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…

~AC

“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.

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