Woman of His Dreams – Part XXIV

Welcome to Part 24 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 24
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010

Surprised by Cynthia’s sudden violence, Stephen barely managed to raise his arm, enough to deflect her blow but not to stop it. The stone loop struck his temple with a sound like a hollow crunch. He dropped moaning.

She considered hitting him again but the ankh warmed her hand and sent a pulse directly to her pussy.  The sensation was much different than the raging lust that had consumed her in recent days, but she understood the feeling sprang from the same dangerous magic.

But the ankh’s heat almost comforted her and she breathed easier as she clutched the stone between her breasts.

In that moment of clarity, she remembered more of what had happened when Stephen left her alone with the human fucking machine that had been Derrick Hung-cock. Her mind tipped back toward the abyss as the memory smothered her.

Insistent clicking and the tap of hard talons, a shape she could not hold in her mind, mandibles and too many eyes. It had penetrated Derrick even as he penetrated her, injecting something that made him cry with joy and ecstasy even as it infected him.

She shot a glance at where Derrick had fallen and watched as shadows coiled around him like smoke, growing out of the dripping black ooze on his head and shoulders. Stephen had wanted to use the ankh to help Derrick somehow. As the big man convulsed and weakly struggled against what she thought must be the suffocation of the shadows, she embraced her instincts, and kneeled beside him.  She laid the stone tentatively against the leaking wounds, fear and exhilaration pounding her pulse through her body.

Derrick shuddered violently, but then breathed more evenly. Cynthia’s lips formed words, nonsense syllables that invoked forces within her self and beyond, whipping power she could not name. From beneath the couch, something began to click and whirr in agitation and she felt the book plucking at her again. She held the ankh high in the air and let its power flow freely through her.

Something long, black, and segmented probed the air, rising from behind the sofa and she chanted harder, feeling the wicked tide crashing against her, like the ocean of destruction on the rocks of life.

“Give us the man.”  She heard the voice, not in her head, but words as real as Tony’s or the bus driver’s as he called out the stops.  It wasn’t even particularly sinister, just a matter-of-fact demand, but the intonation terrified her. She cringed at the jagged sound, like human speech simulated by a power saw. “Give him to us, and we will let you go.”

N’oha fn’isti brk,” she chanted, aware that she had become only a puppet.  She opened to whatever spoke through her, knowing it was her best chance. She saw herself multiplied across time, a naked priestess armed with words of power.

The couch moved, as something behind it began to emerge and she knew if she saw the thing, she might go mad. “N’oha!” she cried. “Begone!”

She sensed the thing cringing. “Give us the book,” it buzzed. “Keep the man. Give us the book.”

She considered that. The book had caused all of this horror. Why not give it to the thing?

Brigitte. The book might be the only way to bring Brigitte back. Sudden regret at hitting Stephen filled her. He might know what to do.

As though her will touched him, Stephen moaned and began to rise. Distracted, she lowered the ankh and turned toward him.

The lights snapped off and in the sudden, complete darkness, she heard a rush of clattering legs, the angry snap of mandibles.

N’oha!” she cried again and the ankh bloomed with a pallid green light. In the eerie illumination, she saw the shape of the thing that had emerged into the room, insectoid and human in a hideous hybrid tangle, a form that could not possibly function in the material world. She closed her eyes, nausea washing through her.

Too weak, she thought, to stand against this. No human could.

Someone caught her and held her, strong hands wresting the ankh from her grip. She recognized Stephen’s touch, his scent, and she let him take the stone implement and she clung to him, waves of lust and fear and madness drowning her as he began to chant.

The words rolled like waves and she heard the insect thing scream in a voice that echoed beyond the room, across dimensions, shredding the walls of her skull into splinters as she fell away from the world.


When she opened her eyes, she saw Stephen bending over her, his hand warm on her face, his eyes concerned but calm. He had covered her with a blanket, but it did nothing to warm her.

“Where is it?” she asked him, her voice cracking with panic.


“Did it get …?”

He shook his head. “It left empty-handed. I’ve called EMS for Derrick. He’ll be fine, I think. We still have the book, may all the gods help us.”

She clutched at him. “Thank you,” she started. “I’m so sorry…”

He touched his head. “Don’t. I know what you were feeling. I underestimated its power, thought, will. I shouldn’t have left Derrick with you. This is much worse than…”

“Than what?”

“Than the other time I saw something like this. That…” He gestured at the book where it still lay on his desk. “I think I know what it is.”

She heard a siren approaching outside.

