Welcome to Part 25 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
All around the club, which had shrunken considerably, men and women, still mostly naked, milled about, some looking for their clothes, others off to the bar bobbing, dripping, and jiggling. On stage, the singer languidly butt-fucked the keyboard player, in what Anthony guessed must be some kind of musician’s afterglow, a little between-set sodomy.
He looked back at Cassie, perfect breasts with little nipples adorned with silver pins. A drop of sweat ran down her tight stomach and into her shaved, wet slit. He remembered tasting her.
Cassie’s eyes widened a little when she noticed his growing erection. “Ready again so soon? They picked a real stud this time.”
“Who?” he asked, almost desperate. “Who picked?”
“We’ll get to that.” She took him by his cock and squeezed. “But I don’t want to waste this. Come on, buy me a drink.” She picked up a black lace scarf and tied it around her narrow hips so it made a skirt that danced like thin smoke.
Tony pulled his scrubs on, glad when his hard-on subsided some. He followed her to the bar, a make-shift affair of stools and boards. To his shock, Cassie handed him his own wallet. So the cops hadn’t found it back at the store. Relief lasted half a breath before he shivered, remembering what had happened there, vivid as a fresh nightmare.
He remembered the worm, how it stretched, with no end to it as it emerged from behind the shelves, rising in a dripping column. His hand returned to the wound in his side, felt the puckered seam closed, healed, not even sore.
He bought Cassie the ale of her choice, Innsmouth Pale, and got a Shiner for himself. They leaned against one of the walls at the back of the stage room and drank without talking. He watched the room, the patrons, all ages and shapes as they slowly collected around the stage again, some of them dressing, others naked and sweaty. The band members had apparently finished fucking and gone elsewhere. The room smelled like jiz and sulfur.
“This isn’t real,” Anthony said to Cassie. “Is it?”
She looked sideways at him. Was that a little smile? She reached over and cupped his cock under the thin scrubs, rubbed one perfect, silver-adorned breast against his arm, the nipple stiffening as she kissed his throat. “You’ll see,” she said.
“What is that book? Tales. What is it?” he asked, his hand under the wisp of silk, cradling the hard curve of her butt. His growing cock and the rough Texas beer emboldened him.
“It’s nothing,” she answered, laughing. “It’s just a way in that you were lucky enough to find. There are plenty of others. Like the right art or the holy music – anything that opens you up to the Old Ones. This world is full of the pleasures he gives.”
“Who? Who gives?”
She said something that sounded like she was talking with a mouth full of molasses and marbles.
“They call him The Procurer.”
“Is he like a gangster?”
“No, silly. He’s like a god.”
His cock shrank a little as he heard and believed her.
“Listen to The Word,” she said, reaching into his trousers to wiggle his shriveled dick back to life.
“These guys,” she said. “That’s the band’s name.” She nodded at the stage where the trio had re-emerged, wearing leather and latex strap-ons and nothing else. “Listen to them, bookworm, and be enlightened.”
The guy at the synth bank punched keys and digitized violins filled the room as the lights dimmed, a mimicry of the tone and style of old wood, scratching the edges of discord. His head began to swim and he remembered being somewhere a long time ago, in a room of music, his brain seething with pleasant intoxicants.
His name was George, only a cousin away from royalty, and the beastly violin player inspired in him an urgent anxiety. Only the chloral hydrate he had ingested and the duke’s good wine kept him in his seat, along with the promise of a performance to inspire the most intense feelings, the most divine sensations. Sir Geoffrey had promised nothing less.
At the center of his lordship’s dark-paneled study, among shelves that held the finest library ever assembled on the arts of dark sorcery, a girl waited on her knees.
Anthony knew her.
Sir Geoffrey had dressed her in a cotton shift too short to cover her cunny, try as she might. The girl appeared terrified and George grew hard watching her. Sir Geoffrey, robed in black, his garment decorated with gilt signs to summon and bind devils, entered from the hall, leading a big black goat, the biggest animal of its sort that George had ever seen. A dozen men in similar robes formed a circle around the girl, breaking to admit Geoffrey and his immense caprine companion.
The girl was named Brigitte. George knew her name somehow. Had someone told him?
Sir Geoffrey moved with acrobat’s grace to stand over the girl, over Brigitte. He caught her neck in the merciless ring of his hand. George’s breath quickened as Sir Geoffrey half lifted her, raising her so that her shift fell forward and left her ass and quim bare and exposed.
George realized that Sir Geoffrey intended for the goat to fuck the girl. He was not sure he wanted to watch, but the spell of chloral hydrate held him, and he could not think of a way to gracefully decline the exhibition.
“Pardon, your lordship, but I don’t fancy bestiality,” seemed timid. The others would laugh at him.
Sir Geoffrey looked directly at him, as though sensing his weakness.
“Come on up here, Georgie. It will be good for you.”
He felt two pairs of hands on him, tugging at his coat and breeches, heard the boisterous laughter of the lodge brothers as they began to undress him.
“What?” he managed. “What do you want me to do?”
“Why mount this girl, of course.”
“But, the goat…”
“You goose! The goat’s for you.”
Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.