Woman of His Dreams - Part XXXI
Welcome to Part 31 of "Woman of His Dreams"! If you're new to my dark little erotic tale, you can find the start here and the other chapters are linked in the sidebar.
"Woman of His Dreams" is a bit past the halfway mark and I will be taking a two-week break for the holidays before resuming. Join Anthony, Cynthia, Cassie, The Procurer, and the rest of the crew back here the weekend of January 8.
Have a wonderful holiday and stay sexy.
~AC
Black insects swarmed over Anthony’s body, cleaning away flakes of dead skin and castoff hair. They drilled with a thousand tiny proboscis thrusts into pustules of grease and bacteria, drawing out mortality and replacing it with life, crawling over his eyes and up his nose, into the sex-sweaty place where his spent balls lay against his thigh, working him over, preparing him for the journey.
He knew he lay in the bed in Cassie’s room, atop a tower that reached toward nebulae and the pale, smooth face of the moon, atop the black cover that had separated itself into a myriad of little shapes, angular and quick, ministering to him with little bites and pulls, the minions of the god he now served.
What he saw beyond the window was the view, as from a mountain, a winding road descending the peak in a tight circle, then vanishing into the forest below, a landscape as real to him as a map of the city or the curving base of his thumb where one of the little ebon shapes tugged and pulled at him.
“You will go down now,” Cassie told him, but only the voice was hers, the speaker another woman, older and darker, a face he knew from nightmares he had dreamed all his life, the mistress of his desire and dread, the high priestess of the Procurer. “Dress yourself in the armor of his blessing, purified by his children.”
She stood before him, robed in thick, leathery cloth that breathed in pulsing waves, the folds alive and glistening with sweat and seed. “Take this,” she said, handing him a blade as long as his forearm, double-edged and sharp. The handle of the knife had been shaped into the semblance of an erect phallus, detailed in its contours and warm to the touch. “When you find the bitch who has our book, use it on her, first one way and then the other. So will you bind her to our lord.”
He rose from the bed, the swarm coalescing back into the black mantle of the bedspread, the view beyond the crystalline window blurring, stars spinning, the moon grown craggy and old, his eyes closing, darkness rising around him, drowning him.
He remembered another time, another journey, through trees that leered and laughed with sudden wind, frozen flocks of birds thin and skeletal in the branches, stricken where they perched with the blight of life perverted by the black hand of denial. Ahead of him lay the house of the arch-foe, the priest of the god of castrati, the avatar of self-righteous chastity.
His woman had abandoned him, fled to the enemy, taking with her the most sacred text, the word of the Procurer revealed to mankind, his book of tales of lust and arousal, the entertainment of gods and demons.
This too had been a movie he had seen once, flickering late night on a channel that he had never found again, a half-remembered story in a tattered magazine, bought from beneath the counter of a Depression-era newsstand.
He stalked down the street of the city, the forest, the endless labyrinthine hall of a palace as vast as a continent, subterranean and sublime, his mission ordained, its outcome certain.
Hollow things leered at him from the shadows, big-eyed, fat bodies spotted with colors like molded bread, sexless and frustrated. One of them emerged to block his path, a lump with arms and legs, its face mostly mouth as it gibbered and swore at him.
He drew his knife, the cock-shaped hilt pulsing in his hand, the blade gleaming silver in the forest murk, and met the monster’s clumsy lunge. Its arms wrapped him like a desperate lover’s, smothering him against its pallid flesh for a moment.
Where was his armor? He felt his skin against the doughy meat of the creature, his cock pressed into the sticky mass of its belly, and he slashed blindly because the monster had wrapped its webbed hands around his face, covering his mouth, groping to find purchase in his eyes. It screamed, a sound like a wounded hare, and he felt the blade cut through flesh like suet, felt the spill of warm liquid over his arm, stinging a little where it flowed.
Another of the things caught him from behind, its hands roaming over his stomach, reaching for his cock. He stabbed backward and it released him, screaming in chorus with its fellow, both of them retreating as he blinked against the darkness and waited to see what would follow.
“Very good,” a voice said. Cassie’s voice – or the voice of the thing she had become in his dream. “That was the first test. These things are the emblems of inhibition and you have shown that you are willing to slay them.”
A mad parable, he thought, the crazy language of dreams, and, with that thought, he awoke.
Dawn painted the eastern sky. He had no sense of where he walked – a street somewhere, a neighborhood he did not know. He wore the clothes he had worn – yesterday? – when he had gone downtown to the bookstore, the clothes he had left behind him there, restored somehow. He smelled his own sweat, tasted bad breath and stale beer.
Where was he?
The streets were beginning to stir with the first life of suburban morning, a few people walking, cars spewing exhaust. No one paid any attention to him so he walked, looking for something familiar. He stopped in front of a small block of apartments, nicer than most of the dwellings on the street, feeling a tug toward them.
“There,” the woman’s voice whispered in his head. “The bitch is in there. Go in and get the book now.”
He tried to clear his head but he saw the world in layers, the forest, the city of crystal, streets of other times and places, Paris, London, Berlin, places he had never seen in life, only in films or dreams.
But his feet moved, as though guided by his will, steps more firm as he approached the security gate, no one watching him. How could he get in? Looking as disreputable as he did, no one would be likely to just let him past.
Cynthia was in there. He knew that. So was Stephen.
And the book.
Anthony looked down, surprised to find that he carried an object that hardly seemed real, though clearly it was actual, tangible, nothing of dream about it.
The knife, its blade wet, its phallic handle warm.
Ready for anything.
Continued in Part 32
Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
"Woman of His Dreams" is a bit past the halfway mark and I will be taking a two-week break for the holidays before resuming. Join Anthony, Cynthia, Cassie, The Procurer, and the rest of the crew back here the weekend of January 8.
