Woman of His Dreams - Part XXXII
Welcome to Part 32 of "Woman of His Dreams"! If you're new to my dark little erotic tale, you can find the start here or you can read the recap of the first thirty-one chapters here.
Stay sexy, and follow your dreams – at your own peril.
~AC
“When we found the bones, of course, our dig became a crime scene. The Merriton police, state cops, feds took over, but they let us have some of the things that looked like genuine artifacts while they verified the age of Julliette’s bones.” He set his brandy aside.
Stephen left Cynthia for a few minutes and returned with coffee for both of them. She realized that morning light had begun to seep through the curtained windows. It hardly seemed possible.
“The police probably would have taken the ankh, since it was in the bag with her bones, but I hid it – in my pants.” He stared at the coffee but didn’t drink. “We had it with us back in the room that evening and I remember – like it was yesterday—Helen March holding it while we drank wine and beer. One of the others had a guitar and he was singing bawdy folk songs.”
Cynthia closed her eyes and her skin shivered with the book’s whispers, telling her a story in pictures and sensations, like memories but more real. She heard the guitar music, simple chords, a young man’s voice.
“As I was a walking a morning in May
I met a fair maiden and to her I say
I’ll give you my mind, it’s to love I’m inclined
And my inclinations do lie in your cuckoo’s nest.”
She held the ankh, her fingers exploring its rough stone, finding imperfections in the apparent smoothness, ridges and ripples a brail map to unknown destinations. She wondered how it would feel in her cuckoo’s nest. Across the room Stephen held forth. This would be, he said, the fortune of all of them, guaranteed jobs, tenure for the tenureless, and all she wanted was to put the long handle inside herself, to rub the stone over her clit until she came screaming.
“Helen, you okay?”
Danny. He was, what? Twenty-five, still working on his Masters degree. Skinny, glasses, but at that moment he might have been Burt Reynolds or Richard Gere.
(Who? Cynthia thought, but she only nodded at Stephen, who was telling her some story far less vivid than the one the book whispered.)
“Some like a girl who is pretty in face
And some like a girl who’s slender of waist
But give me a girl who can wriggle and twist
And down ‘neath her belly a cuckoo’s nest.”
“I’m fine, Danny.” She realized her blouse had become unbuttoned and she saw Danny’s eyes, behind the glasses, widen as he saw only a silky camisole under it, the neck dipping, gaping to give a view almost to her navel. She handed him the ankh.
“My darling, says she, I cannot you deny
For you’ve surely won me with the roll of your eye
But I see in your look that your lust I’ve surprised
So put your hand here, in my cuckoo’s nest.”
The music stopped as the other four turned to watch Danny put his hand in her blouse, tearing the camisole even as she ripped at her jeans to open herself to him, reaching to his other hand with the glorious stone implement held ready. She had wanted this, and more, all her life, to embrace the limits of pleasure that her body might know, that would burn her caution and fear to ashes. Danny kissed her hard, his hand mauling her breasts, pressing the stone shaft through the dark tangle of her patch, and into her wet pussy.
The stone pulsed with life as he held it by the looped end and worked it into her. She unzipped him, freeing his cock and he took a moment to shuck his pants before he went back to work on her, hand and ankh. She held his cock and squeezed. Nothing in her life had ever felt so good, so right.
She realized that the others had drawn closer, their eyes wide, and she felt their breath quickening, their heartbeats rising in savage rhythm as though their skin was hers, their veins and arteries part of the same being, four cocks, two cunts united by a common urgency.
She took the stone into her pussy and tightened around it, the ripples and smooth imperfections fitting her perfectly. She slid down in her chair, inclining up to meet the thrusts and leaned to his erect prick, taking the spongy head between her lips, tasting him.
The guy who had been playing guitar had laid it down. Derrick, a department associate and jack of all trades. Who knew he was hung like that?
(Derrick! Cynthia thought and she remembered how tireless and adept he had been last night – or later, years and years later -- but she pushed away the memory of what had happened to him, a trickle of dangerous darkness into her vision like a vein of rot in white flesh.
“Stephen,” she asked, wondering if her voice sounded as alien to Professor Wentworth as it did in her own ears. “What happened to Helen March?”
He looked away. “She died the year after we found Elyssium.”
Cynthia started to ask how but she tasted metal, a bit between her teeth, and felt the cut of a lash against her borrowed flesh, and she let the book tell her about better times.)
Derrick offered his impressive member to Helen’s lips too and she finished Danny off and then went to work on the other man. Danny’s hand faltered on the ankh for a moment but Lisa, Helen’s red-haired associate, took his place, mostly naked, gripping the stone loop with one hand and working on Helen’s clit with the other, while Sam, the archaeology department head, buried himself in the redhead’s nest from behind her. Danny already showed signs of new life, and Helen began to come in shuddering waves, waves she saw like lines across the room’s air, white, blinding, the world shattering and being reborn, all of them crying out, coming together.
Only Stephen Wentworth stood back, watching, his cock in his hand, obscenely long and barbed, inhuman as his eyes that burned with light of a color Helen could not name.
“And that’s about all there is to tell. Six colleagues – all of us healthy and normal, but certainly not inclined to orgies. We fucked all night and woke up the next morning sore and a little ashamed, but I don’t think any of us were really sorry it had happened. Truth is, some of us got together a few times after that. It changed me…”
“That’s not how it happened,” Cynthia said, still shivering with the memory of those yellow eyes but if Stephen heard her, he had no time to answer.
Something hit the front door hard, breaking the jam, sending pieces of deadbolt across the room. They both turned to see Anthony, framed against the morning light, a monster, a saint, unbelievably alive.
He held something long and dangerous in his hands and he looked inclined to use it – one way or another.
