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…

~AC

“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.

“Beg.”

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.

Cynthia.

Cynthia.

Listen…

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. .

“More.”

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.

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