Have a wonderful holiday and stay sexy.
~AC
"Woman of His Dreams"
Part 31
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Part 31
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
Black insects swarmed over Anthony’s body, cleaning away flakes of dead skin and castoff hair. They drilled with a thousand tiny proboscis thrusts into pustules of grease and bacteria, drawing out mortality and replacing it with life, crawling over his eyes and up his nose, into the sex-sweaty place where his spent balls lay against his thigh, working him over, preparing him for the journey.He knew he lay in the bed in Cassie’s room, atop a tower that reached toward nebulae and the pale, smooth face of the moon, atop the black cover that had separated itself into a myriad of little shapes, angular and quick, ministering to him with little bites and pulls, the minions of the god he now served.
What he saw beyond the window was the view, as from a mountain, a winding road descending the peak in a tight circle, then vanishing into the forest below, a landscape as real to him as a map of the city or the curving base of his thumb where one of the little ebon shapes tugged and pulled at him.
“You will go down now,” Cassie told him, but only the voice was hers, the speaker another woman, older and darker, a face he knew from nightmares he had dreamed all his life, the mistress of his desire and dread, the high priestess of the Procurer. “Dress yourself in the armor of his blessing, purified by his children.”
She stood before him, robed in thick, leathery cloth that breathed in pulsing waves, the folds alive and glistening with sweat and seed. “Take this,” she said, handing him a blade as long as his forearm, double-edged and sharp. The handle of the knife had been shaped into the semblance of an erect phallus, detailed in its contours and warm to the touch. “When you find the bitch who has our book, use it on her, first one way and then the other. So will you bind her to our lord.”
He rose from the bed, the swarm coalescing back into the black mantle of the bedspread, the view beyond the crystalline window blurring, stars spinning, the moon grown craggy and old, his eyes closing, darkness rising around him, drowning him.
He remembered another time, another journey, through trees that leered and laughed with sudden wind, frozen flocks of birds thin and skeletal in the branches, stricken where they perched with the blight of life perverted by the black hand of denial. Ahead of him lay the house of the arch-foe, the priest of the god of castrati, the avatar of self-righteous chastity.
His woman had abandoned him, fled to the enemy, taking with her the most sacred text, the word of the Procurer revealed to mankind, his book of tales of lust and arousal, the entertainment of gods and demons.
This too had been a movie he had seen once, flickering late night on a channel that he had never found again, a half-remembered story in a tattered magazine, bought from beneath the counter of a Depression-era newsstand.
He stalked down the street of the city, the forest, the endless labyrinthine hall of a palace as vast as a continent, subterranean and sublime, his mission ordained, its outcome certain.
Hollow things leered at him from the shadows, big-eyed, fat bodies spotted with colors like molded bread, sexless and frustrated. One of them emerged to block his path, a lump with arms and legs, its face mostly mouth as it gibbered and swore at him.
He drew his knife, the cock-shaped hilt pulsing in his hand, the blade gleaming silver in the forest murk, and met the monster’s clumsy lunge. Its arms wrapped him like a desperate lover’s, smothering him against its pallid flesh for a moment.
Where was his armor? He felt his skin against the doughy meat of the creature, his cock pressed into the sticky mass of its belly, and he slashed blindly because the monster had wrapped its webbed hands around his face, covering his mouth, groping to find purchase in his eyes. It screamed, a sound like a wounded hare, and he felt the blade cut through flesh like suet, felt the spill of warm liquid over his arm, stinging a little where it flowed.
Another of the things caught him from behind, its hands roaming over his stomach, reaching for his cock. He stabbed backward and it released him, screaming in chorus with its fellow, both of them retreating as he blinked against the darkness and waited to see what would follow.
“Very good,” a voice said. Cassie’s voice – or the voice of the thing she had become in his dream. “That was the first test. These things are the emblems of inhibition and you have shown that you are willing to slay them.”
A mad parable, he thought, the crazy language of dreams, and, with that thought, he awoke.
Dawn painted the eastern sky. He had no sense of where he walked – a street somewhere, a neighborhood he did not know. He wore the clothes he had worn – yesterday? – when he had gone downtown to the bookstore, the clothes he had left behind him there, restored somehow. He smelled his own sweat, tasted bad breath and stale beer.
Where was he?
The streets were beginning to stir with the first life of suburban morning, a few people walking, cars spewing exhaust. No one paid any attention to him so he walked, looking for something familiar. He stopped in front of a small block of apartments, nicer than most of the dwellings on the street, feeling a tug toward them.
“There,” the woman’s voice whispered in his head. “The bitch is in there. Go in and get the book now.”
He tried to clear his head but he saw the world in layers, the forest, the city of crystal, streets of other times and places, Paris, London, Berlin, places he had never seen in life, only in films or dreams.
But his feet moved, as though guided by his will, steps more firm as he approached the security gate, no one watching him. How could he get in? Looking as disreputable as he did, no one would be likely to just let him past.
Cynthia was in there. He knew that. So was Stephen.
And the book.
Anthony looked down, surprised to find that he carried an object that hardly seemed real, though clearly it was actual, tangible, nothing of dream about it.
The knife, its blade wet, its phallic handle warm.
Ready for anything.
Continued in Part 32
Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
Posted by Angela Caperton at 12/18/2010 12:06 PM 
Categories: dark erotica, Lovecraft, Angela Caperton, Woman of His Dreams
Tags: Woman of His Dreams Angela Caperton dark erotica Lovecraft
Categories: dark erotica, Lovecraft, Angela Caperton, Woman of His Dreams
Tags: Woman of His Dreams Angela Caperton dark erotica Lovecraft
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