“Can you get up?” he asked her. She nodded.

“Going to move you to another room while the paramedics work on Derrick. I’m going to have enough questions to answer without them seeing you. There are likely to be cops too. Unless you need…?”

She understood and shook her head. She rose, wrapping the blanket like a robe around her. “I’m all right. I’d rather not talk to anyone now.”

He helped her down the hall to an empty office where she stretched out on the sofa.

“I’ll get you some clothes and be back as soon as I can,” he assured her and then went to meet the emergency crew.

She tried to relax. Lust still buzzed in her blood, but it was different now. As silly as she knew the thought was, she just wanted to lay down with Stephen, fuck slowly, and then cuddle.

Blue and red lights penetrated her closed eyelids.  Her knotted body slowly uncoiled and she felt herself melting into the cushions, one thought following her into troubled sleep.

Maybe later, when the EMTs and cops were long gone, maybe she and Stephen could do exactly that.

Continued in Part 25.

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

Woman of His Dreams – Part XXIII

Welcome to Part 23 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 23
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010

The screams followed Anthony for blocks. He ran along 57th, past honking traffic, to the corner of an unfamiliar cross street where he didn’t stop to read the sign, just ran, heading for the darkest place he saw, the mouth of an alley that seemed to drink the light. He lurched into the blackness, stumbling over things that felt like soft bricks,falling, his hands bruising against wet stone, tearing the knees of his scrubs.  His heart pounded like a timpani.

He had no money, no phone, no ID, and here he was, almost naked, miles from his townhouse. He wanted to hug the blackness and pray for it to take him, but it scared the shit out of him too. He imagined the things that might hide there, sinuous and cold, creatures that had crawled out of nightmares and into the waking world.

As his eyes adjusted to the absence of light, he saw that he was not alone. The faintest frame of illumination showed a doorway a little further down the alleyway and someone stood outside it, a big shape that resolved into a man in tight clothes leaning against the stone wallbeside the door. The weight of the man’s gaze pinned Anthony to the ground.

“Want in, sport?” he asked in a voice like the bass line in slow acid jazz. Anthony heard the rest of the music in the bricks and in the street, a rhythmic, muffled pounding. He stood up slowly and took a step away from the big man. “Nothin’ to be scared of,” the man drawled.“Look like you can use a little di-version. Come on. Lots of pretty girls inside.”

Anthony’s cock twitched and it almost tugged him toward the man and the mysterious door. When he was close enough to be sure that the guy saw his tattered scrub pants and bare chest, he ventured, “Do I pass the dress code?”

“In there?” The big man laughed, like rocks in a polisher. His skin was the same color as the shadow-painted bricks in the wall, and his face wore a tattooed mask giving him an illusion of inhuman tranquility. “My friend, you may be overdressed for the cabaret.”

“I don’t have any money.” Anthony said, even as he struggled against the encounter.  He knew this was wrong, that somehow the alleyway had opened into some other space and time, but he couldn’t help himself from walking through the portal. His cock ached with new, insistent life,the flesh so hard it pushed his scrubs out and threatened to escape the Velcro fly.  The wound in his side drooled in hot anticipation.

“The only price for your admission is your consent,” the doorman said.“When you go in, you are ours to do with as we please. That all right with you?”

He tried to think, to summon all the reasons that this might be the worst move he had ever made in his life. Where was Cynthia? Maybe back at the townhouse. Maybe still at the college. She had the book and the book held all the answers.  Longing cut deep into his bones with the desire to hold it again.

The big man opened the door and Anthony saw the play of light inside,flashing colors and dancing shadows, the pound of drums and synthetic music, faster than any real musician could play. The big man caught him by the wrist in a hand like a manacle and pulled him closer.

“Time to play,” he said.

“I don’t…I don’t concede anything,” Anthony said. “Leave me alone.” Buthe couldn’t hear the words as he spoke them. They had been swallowed by the banshee, tuneless wail, and the guardian had already pulled him over the threshold and slammed the door behind him.

He saw words in letters the color of dried blood, a sign above a stage, illuminated by the stroboscopic storm.

Xabaret Xulu.

The concrete floor felt cold and sweaty under his bare feet and he tried to gauge the size of the room. Could it be as cavernous as it seemed or was that space a trick of the crazy lights?

Countless people packed the hall, dancing and bouncing before the stage where a trio of naked men played, a drummer, a man with a horn, and a wizard at the center of a stack of sequencers and keyboards. The noise pushed past the walls of pain tolerance, a sound as vast as space,consuming and obliterating.

