Woman of His Dreams – Part XXIX

Welcome to Part 29 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 29
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010


“Here,” Cassie said, indicating a glass door between two weathered metal panels that had once been deco ornamentation. She swiped a pass card through a reader and opened the heavy door. Anthony followed her in, looking around.

The building looked like any of the anonymous buildings from the city’s past, either built during the boom years of the 20s or refurbished then, plaster used to streamline the character-rich Victorian brick. The door opened into an elevator lobby with a dubious caged lift from another era. The shingle on the wall showed the names of various dentists and businesses, but none of them appeared to be remotely current.

He had the sense of disorientation again, as though the world might be shifting around him, and touched the chipped tile wall to assure himself that he was truly awake. Dreams had become dangerous, he knew, a goat potentially still lurking out there somewhere with lust in its eyes.

Cassie summoned the creaky old elevator and they boarded it together, riding it up past deserted floors. He smelled the faint odor of disinfectant and something too sweet, like rotten fruit. She hardly looked at Anthony but when she did, her face was a mask of bored contempt. She wore a black t-shirt with silver snake embroidery, her breasts full and unconfined under the thin cotton, and tight lycra pants painted her from hips to ankles. When she moved right, he could see her clit jewelry and the outline of her pussy lips against the fabric.  His cock jumped and twitched as he grew hard again.

Cassie was like a living aphrodisiac, he decided. He believed he had made her come at least twice, but a sense of failure still gnawed at him that he had not yet satisfied her in any but the most physical sense. As tireless as his cock had become, he could not please her, he thought sadly.

As though she read his mind, she favored him with a flash of dark eyes and a casual stroke down the growing, jeans-covered length between his legs. “Hang on,” she said. “Just two more floors.”

They had ridden forever, he thought, the floors they passed too dark to see within and too numerous to count. No panel in the lift marked their ascent and he knew, his breath quickening, that they had risen above any hope that the building was natural and not another current in the maelstrom of dream and delusion that surged around this woman.

He remembered being here before but the building had been different, the passage upward powered by an enormous eunuch turning a winch. The tower had been crystal then, impossibly tall, and something unspeakable awaited him at the top.

The lift stopped and Cassie opened the door. Anthony found himself grounded again, the floor solid beneath his feet, the sense of dislocation replaced by the reality of musty, still air, and an ornate, paneled door lit by a pallid bulb. “My place,” she said and used her card to open the door.

He was not surprised at the décor — Victorian funeral parlor furniture, exquisite tapestries with graphic sex acts woven into fabric, a live raven perched on the headboard of a low, wide bed– but the view out the window that covered an entire wall sent him reeling to the edge of madness again.

The night sky glittered with thousands of stars, smears of light bright as the Milky Way, the spiraling arms of something like a luminous starfish, and the biggest moon Anthony had ever seen, bone-pale and smooth, not the cratered face he knew. For only a moment he tried to rationalize what he saw, a projection, a trick, but he knew better now. Wherever he was, he was no longer on the Earth, or at least on the Earth he knew.

He trembled, his legs giving out. He sank onto bed, onto a black spread that seemed to be made of thin leather. Cassie was his only hope of getting out of here and he was ready to do anything, promise anything to win her favor.

“Top floor,” she said. “A fucking penthouse. There are buildings all over the world that share this view,” she told him, “and not many people visit them and live. I want you to know just how special you are.”

He tried to speak but his lips shook too badly. Where his hand touched the bedspread, the black hide began to sweat. Cassie pushed him back, her hands busy with his jeans, skinning them off his legs so he felt the pliant, living leather under him, pulsing as she took his cock in her mouth and pulled him fully erect with her lips, her tongue wrapping him expertly. Something shapeless probed his ass, massaged his balls while she sucked and teased the glans expertly. The orgasm rose in him.  He closed his eyes, terror evaporating into the imminence of pleasure.

“Don’t come,” she commanded him. “You’d better not fucking come until I tell you to.”

Breathless, crazy with frustrated desire, he fought against his own body, hardly daring to think what might happen if he disobeyed her, imagining himself out the window and in the void, at the mercy of whatever lived out there, lost forever, body and soul.

Cassie slithered out of the lycra, shed her shirt, and straddled him, letting his rigid cock ride along the cleft of her cunt, not penetrating her, rubbing her clit against the slippery head in long, slow undulations until he bit his lip hard enough to bleed to stop himself from coming. She laughed and leaned to drink the flow from his lips, smearing the blood over his face and hers as she ground and rubbed. Beneath him, the living mantle of the black spread flowed up and over him, wrapping his thighs and ribs, immobilizing him beneath her, positioning him.

He understood that the thing – whatever it was – was an extension of her will, a toy, perhaps a living, boneless creature. Revulsion mingled with desire.  He wanted to fuck the monster or to have it fuck him. His mind frayed, his cock beyond any hope of control, when Cassie stopped fooling around and impaled herself on his shaft, taking him deep, gripping him with hard thrusts of her hips.

