s red face boneless and shaking, his eyes enormous. He brandished the box that had contained the tape like a talisman of accusation. The box seemed so familiar, more like a book. He saw the title, Tales.
“We’re just fuckin’ with ya, Tony. Get it?” Murphy boomed. “Fuckin’ with ya.”
Layers of experience and dream enfolded Tony in the coils of the worms. Something like this had happened, sometime, to someone, but the memory had been pushed deep into the trash bin of his memory, or perhaps it had never really happened at all.
“Wake up, damn it,” he screamed, disembodied, at the man being eaten by worms, at the kid he had once been behind the Videotopia counter, and he did just that. He woke up.
He smelled book dust, the ghost of the Goth girl Cassie’s perfume and he woke aching, naked except for his boxers, the cotton plastered to him with come, the vision of the tape box still burned into his mind. He lay on the floor of Carcassia Books and, from the dimness of the light, he guessed that evening had fallen.
Alone, he thought. Thank God I’m alone.
Then he heard the sound of something moving, dragging itself along the floor, behind the shelves.
Something enormous.
Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own...
~AC
"Woman of His Dreams"
Part 17
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Part 17
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
“Hey, St. Clair. Wake up, asshole.”Tony raised his head from the counter. Had he been drooling? Murphy, the middle-aged video store manager, looked mad enough to pop, his face red just like a tomato.
This had happened. This was real. The other stuff, the bookstore, the girl who drowned Anthony in her pussy, all that was some kind of fantasy. Maybe a sick dream.
This had happened a long time ago. Hadn’t it?
“What the fuck’s the idea of renting a porno to that girl?”
“What?” Tony sat up, testing the solidity of the metal and wood before him. “I didn’t.”
“The fuck you didn’t. You rented it to her. I got your name on the check-out slip.”
He tried to focus on the slip of paper in Murphy’s fat hand and on the tape the manager held just out of reach. He couldn’t really be back in Videotopia, but the counter felt cool and solid under his hands. He smelled the stink of Murphy’s pits, just as bad as he remembered it.
“Look at this, you fuckjob. Lookit.” Murphy popped the black tape into the counter-top VHS.
Through still-bleary eyes, Anthony took in the empty video shop, every chaotic shelf just as he remembered it. His first job after he dropped out of the university. This had happened.
Sick with the memory, he watched the screen on the little TV above the counter flicker, the image fuzzy and low rez. Crude, obviously shot with a home cam, the tape showed the figure of a man in a chair, in a room that seemed familiar, a student apartment from that same, long-ago time. The shaky camera zoomed and Tony saw that the man in the chair was himself, twenty-year old Tony St. Clair, with his trousers at his feet and his cock in his hand, beating off, eyes closed, performing for a camera he didn’t know was there.
“I didn’t rent this to anyone,” he protested. “I don’t even know what this is.” He felt his cheeks burning, probably redder than Murphy’s pocked face.
“It’s you with your dick in your hand,” the manager shouted, actually drawing back his hand as though he meant to hit Tony. “And that’s not the worst part.”
“Who did I rent it to?” he asked, not wanting to hear the worst. “Or who says I rented it…?”
“Some kid. Sixteen, seventeen years old. She brought it back pissed and says she wants to sue us. I don’t fucking blame her. I rent a tape, I don’t want to see you with your little dick and…here, watch this part!”
Tony turned his attention back to the screen, the counter still solid under his hands, but the sense of memory falling away, into a fractured now. He watched himself on the screen and felt the chair under his butt, his heart beginning to hammer as the shadowy, unfocussed edges of the picture began to ooze inward toward the man on the screen – toward him.
“Open your eyes,” he yelled at the man in the screen, and he felt the counter top under his hands suddenly slippery and warm, his fingertips sinking into the softness.
The snowy pixel shadows on the screen extended like coiling worms toward the man in the chair, as he pumped his cock, approaching orgasm. Anthony shook his head to clear cobwebs, tried to close his eyes, but the picture on the snowy screen burned through. This isn’t real, he thought. It never happened and, for a moment, he felt the hard floor of the bookstore against his cheek and knew that he lay in Carcassia’s shop where the Goth girl had left him.
But the nightmare was not finished with him and, as he fought to wake up, the TV pulled him in and he felt the relentless length of one of the worms enfold him, nudging his hand to release his erection, so the worm might fasten its toothless mouth around the shaft and begin to suck, even as the other creatures closed in around him, pallid and wet.
Murphy yelled at him, inarticulate now, the manager’s red face boneless and shaking, his eyes enormous. He brandished the box that had contained the tape like a talisman of accusation. The box seemed so familiar, more like a book. He saw the title, Tales.
“We’re just fuckin’ with ya, Tony. Get it?” Murphy boomed. “Fuckin’ with ya.”
Layers of experience and dream enfolded Tony in the coils of the worms. Something like this had happened, sometime, to someone, but the memory had been pushed deep into the trash bin of his memory, or perhaps it had never really happened at all.
“Wake up, damn it,” he screamed, disembodied, at the man being eaten by worms, at the kid he had once been behind the Videotopia counter, and he did just that. He woke up.
He smelled book dust, the ghost of the Goth girl Cassie’s perfume and he woke aching, naked except for his boxers, the cotton plastered to him with come, the vision of the tape box still burned into his mind. He lay on the floor of Carcassia Books and, from the dimness of the light, he guessed that evening had fallen.
Alone, he thought. Thank God I’m alone.
Then he heard the sound of something moving, dragging itself along the floor, behind the shelves.
Something enormous.
Continued in Part 18.
(Image from Videodrome, 1983, Universal Studios)
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 from Videodrome, 1983, Universal Studios)
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 9/11/2010 8:15 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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