Continued in Part 33
Copyright 2011 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
Stay sexy, and follow your dreams – at your own peril.
~AC
"Woman of His Dreams"
Part 32
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Part 32
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
“When we found the bones, of course, our dig became a crime scene. The Merriton police, state cops, feds took over, but they let us have some of the things that looked like genuine artifacts while they verified the age of Julliette’s bones.” He set his brandy aside.Stephen left Cynthia for a few minutes and returned with coffee for both of them. She realized that morning light had begun to seep through the curtained windows. It hardly seemed possible.
“The police probably would have taken the ankh, since it was in the bag with her bones, but I hid it – in my pants.” He stared at the coffee but didn’t drink. “We had it with us back in the room that evening and I remember – like it was yesterday—Helen March holding it while we drank wine and beer. One of the others had a guitar and he was singing bawdy folk songs.”
Cynthia closed her eyes and her skin shivered with the book’s whispers, telling her a story in pictures and sensations, like memories but more real. She heard the guitar music, simple chords, a young man’s voice.
“As I was a walking a morning in May
I met a fair maiden and to her I say
I’ll give you my mind, it’s to love I’m inclined
And my inclinations do lie in your cuckoo’s nest.”
She held the ankh, her fingers exploring its rough stone, finding imperfections in the apparent smoothness, ridges and ripples a brail map to unknown destinations. She wondered how it would feel in her cuckoo’s nest. Across the room Stephen held forth. This would be, he said, the fortune of all of them, guaranteed jobs, tenure for the tenureless, and all she wanted was to put the long handle inside herself, to rub the stone over her clit until she came screaming.
“Helen, you okay?”
Danny. He was, what? Twenty-five, still working on his Masters degree. Skinny, glasses, but at that moment he might have been Burt Reynolds or Richard Gere.
(Who? Cynthia thought, but she only nodded at Stephen, who was telling her some story far less vivid than the one the book whispered.)
“Some like a girl who is pretty in face
And some like a girl who’s slender of waist
But give me a girl who can wriggle and twist
And down ‘neath her belly a cuckoo’s nest.”
“I’m fine, Danny.” She realized her blouse had become unbuttoned and she saw Danny’s eyes, behind the glasses, widen as he saw only a silky camisole under it, the neck dipping, gaping to give a view almost to her navel. She handed him the ankh.
“My darling, says she, I cannot you deny
For you’ve surely won me with the roll of your eye
But I see in your look that your lust I’ve surprised
So put your hand here, in my cuckoo’s nest.”
The music stopped as the other four turned to watch Danny put his hand in her blouse, tearing the camisole even as she ripped at her jeans to open herself to him, reaching to his other hand with the glorious stone implement held ready. She had wanted this, and more, all her life, to embrace the limits of pleasure that her body might know, that would burn her caution and fear to ashes. Danny kissed her hard, his hand mauling her breasts, pressing the stone shaft through the dark tangle of her patch, and into her wet pussy.
The stone pulsed with life as he held it by the looped end and worked it into her. She unzipped him, freeing his cock and he took a moment to shuck his pants before he went back to work on her, hand and ankh. She held his cock and squeezed. Nothing in her life had ever felt so good, so right.
She realized that the others had drawn closer, their eyes wide, and she felt their breath quickening, their heartbeats rising in savage rhythm as though their skin was hers, their veins and arteries part of the same being, four cocks, two cunts united by a common urgency.
She took the stone into her pussy and tightened around it, the ripples and smooth imperfections fitting her perfectly. She slid down in her chair, inclining up to meet the thrusts and leaned to his erect prick, taking the spongy head between her lips, tasting him.
The guy who had been playing guitar had laid it down. Derrick, a department associate and jack of all trades. Who knew he was hung like that?
(Derrick! Cynthia thought and she remembered how tireless and adept he had been last night – or later, years and years later -- but she pushed away the memory of what had happened to him, a trickle of dangerous darkness into her vision like a vein of rot in white flesh.
“Stephen,” she asked, wondering if her voice sounded as alien to Professor Wentworth as it did in her own ears. “What happened to Helen March?”
He looked away. “She died the year after we found Elyssium.”
Cynthia started to ask how but she tasted metal, a bit between her teeth, and felt the cut of a lash against her borrowed flesh, and she let the book tell her about better times.)
Derrick offered his impressive member to Helen’s lips too and she finished Danny off and then went to work on the other man. Danny’s hand faltered on the ankh for a moment but Lisa, Helen’s red-haired associate, took his place, mostly naked, gripping the stone loop with one hand and working on Helen’s clit with the other, while Sam, the archaeology department head, buried himself in the redhead’s nest from behind her. Danny already showed signs of new life, and Helen began to come in shuddering waves, waves she saw like lines across the room’s air, white, blinding, the world shattering and being reborn, all of them crying out, coming together.
Only Stephen Wentworth stood back, watching, his cock in his hand, obscenely long and barbed, inhuman as his eyes that burned with light of a color Helen could not name.
“And that’s about all there is to tell. Six colleagues – all of us healthy and normal, but certainly not inclined to orgies. We fucked all night and woke up the next morning sore and a little ashamed, but I don’t think any of us were really sorry it had happened. Truth is, some of us got together a few times after that. It changed me…”
“That’s not how it happened,” Cynthia said, still shivering with the memory of those yellow eyes but if Stephen heard her, he had no time to answer.
Something hit the front door hard, breaking the jam, sending pieces of deadbolt across the room. They both turned to see Anthony, framed against the morning light, a monster, a saint, unbelievably alive.
He held something long and dangerous in his hands and he looked inclined to use it – one way or another.
Continued in Part 33
Copyright 2011 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 1/15/2011 7:40 AM 
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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