Welcome to Part 27 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…
by Angela Caperton
The rough hands of big men pulled at Anthony’s clothing – no, George’s clothing — making short work of his garments and tossing them aside. As he was being stripped, he looked wildly around the room, realizing that some of the robed and hooded people were women and that some of them were already being groped and fucked in anticipation of what lay ahead.
He watched Sir Geoffrey and the enormous goat with sidelong glances, afraid to look too closely at the animal. Did they really mean for it to bugger him?
Cassie’s hands worked inside Anthony’s scrubs, pulling him hard. He smelled skunky weed and spilled beer as he rode the rising scream of the synthesized Strad, the jerks and spasms binding them all, entwined with the crowd, all lost in the crazy music.
“L’ias!” Sir Geoffrey intoned, as George’s last garment was removed. “Ez’kule, l’ias elihu.” He held aloft a phallic wand, the bulbous head glistening wetly in the candlelight. “Join in the ecstasy,” he commanded the little crowd, and they obeyed with gleeful madness, robes lifted to bare erect cocks and waiting orifices, no desk or chair safe from the sudden orgy.
On the floor, Brigitte looked back over her shoulder, at George, at Anthony, her eyes wide and warm, her butt and quim elevated to receive him, but the time-slip of consciousness and the acute angst over the role of the goat, rendered George limp.
The synthesized violin multiplied into an orchestra of dysphonic noise. The trio on stage thrashed, frenzied and wild, the drummer transcending the limits of his flesh, his arms moving too fast to see as the music screamed and begged and demanded. The crowd writhed and whipped, all flesh, all one. Outside, sirens devoured the night, and Anthony knew that monsters were loose in the city. He wanted their embrace, the worm and the band, and most of all Cassie, who offered the gash between her legs to his cock, longer and thicker than any man’s had ever been, ready to fuck the world.
The wound in his side opened and began to leak oily fluid down his side.
“Have you no faith?” Sir Geoffrey asked him. “No desire for the beauty who offers herself to you?”
George looked again at Brigitte, saw the animal hunger in her eyes. Sir Geoffrey took hold of his cock and it jumped in the lord’s hand. “Do you need help?” he asked in a tone of utter contempt.
“No,” George managed and Sir Geoffrey’s expert touch began to ignite his loins, the violin silent now, and the only sound in the chamber the combined breath of the orgy, quickening. A woman screamed in her release and the room pulsed with her orgasm, the walls throbbing, as space itself began to contract in climax.
He positioned himself, the head of his bloated purple cock-head nestled at the bud of Brigitte’s asshole, then lower to slide between the slippery lips of her sex, as wet as any woman he had ever entered. She pushed back against him and he moved with her, the rhythm building between them, matching the unspent lust of the others in the room.
The woman who had screamed out one climax cried again, a desperate, breathless sound and others grunted as they came, but the growing mass of primal force did not diminish.
The sounds of the room called across time and space, the sabbat in its eldest form, the surrender of flesh to desires more brutal and pure than beasts’. George rode her, his cock slipping in and out of the wet sheath of her cunt, gripping her now, grinding against her, heedless of what might be happening behind him.
“You must not be weak,” Cassie whispered in his ear, inhuman, metallic. They lay on the floor together, and Anthony recognized the sensation of being inside her, his magical phallus enclosed like a caterpillar within its cocoon, the wand in the chalice. Someone played with his balls and another cock battered at his mouth, pushed past his lips, the hot weight on his tongue feeding his hunger.
“You know the price of weakness.”
He felt the goat, its huge, furry weight on his back, its rank smell cloaking him, and he wavered, missed a stroke as Brigitte pushed back, her cry of pleasure turning to one of disappointment. The goat had grown arms, thin boneless arms, and it held him around his waist, even as it pressed down on him. He looked back over his shoulder, lust running from him like the white of a pierced egg, as he watched what it become – no longer a goat, no longer anything he could name.
He saw too many sides of it at once, as though he looked upon it in a prism mirror, scattered and incomplete, and he realized that if he saw it all together, his mind would snap completely.
“Fuck her, you mouse,” Sir Geoffrey screamed. “Our lord demands it!”
He had no chance. All he wanted was to escape the room, to escape the memory of the thing that held him, the thing that penetrated his flesh and his soul, tearing him apart.
Anthony would not weaken. Empowered, engorged, he fucked Cassie hard, trying to hurt her, the cock in his mouth pulsing, gushing. He swallowed and let it go, his teeth seeking Cassie’s ivory skin, biting her savagely even as he ground into her, the music shattering the walls, the crowd coming together, a paean to the cosmos, a celebration of the darkest mysteries of sex and death.
Even as he came inside her and she clenched around him in frenzied climax, she put her hand on his side, on the wound, and reached inside him, touching his soul.
“Not bad, bookworm,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “They really did pick a winner.” Xabaret Xulu had closed for the night, the crowd dressed and emptied into the alley. Cassie had donned her Goth gear, hanging on Anthony’s arm as they strolled down the street, just another pair of early morning lovers. She had found him a pair of jeans and a faded Mötley Crüe t-shirt somewhere.
“You’re in now. You know that, right? No changing your mind.”
He felt numb but transformed. He had a vague sense of unease and realized he was worried about Cynthia. Maybe Cassie felt his steps falter.
“Uh,” she said. “You’re in, and the next thing you’re going to do is find that cunt of yours. She has something we need.”
The book, he knew.
“And you’re going to get it back, even if you have to kill her.”
Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.