Woman of His Dreams - Part XXXIII
Welcome to Part 33 of "Woman of His Dreams"! If you're new to my dark little erotic tale, you can find the start here.
Stay sexy, and follow your dreams – at your own peril.
~AC
George paused on the third floor of Sir Geoffrey’s town home, the tool of his revenge in his determined hand. Impaling Sir Geoffrey on the tip of the ancient sword would begin to win back George’s manhood and his sanity, after the dreadful thing the goat had done to him.
(What had the goat done? He couldn’t quite recall, but it had been unspeakable. He had watched as…no, he had lived it as surely as he now breathed the rank London air.)
Someone had given him the sword, its phallic handle tight in his grip, as though he held his own hard meat, the steel shining slick and ready. Under the absolute fog of an autumn night, he had crept through the city, his weapon hidden from the nervous clusters of bobbies, assigned to guard the night against the wave of assaults and murders that plagued London, from Aldgate to Chelsea. The Times attributed the atrocities to gangs of men who lurked up and down the banks of the Thames, anarchists, moving mysteriously on dark nights, taking victims first from the street and then from within homes, sometimes ravishing women and leaving them insane, sometimes painting brick walls red with blood.
But George knew the horrors were not perpetrated by men.
He heard Sir Geoffrey’s summons again -- L’ias! – felt the weight of the boneless goat thing on him, its probing cock, like a chitonous sea cucumber or a hearty tentacle, penetrating him body and soul. What then? What had happened then?
After the goat chaos, slaughter and rapine, the worshipers in Sir Geoffrey’s home turning on each other, offering dance to – not to the goat, it was only another pawn – to what?
L’ias. The Procurer.
The girl Brigitte had melted away and left George lying on his belly amidst the blood and viscera. Only Sir Geoffrey remained and a woman, naked and bloody, who he groped and fondled in the charnel room. George knew her, but not here, not in this world.
Lies, he told himself, delusions. The girl in his vision, or his memory, had been Cynthia and she was here, now, in Stephen Wentworth’s over-decorated living room, Wentworth’s hands all over her. The room smelled like come. Anthony had hit an old man outside, taken his security gate card. He hoped he hadn’t seriously hurt the guy, but the memory was not reassuring.
He had done what he must. The book was here too. Anthony heard its voice, felt its touch, shredding the world around him, tearing it into strips of London and now, 1880 and today, tomorrow, then, and always.
The room shifted again and Wentworth appeared to be dressed like a Plymouth pilgrim and the view beyond the couch where he and Cynthia turned, their faces flushed and aroused, a virgin forest, wild and untamed. The sword in Anthony’s hand had become only a dagger but its hilt would pierce Cynthia while its blade fucked Stephen.
He started toward them and saw that he had been mistaken about Stephen’s clothing. The professor wore nothing more than a cotton robe.
“Anthony!” Cynthia screamed and Wentworth tried to rise from the couch, but Anthony had him, lunging with the blade, the cock hilt warm in his hand. Stephen would come in blood and then Anthony would have his woman and the book and he would take Tales to Cassia, then run away with Cynthia, away from the city, from death and desire, from all the stories.
Wentworth held a glowing object and he raised it to protect himself from Anthony’s lunge, scattering a wave of sensation, neither light nor shadow, but a smell of colors, a crushing blow of howling sound.
“It’s growing in you now,” Sir Geoffrey said as George entered the lord’s high-ceilinged study. “Ripening.”
Anthony’s side throbbed and the world of now ran like oily water, all rainbows and poison.
“Come, come. Lay that sword down. You can’t hurt me with it, you know.” Sir Geoffrey wore a long robe of crimson velvet, his white mane untidy around his lean face. The woman from the ritual (Cynthia!) lay naked on a bed behind him, spread-eagled, her arms and legs bound in coils of black rope. “You want a turn with her?”
“The city,” George said to him. “What have you done to it?”
“I’ve done nothing. You took the goat in your ass, dear boy. What’s happening in London today is your entire fault.” He sat on the bed beside the woman, running his long, fine fingers over her breast and down her belly. “What happens tomorrow will be hers.”
The woman bucked and George saw the bed pressed down under the weight of something invisible, its shape impossible to distinguish. Enormous, unseen, and liquid, it boiled in the air above her.
George started toward it, the sword raised to strike and Sir Geoffrey blocked his path, the robe parting. Bare and shaggy beneath it, his cock loomed like a scaffold, as long as his forearm, erect, and inhuman.
At the head, a mouth opened.
He caught George’s sword in his bare hand, the lord’s skin slicing to show neither blood nor bone, the interior of his flesh like the crusty waste within an old cyst. With his other hand, he gripped George’s throat until air became precious and the sword clattered away, trailing dust as he struggled with both hands to prevent being strangled.