“Now,” she screamed. “Come now.”

Something more than semen and seed emptied into her, his mind, his soul, the outer realms of sensation beyond pleasure or pain, something that had no name. He screamed. Her cry joined his as the black skin beneath him and around him shuddered and bucked, and the lights in the alien sky exploded against the revealed space inside his skull, filling him with wonder and with dread.

And he knew that Cassie still would not be satisfied.

Continued in Part 30.

Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved.  Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

An Open Letter to Nathaniel Hawthorne

Dear Mr. Hawthorne,

First, I must tell you, I loved The Scarlet Letter. As a study of real, ordinary people rising above an intolerant society and as a love story, your book is deservedly a classic.

I know you wrote The Maypole of Merry Mount , which I defaced horribly a few days ago as The Looped Cross of Elyssium, about a real incident in American history. You based your story on an early colonist named Thomas Morton who took religious freedom too far.  His colony, Mount Mare or Merrymount, flourished in the 1620s until a company of puritan soldiers from Plymouth sacked his town, harassed his followers, and banished him. Morton’s crimes included admiring the Native Americans, mocking his Puritan neighbors, and, most unforgivably, practicing neo-paganism that, at least in the lurid tales of his accusers, included sexual debaucheries.

Mr. Hawthorne — Nate if I may — I hope you don’t mind that I had some fun with your story, mashing it into mine within the dream of one of my characters. It was meant to be silly and a little sexy. Worse crimes have been committed on other writers. I believe poor Jane Austen has spun herself to dust by now.

There was one passage in your terribly sad (yet morally uplifting) tale that I could not include in my little parody that I especially loved:

In due time, a feud arose, stern and bitter on one side, and as serious on the other as anything could be among such light spirits as had sworn allegiance to the Maypole. The future complexion of New England was involved in this important quarrel. Should the grizzly saints establish their jurisdiction over the gay sinners, then would their spirits darken all the clime, and make it a land of clouded visages, of hard toil, of sermon and psalm forever. But should the banner staff of Merry Mount be fortunate, sunshine would break upon the hills, and flowers would beautify the forest, and late posterity do homage to the Maypole.


Beautifully put, Nate. I fear we know how that one ended.

Someday I intend to read The Marble Faun. I’m told it’s your most sensual novel. Sometimes I wish you and your peers, Edgar and Herman, had lived 100 years later or more. I would love to read the stories you would have told in a more permissive age.

And I could apologize in person.

Yours sincerely,

Angela Caperton   

Woman of His Dreams – Part XXVIII

Welcome to Part 28 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…

~A.C.

“Woman of His Dreams”
Part 28
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010



The Looped Cross of Elyssium
By Angela Caperton and Nathanial Hawthorne

Bright were the days at Elyssium, when the looped cross was the banner staff of that gay colony! They who reared it, should their banner be triumphant, were to pour sunshine over New England’s rugged hills, and scatter their seed throughout the soil. Jollity and gloom were contending for an empire.

Never had the looped cross been so worshipped as at sunset on midsummer eve. But what was the wild throng that stood hand in hand about the upright scepter? It could not be that the fauns and nymphs, when driven from their classic groves and homes of ancient fable, had sought refuge, as all the persecuted did, in the fresh woods of the West. These were ancient monsters, though perhaps of antediluvian ancestry. From the brow of a comely youth arose the moist tendrils of an enormous snail; a second, human in all other points, had the ivory visage of a skinned wolf; a third, still with the trunk and limbs of a mortal man, showed the tentacles and beak of a squid. There was the likeness of a white ape erect, a brute in all but his hind legs, which were adorned with black silk stockings. And here again, almost as wondrous, stood a real ape of the dark forest, lending each of his gnarled paws to the grasp of a human hand, and as ready for the dance as any in that circle. His inferior nature rose half way, to meet his companions as they stooped.

Other faces wore the similitude of man or woman, but distorted with lustful excess, lascivious tongues and rolling eyes. Here might be seen the Savage Man, well known in heraldry, hairy as a baboon, and girdled with green leaves. Some youths and maidens wore nothing at all, but appeared in the same garb that delighted the serpent of Eden before the discovery of shame. Such were the colonists of Elyssium, as they stood in the broad smile of sunset round their venerated looped cross.

Had a wanderer, bewildered in the melancholy forest, heard their mirth, and stolen a half-affrighted glance, he might have fancied them midway between man and beast. But a band of men in somber garb, who watched the scene, invisible themselves, regarded the sportive throng with cold eyes and quiet rage.

“Votaries of the looped cross,” cried the flower-decked priest, “merrily, all day long, have the woods echoed with your cries. But be this your most fervid hour, my hearts! Lo, here stand I, a clerk of Oxford, and high priest of Elyssium, to consecrate the union we will all enjoy this hour.” Beside him stood the presiding priestess of the village, Juliette St. Clair, holding tightly in her graceful hand to a little semblance of the great looped cross about which they all had gathered.