Anthony realized that a fair number of the people nearest him were entirely nude or dressed only in ornamental garb that had nothing to do with modesty — horned headdresses, tails affixed apparently with butt plugs, chains and leather straps. Sweaty bodies rubbed against him, men and women, fused in an orgiastic dance, catching him up in it. Someone’s hands invaded his pants and groped his rigid cock while someone else put a finger up his ass.

The wound in his side puckered, wet and open and he covered it to protect himself from something he could not name. Again, an organ like a tongue licked the palm of his hand and he gripped tighter, even as more hands caught him, peeling the scrubs down his thighs, tripping him so that he stumbled and fell among the revel, on his back, cock up like a lightning rod, his reason falling away again, eaten by the music and the pounding flesh around him.

Someone began to suck him and he looked down to watch a skinny,androgynous, man working on his shaft while a woman who might have been the scarecrow’s twin bit and chewed his thigh. A woman squatted over Anthony, offering the bare, dripping cleft of her pussy to his lips and he tongued her, catching the rhythm concealed within the thunder,feeling it in his blood and his loins, heartbeat pumping blood and jism.The crowd around him began to scream in mutual climax, the woman atop his face squirting and grinding down on him. The couple working on his cock surrendered to their own pleasure, forgetting him so that his abandoned penis pulsed in the fevered space and then pumped thick white seed in an offering to the gods of the upper air and the demons of true madness.

He lay on the cool concrete, the shapes around him growing still as the music subsided, the synthesized screaming becoming a croon, the drums calming to the beat of an anxious pulse.

Someone helped him up, an unexpected kindness in a moment he half expected to be his last.

She wore a black lace collar, tit and clit piercings, and nothing else, but he recognized her at once.

Cassie. The Goth chick.

“So, bookworm,” she said. “Come here often?”

Continued in Part 24.

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

Woman of His Dreams – Part XXII

Welcome to Part 22 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 22
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010

Cynthia didn’t care anymore.  The thick cock that slid effortlessly in and out of her pussy had begun to quench the supernatural lust that racked her.  She fingered her clit as Derrick fucked her, graceless, hard, just as she begged him to.

“Fuck,” he growled as he slapped her thigh and pounded into her.  He bellowed, the sound rasping out in challenged gasps.  “Stephen, you’d better hurry!  Don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”

Wicked need seeped into her as another weak orgasm quivered her flayed nerves.  She reached down between her thighs and firmly stroked Derrick’s taint.  He howled like a wolf and came hard, shuddering, then collapsing on top of her.

She wanted fresh air, the sun on her breasts, a new cock.  They all wanted that.

She shoved at the dead weight atop her, the thick muscles of Derrick’s chest proving more intractable than she would have imagined – or maybe she was truly that weak.  How many orgasms had she had in one day?

Was it even the same day?

“Derrick?” The name echoed from the hall, the caramel tenor of Stephen’s voice brushing against Cynthia’s mind like mink.

She stared at the threshold, waiting for him. Her pussy tingled with a raw, stinging, empty awareness, sharpening her focus on the doorway.

Derrick moaned, then rolled off her and onto the floor.  She barely noticed his wet withdrawal.  She sat up and waited for Stephen, her blood thin and pulsing, readying her muscles to spring.

Stephen’s shadow lead the way, and when he came through the doorway the only things Cynthia saw were the white cotton gloves he wore and the small stone cross he carried between his palms. Not a cross, she saw when he came closer. An ankh.

Bring to me the river of your desire.

She knew the words on it, could feel the tale the stone screamed.  She pressed her feet against the floor, her knees shaking as she swayed against gravity, against the crippling weight of the call of the stone in Stephen’s hands.  Clicking, chitin snaps of slicked skeleton reached her ears from the dark reaches under the coach.  She took a tentative step toward Stephen, but barely saw him beyond his gloved hands.  The clicking became steady, a beat, her blood pulsing as the poles drew together.

A crash from the shadows tapped her consciousness, but barely touched her soul.
The tight keening whine slid annoyingly through the cotton of her brain as she reached out for the talisman in Stephen’s hands.

“What the fuck?”

The words sounded foreign, her brain registering the noise but refusing the meaning.  She almost touched the ankh, but Stephen dropped his hand to his side as he pushed Cynthia aside and dodged to the couch.

