Welcome to Part 26 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
On a couch in the office where Stephen left her, Cynthia slept lightly and she dreamed of a room.
Naked under a black robe, she waited with other robed men and women for something to begin. She had a sense of anticipation and excitement. The robed man behind her pressed against her and the hard line of his cock teased her back, an exquisite promise even through the thin robes they wore. At the center of the chamber, a woman waited on her knees, half-bare, suppliant.
Cynthia knew her.
“Brigitte,” she whispered, the edge of dream tattering as she struggled with new fears.
A violin screamed, Stradivarius being flayed and a tall figure led a goat into the room. Cynthia knew the man too. Sir Geoffrey was his name and he presided here, at the rite. Sir Geoffrey gestured and the worshippers led a man out of the little crowd and began to undress him. Cynthia looked into his face and sudden dizziness tightened her stomach to the size of a pea.
“Anthony!” she cried, dream turning to darkness and then to light as someone shook her awake.
“Get up,” Stephen said forcefully. He thrust a jacket at her. “Wear this. We have to hurry before the real police arrive.” She resisted his hands, his words, but he pulled her off the sofa and draped the coat around her shoulders. “Come on,” he growled. “Or I’ll drag you out of here naked.”
She started to protest, to ask him what had happened with Derrick, with the EMS, but he stopped her. “No time now. Move it!”
Stephen carried a briefcase and held the stone ankh. His exasperation puffed out of him as he handed the artifact to her. “Take this,” he said. “It will help.”
As soon as her fingers closed around the stone base of the looped cross, a coolness slid over her, the imminent menace of the dream faded, and her purpose came into clearer focus.
She let him lead her out of the room and into the night.
“I know it’s not exactly your area,” Stephen said to her, setting a cup of tea on the low table by Cynthia’s chair, “But have you ever heard of Merry Mount?”
She shook her head. The ankh lay on the table, comfortingly near. They had driven to Stephen’s apartment, miles from the university and, while he drove, he had answered her questions. The EMS guys had taken Derrick away and the campus cops had asked Stephen a lot of questions. They didn’t seem satisfied with his answers but were reluctant to take him in. City police had been called but apparently all officers were busy with some big disturbance downtown, so the campus officers told Stephen that someone would call him. When they let him go, he’d come for her. In his apartment, he’d sat her down and asked her to tell him everything that had happened. She didn’t hesitate. Everything that had happened, the book, Anthony, Brigitte, the dreams and visions, all of it spewed out of her, bile to be purged so recovery could begin.
He only stared at her, then shook his head, raw regret circling his eyes. “I’m sorry I left Derrick with you. I misunderstood the nature of the book,” he said. Panic rushed back into her. The book!
“Don’t worry, Cynthia. The book’s in my briefcase, safe for now. Neither of us should touch it unless we absolutely have to.”
She still wore only the coat Stephen had given her back at the university. She considered asking if he had trousers she might borrow, but she could not hide the truth from herself. She was still pleasantly, warmly horny, and knew that soon she and Stephen would fuck again. Pants would only be in the way.
“So, have you? Heard of Merry Mount?”
“No,” she answered. “I don’t think so.”
“It was an early colony in Massachusetts, in the 1600s” he explained as he sipped his own tea. “Founded by a heretical Puritan named Thomas Morton. Hard to say what really went on there – the orthodox citizens of Plymouth made a lot of allegations…orgies, sexual congress with the local natives, paganism, the usual witchcraft. After one particularly wild May Day revel, old Miles Standish himself led a band of outraged pilgrims into Merry Mount, arrested Morton, and chopped down the Maypole. Hawthorne wrote a story about it. That was pretty much the end of neo-paganism in the colonies.”
She listened to him, but her attention fragmented as the distant scream of sirens triggered a growing wetness in her pussy. She touched the ankh and, when Stephen didn’t stop her, she picked it back up.
“Before the end, some of Morton’s followers left Merry Mount to move further west, out to what was then the frontier. The little we have from Morton’s papers says they were the ‘wyldest’ of his folk and they sought a new paradise farther from the authorities in Plymouth. They were wise enough, I suppose, considering what happened to Merry Mount. They called their settlement Elyssium.”
The ankh warmed in her hand, its shaft almost like flesh. She rested it in her lap, the stone lying between the buttons of her coat, almost searing her. She was having trouble focusing on what Stephen said.
“No one really knows what happened in Elyssium. There were problems with the natives and there is some indication that the Plymouth folks intended to do something about the ‘wyld’ escapees, but there is no record of any arrests, or of any official action. Until ten years ago, no one was even sure of the original site of the colony.”
She touched the warm stone to her clit and bit her lip.
“The man and woman who led Elyssium were named Octavian and Juliette St. Clair.”
She startled a little, surprise chasing away the seductive pulse of the artifact between her legs. “That’s Anthony’s last name!”
“I thought so.” Stephen sat his cup down. “Might just be a coincidence, but then again, it might not. I don’t know what your book is, but I feel sure it’s somehow related to that cross.” He gestured at the ankh, his eyes widening a little as he realized what she was doing with it, but he didn’t stop her. “The book and the cross are both part of something …very old and very powerful.”
She slipped the stone over her clit and between the lips of her pussy, fumbling with the bottom buttons of the coat to improve access.
“Ten years ago,” Stephen said, standing up and unfastening his belt. “I was part of a five person team that located the site of Elyssium and we spent a week there. That week changed my life forever, my view of the universe, everything.”
A surge of pure lust swamped her when his erect cock jumped at his touch as he removed his pants. She spread her legs and reached for him.
“That’s where I found the ankh,” he said, taking it from her, his cock brushing against her cheek. He took the matter in hand, stroked it, and offered her seven inches of hard flesh in recompense for the ankh. Cynthia parted her lips and savored the sliding heat he gave her.
Stephen let out a shuddered breath. “Yeah, that’s where I found it.” His hips began to move as he fucked her face.
“In the buried ruins of the town clutched in the skeletal hand of Juliette St. Clair.”
Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.