Immediately a prelude of pipe, cithern, and viol, touched with practiced minstrelsy, began to play from a neighboring thicket, in such wild cadence that the great looped cross vibrated with the sound.

Unfortunately, there were men in the new world of a harder faith than those worshippers of bright Eros. Not far from Elyssium was a settlement of seeming Puritans, most dismal wretches, who said their prayers before daylight, and then wrought the darkest delights in the forest or the cornfield till evening made it prayer time again. Their weapons were always at hand to shoot down the straggling savage or unwary traveler.

Juliette and the priest, who was her mate Octavian, knew the darkest secrets of that grim band – that all their pretense to purity was naught but a mask for the worship of gods far more depraved and dangerous than the nature deities of Elyssium, but they believed with all their hearts that the village of pious monsters had been left far behind them.

Now, with the setting sun, the last day of mirth had passed from Elyssium. The ring of celebrants was disordered and broken; the snail lowered his tendrils in dismay; the wolf grew weaker than a lamb; the bells of the morris-dancers tinkled with tremulous affright. True Puritans had played a characteristic part in the looped cross mummeries. Their darksome figures were intermixed with the wild shapes of their foes, and made the scene a picture of the moment, when waking thoughts start up amid the scattered fantasies of a dream. The leader of the hostile party stood now in the centre of the circle, while the route of monsters cowered around him, like evil spirits in the presence of a dread magician. No fantastic foolery could look him in the face. So stern was the energy of his aspect, that the whole man, visage, frame, and soul, seemed wrought of iron, gifted with life and thought, yet all of one substance with his headpiece and breastplate. It was the devil of devils, the avatar of the Procurer; it was Wentworth himself!

“Stand off, priest of faithless pleasure!” said he, with a grim frown. “I know thee, St. Clair! Thou art the man who couldst not abide the rule even of thine own corrupted church, and hast come hither to preach the shadow of our ecstasy, and to give example of it in thy life. But now shall it be seen that the Dreamer in the Sea hath sanctified this wilderness for his peculiar people. Woe unto them that would defile it! And first, for this looped abomination, the altar of thy worship!”

And men with hammers and axes assaulted the hallowed, looped cross. Nor long did it resist , but groaned with a dismal sound, and down fell the banner of Elyssium. As it sank, tradition says, the evening sky grew darker, and the woods threw forth a more sombre shadow

“There,” cried Wentworth, looking triumphantly on his work, “there lies the only looped cross in New England! The thought is strong within me that, by its fall, is shadowed forth the fate of those who would seek to dilute the pleasures that bring joy to our master. Ia, O’hali.

O’hali!” echoed his followers.

“Valiant captain,” quoth Fredrick Schuts, the Ancient of the band, “what order shall be taken with the prisoners?”

“I thought not to repent me of breaking their cross,” replied Wentworth, “yet now I could find in my heart to erect it again, and give each of these timid pagans one other dance round their idol, to fuck them each in turn against it and consecrate it with our seed and their blood.”

“The ground is good enough for such as these,” suggested Ancient Schuts.

“True, good Ancient,” said the leader. “Wherefore, bind them all, and one by one we will show them the extremities of worship, teach them with whip and hook the savor of our lord’s gifts. Spare no one, man or woman, but fuck them well, and leave them with marks to ever recall this day and the blessings we bestow on them, if you leave them alive at all.”

“Who shall have the priestess?” inquired Schuts.

“I will have her,” Wentworth announced and had her brought before him, her robe rent from neck to hem so that she spilled out naked on the earth before him. Schuts brought forth the book and read aloud from it while Wentworth spent himself thrice within her, marking her with lash and teeth, reveling in the pain and in her cries of pleasure unbidden as the Dreamer’s gifts enriched her.

And at the height of the frenzy, when most of the fallen souls of Elyssium had been brought to fullness, humiliated, penetrated, and raised up in sacrifice, the lord himself appeared and…

“This isn’t right,” Cynthia thought, closing her textbook, The American Treasury of Short Stories, to look at its cover. But instead of the familiar gathering of Transcendentalists that had always adorned the binding, she saw another picture, obscene and shocking in its scope and intensity, so awful she had to look away, across the Commons to the Main Library and the Physics Building.

The title on the book troubled her as much as the picture, though it could hardly have been simpler.

Tales.

She tried to remember how she had returned here, to college, to this moment, but the picture on the cover drew her gaze and, breathless, she looked back.

“Cynthia! Please, goddamn it, please.” Steven’s voice. Wentworth’s voice. She remembered what he had said about neither of them touching the book. He would be furious.

He wouldn’t go away though. She knew that. No matter how much she wanted to hide.

“For fuck’s sake, Cynthia,” he yelled again, beginning to shake her, “Wake up!”

Continued in Part 29

Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved.  Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.