Acid burned Cynthia’s heart as she rocked to right herself.  When she finally faced Stephen and the couch, she saw Stephen on his knees at Derrick’s head, the ankh on the couch, bare and free, hers to take.  She stepped forward, fingers hovering over the ancient stone, fearful and greedy at once.  The thick pulse that thumped her eardrums and swelled painfully in her fingertips and toes sickened her, thrilled her, and scared her more than anything she’d experienced in the mad hours since Tony found the book.

The book.  Her gaze lasered to the spot, saw the tome settled in the center of Stephen’s desk like some ancient, true bible.

An echoing beat reached her, mixed with the quickening staccato of heat rising from the ankh, a warring crescendo of purpose that froze and burned her, held her trapped between waves of arcane need that tugged her, tempted her and, she knew, damned her to be its sacrifice.

“What did you do to him?” Stephen growled at her, frantically maneuvering Derrick on the floor.

Clarity flipped on like a switch, along with anger, an unnatural shock of rage that burned her scalp and curled her fingers into claws.  “Me?  You had him fuck me, Stephen.  You told him to fuck me!  I didn’t do anything to him other than let his cock slide in and out of me, and let me tell you something you pompous pimp, he’s fucking better than…”  The words died as Stephen lifted Derrick to sitting, his face ghostly pale and a bleeding. An open wound seeped blood from above his left collar bone.  Ugly black ooze flowed down his neck, a rotting vine that ran further, onto his chest and arm.

“The ankh!  Give me the ankh, Cynthia.”

Her bowels tightened, her mouth watering at the sight of the unnatural blood even as her knees threatened to dissolve.  She looked at the ankh, then back at the book, torn.

“Now, Cynthia!  Hand it to me now, or I swear, I will send you to a hell your twisted mind can’t even conceive.   Know this too, I know that as you are right now, you can imagine something far, far worse than Dante or Milton could ever have dreamt of.”  He struggled with the flopping weight of Derrick in his arms, but pointed to the couch.  “Worse, Cynthia.  I fucking promise you!”

She remembered last spring, the poison she’d put out to kill mice that had found a way into Tony’s house.  Warfarin.  She now understood the need to gorge, the undying thirst and the inability to drink enough water to counter the oozing seepage of blood from every pour in the body.

She reached for the ankh, even as the book reached out and scratched her veins with shards of broken glass.

Her fingers curled around the base, burning her palm, and as she looked up to Stephen her vision blasted blinding white.

Stephen laid Derrick aside, where he continued to thrash weakly, bloody, infected, convulsing.

“Goddamit,” Stephen cursed, stood up, and crossed to Cynthia, reaching for the ankh.

She swung the stone talisman right at his head, aiming to kill him.

Continued in Part 23.

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

Woman of His Dreams – Part XXI

Welcome to Part 21 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 21
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010

The cop who reached Anthony first was a woman, a broad-shouldered, short-haired redhead, who took one look at his shriveled wiener and waved the EMS guys closer.

Anthony felt as though he stood at the center of a play where everyone knew the lines except him.

“What happened?” she asked, taking out a notebook from her pocket. She had a voice like Bruce Willis.  Her professional gaze took in the bloody bandage on his side, his nakedness, and presumably the unfocused haze of his eyes, but no compassion touched her expression.

“Robbed,” he stammered and pointed at the open door of Carcassia’s bookstore, half a block away in the dim space between streetlights. “Took my clothes.”  Thank god, he thought. I’m still sane enough to lie.

The redhead’s partner, a big guy who looked like he might be Samoan, spoke into the microphone mounted on his shoulder, then drew his pistol and started toward the shop. The lady cop handed Anthony over to the ambulance crew and followed her partner. They moved purposefully toward the open door, the Samoan out in front a few steps. The thin gathering that had collected had grown a little, shadowy men and women crowding the sidewalk, spilling into the street. People shifted aside to let the cops pass.

“Can you put these on?” One of the EMS guys handed Anthony a pair of scrub pants while the other one stood back.

Anthony stepped into them, his attention still on the receding backs of the two officers as they approached the black hole of the doorway. He started to head that direction himself, but one of the paramedics stopped him.

“They don’t need your help,” he said. “And we need to take a look at that.” He pointed to the leaking bandage.

Anthony looked down at the mess and nodded, but the idea of anyone lifting that wrapping made his heart race with sick shock. Whatever was going on under there, he knew a trained medical guy would be likely to take a strong interest in the condition and that thought gave him a jolt like a cannibal eel rising from a barrel of brine. Still, there wasn’t much he could do to stop the two guys from taking his arms and leading him toward the ambulance.

When he turned to look back at the cops, he saw they had just reached the steps leading up to the shop but he already knew what they would find inside.

Nothing, no trace of the Goth girl or the monstrous worm, just books and dust and a pile of clothes. He saw his future clearly, hauled off to some public hospital, locked away for observation. Did they still put people in padded cells?

He stood by the open hatch of the meat wagon while one of the men slipped on surgical gloves and took a pair of snips from his kit. The tech approached his task with calm professionalism and removed the fabric adeptly.

Anthony glanced at the wound, obscured by gore. The paramedic washed at it with a moistened cloth.

“The fuck?” he said suddenly, all traces of professionalism gone in a breath. His buddy moved closer to take a look and Anthony looked down too.

The wound in his side, the bite, had changed terribly. It looked like a wet line, like thin lips, a mouth or a cunt.

The tech prodded carefully with his rubberized finger and the wound opened.

Anthony could not see what happened, but he felt the wound pulse and the technician screamed in shock and pain. The man’s finger bloomed bright with his own blood where the tip had been removed as though by a razor.

Then, from the direction of Carcassia’s Books, gunshots blasted a hole in the murmur of the milling sidewalk crowd and Anthony heard screams, cries building on each other, layering like an avalanche of panic.

He pulled away from the uninjured paramedic, and he shuddered as he began to run, no one even trying to stop him. The crowd had begun to run too, in scattered clusters, people stumbling and falling, some of them yelling. The gunshots had stopped but someone — probably the lady cop — was uttering the most awful, endless scream that Anthony had ever heard.

He regretted the loss of his wallet and his clothes, but no way was he going to wait and see what the police brought out.

If they came out at all.

As he ran away from the echoing cacophony, he remembered something like this happening before, that same sense of fragmented déjà vu that he had felt in the shop, as though every running step he took had been described to him in a story or that he had watched them unfold in Technicolor on a screen.

He had a vision of the cops in the store because he had seen them before too, dressed in the uniforms of another place in another time. Roman guards maybe, or something even more ancient and exotic. The redhead had been a man that time, some barbarian soldier with a broken nose and a scar down one cheek.

Instead of Carcassia’s, he remembered a rough-hewed lintel and smelled the burning animal oil from guttering lamps.  The screams didn’t echo off thin walls and flat clear glass, but off thick, cold stone turned black by greasy smoke, and red from countless reluctant offerings.

He remembered the worm threading itself through two figures, penetrating them and stretching their bones as it eased into their bodies, tendrils invading their asses, their eyes, their mouths, like squirming vines taking root.  He felt the writhing, thick lampreys swimming in his bowels, devouring his intestines, chewing his cock, his scrotum.  Gritty sickness roiled through him as he lurched away from the nightmare.

As he ran, he covered the wound on his side with his hand, feeling something like a tongue lick his slippery palm, reassuring him that he would be safe now, that he was wanted, needed even.

And that only wondrous pleasures lay ahead of him.

Continued in Part 22.

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

Just Released! Darkness and Delight

“If I had to identify a common element across all these stories, I suppose it would be passion and my belief that the erotic love that grows out of passion is magic — black magic, whitemagic, and sometimes in-between.  Passion.  Even my big monsters are driven by it.”

That is from the author’s note to my collection of erotic short stories, Darkness and Delight , now available from Renaissance eBooks!  I am very proud of this collection and humbled by the kind words of writer, editor and critic M. Christian in his introduction.

From M. Christian: “Angela isn’t just a writer who gets things right, who tells only good stories.  Angela is awriter who does every little bit of an almost-impossible job excellently.  Take a look at this book, at any little bit of it, and you will see a shining point of brilliance.  She tells stories that live and breathe, that do so much more than just talking about sex.  She does it all – every little bit of telling a story – wonderfully.” 

Darkness and Delight contains 12 stories, 7 which have appeared in other places, and 5 printed here for the first time ever.

Woman of His Dreams – Part XX

Welcome to Part 20 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 20
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010

Full, whole, drunken.

Stephen’s cock slid beyond the tight circle of Cynthia’s ass, controlled, careful, stretching her, freeing her, exciting her with the penetration, the invasion challenging her submission, her lust.  The pressure on her knees, on the balls of her palms, the ache of her nipples like a sweet bruise added bright pigment to the canvas of excitement.  She wanted this, needed this even as she understood the book needed this of her.  Did that make it more exciting? Did that make it a sacrament?  Did that heighten the glorious nastiness of Stephen’s cock inside her ass, of her delight in the way her sphincter closed tightly around his cock, greedy, jealous?.  His fingers dug into her hips, neatly trimmed nails biting small half moons over the points of her pelvis.

“You will see, Cynthia, the Old Ones were right.” Stephen grunted as he buried himself in her ass.

She didn’t care about the Old Ones, whoever the fuck they were, in that moment, didn’t even care about the book, though as she sensed it nearby, sentient, watching, battening off her lust and, like a closed circuit, feeding it anew.

Did Stephen feel the leash?  Did he know that this glorious lust was not theirs alone?

His cock slid easily into her. She dripped with the slick by-product of her passion, her pussy vacant, but enjoying the ride.

His hand reached around and began to torture her clit, circling it, teasing it until her vision blurred with want, saliva fell from her lips as she tried to squirm, writhe, bend to the growing unreal ache of need in her ass, in her pussy, in her chest, mind, hands, and soul.

He held her there, on the edge, orgasm hovering just beyond her grasp, like faith.


Somewhere on the bus, on the stairs, pride had evaporated like cheap incense smoke and she had lost any desire to analyze it.  “Fuck me.  Fuck me!”

His cock slammed hard into her ass, his balls slapping her pussy with the force of the thrust.  Something ripped, something inside her surrendered, and he fucked her with a ferocity that shredded her.  His fingers viciously exploited her clit; his cock tore into her ass and she loved it, wanted more, savored the rending pain, the stark humiliation, the abject degradation.  She came hard, fast, and savage.  She cried out, cried with salt tears and bittersweet lust.  She drooled and sagged even as he continued his assault, the pleasure he’d given her quickly fading in favor of his own targeted need to dominate, to own her, to crush whatever oneness she’d thought was hers alone.

And she let him, ached, cringed as the tearing pain of his invasion blasted open the glass door of those nameless demons that had stalked her ever since Tony had found the book.

Sharp shards of pleasure-pain transported her through an onyx tunnel that constricted her heart, tightened her muscles, stole her breath as dripping, vicious claws reached through the sweating vision of her lust to tear at her sides in long bloody furrows.

She saw her reflection in crystalline walls, the scattered, looming shapes of the wizard’s inhuman slaves lining up to claim her, to take her in the mouth and ass, between her breasts, all at once with cocks and appendages of indefinable shape.

She screamed, her voice soundless as she struggled against him, needing to break free, to run and escape. She knew she needed to get away, damn the book, damn Brigitte, Tony, everything.

She tore at the couch, icy daggers of stark fear panting through her, her fight against Stephen suddenly too real, too impossible, his cock stabbing her over and over again, each invasion suddenly dry, blistering, savage.

Her lungs burned.  She needed air, needed leverage to pull away from the nightmare that tore her inside and out until her sides were slick with blood, her ass dripping red and wet.  She needed strength, to break free, needed help from some place beyond the sphere of his domination.

Her vision found focus on the book.  Atop Stephen’s desk, open, the pages laughed, whispered to her.

Kilinga.  Eliana.




She sagged, deaf to Stephen’s cries, his driving lust seeped into her marrow, the book’s biting laughter sharp as needles piercing her spirit.

Only one word escaped her throat as Stephen came in her ass, his cock jumping, emptying what felt like gallons inside her, oozing molten out of her, binding them. .


He pulled out, leaving her leaking and open to the cool breath of the room’s air.

“You’re joking,” he said breathlessly, slapping her bottom with considerable force. “This thing really has its claws in you, doesn’t it?” Tucking, lifting, buckling, he stepped to where Tales lay and stroked its cover. “All right. There’s no talking to you till we’ve exorcised the lust of the moment, and I need you to focus.”

She squirmed on the couch, seeing beyond the crystal walls into an infinity of consuming, unquenchable desire, a panorama of cocks and mouths, ceremonial shafts, hands, tongues. She wanted all of them in her, on her. Only then would she be whole. Only then would the book be satisfied.

Stephen picked up the phone on his desk and punched a number.

“Derrick? Listen, can you come down to my office. I need your help with something. Good. I promise you won’t be sorry.”

Stephen ran his hand over her butt, fingers slipping through the mess to explore the hole he had just filled.

“You’ll like Derrick,” he told her, though she hardly heard him. “I’m told he’s tireless. While he helps you with your little problem, there’s something I need to fetch from the museum.”

She rolled over, shedding the last of her clothing, hips rising to meet things he could not see.

Things that even Professor Wentworth could not begin to imagine.

Continued in Part 21.

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