Sir Geoffrey stripped away George’s trousers to expose his cock, shrunken almost to nothingness with fear. The lord held George down, bending him back against the cold writhing mass that fucked the girl on the bed. It groped him with invisible feelers, like the feet of an enormous centipede, while the mouth at the end of Sir Geoffrey’s cock nuzzled Stephen’s length and began to suckle it.
Mad with horror, George (Anthony!) grew hard, filled the inside of the monstrous thing that fellated him, even as he fucked it. He groaned, powerless to stop the orgasm and oblivion ripped through him, coming inside Sir Geoffrey’s parasitic member, as the girl began to scream, and Sir Geoffrey said…
“There, now you should feel better.” Stephen Wentworth wiped his lips. The professor knelt before Anthony, his hands on Tony’s thighs, come on his chin and bare chest. “It was the only way to break the spell,” he said. “Don’t take it personally.”
“What?” was the best Anthony could manage, but Dr. Wentworth was right. The world seemed sharper, more real than it had since the bookstore.
“A little relief and this –” He showed Anthony a stone ankh, the blade of the dildo-handled knife neatly skewering its looped top. “I got lucky and caught your thrust here.”
“Where… where’s Cynthia?” Anthony asked, beginning to assemble the puzzle of what had happened.
“Well, that’s the unlucky part,” Stephen said, his frown accented by the come splotch. “She’s gone.
“And she’s taken the damned book.”
Continued in Part 34
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 33
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Part 33
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
George paused on the third floor of Sir Geoffrey’s town home, the tool of his revenge in his determined hand. Impaling Sir Geoffrey on the tip of the ancient sword would begin to win back George’s manhood and his sanity, after the dreadful thing the goat had done to him.(What had the goat done? He couldn’t quite recall, but it had been unspeakable. He had watched as…no, he had lived it as surely as he now breathed the rank London air.)
Someone had given him the sword, its phallic handle tight in his grip, as though he held his own hard meat, the steel shining slick and ready. Under the absolute fog of an autumn night, he had crept through the city, his weapon hidden from the nervous clusters of bobbies, assigned to guard the night against the wave of assaults and murders that plagued London, from Aldgate to Chelsea. The Times attributed the atrocities to gangs of men who lurked up and down the banks of the Thames, anarchists, moving mysteriously on dark nights, taking victims first from the street and then from within homes, sometimes ravishing women and leaving them insane, sometimes painting brick walls red with blood.
But George knew the horrors were not perpetrated by men.
He heard Sir Geoffrey’s summons again -- L’ias! – felt the weight of the boneless goat thing on him, its probing cock, like a chitonous sea cucumber or a hearty tentacle, penetrating him body and soul. What then? What had happened then?
After the goat chaos, slaughter and rapine, the worshipers in Sir Geoffrey’s home turning on each other, offering dance to – not to the goat, it was only another pawn – to what?
L’ias. The Procurer.
The girl Brigitte had melted away and left George lying on his belly amidst the blood and viscera. Only Sir Geoffrey remained and a woman, naked and bloody, who he groped and fondled in the charnel room. George knew her, but not here, not in this world.
Lies, he told himself, delusions. The girl in his vision, or his memory, had been Cynthia and she was here, now, in Stephen Wentworth’s over-decorated living room, Wentworth’s hands all over her. The room smelled like come. Anthony had hit an old man outside, taken his security gate card. He hoped he hadn’t seriously hurt the guy, but the memory was not reassuring.
He had done what he must. The book was here too. Anthony heard its voice, felt its touch, shredding the world around him, tearing it into strips of London and now, 1880 and today, tomorrow, then, and always.
The room shifted again and Wentworth appeared to be dressed like a Plymouth pilgrim and the view beyond the couch where he and Cynthia turned, their faces flushed and aroused, a virgin forest, wild and untamed. The sword in Anthony’s hand had become only a dagger but its hilt would pierce Cynthia while its blade fucked Stephen.
He started toward them and saw that he had been mistaken about Stephen’s clothing. The professor wore nothing more than a cotton robe.
“Anthony!” Cynthia screamed and Wentworth tried to rise from the couch, but Anthony had him, lunging with the blade, the cock hilt warm in his hand. Stephen would come in blood and then Anthony would have his woman and the book and he would take Tales to Cassia, then run away with Cynthia, away from the city, from death and desire, from all the stories.
Wentworth held a glowing object and he raised it to protect himself from Anthony’s lunge, scattering a wave of sensation, neither light nor shadow, but a smell of colors, a crushing blow of howling sound.
“It’s growing in you now,” Sir Geoffrey said as George entered the lord’s high-ceilinged study. “Ripening.”
Anthony’s side throbbed and the world of now ran like oily water, all rainbows and poison.
“Come, come. Lay that sword down. You can’t hurt me with it, you know.” Sir Geoffrey wore a long robe of crimson velvet, his white mane untidy around his lean face. The woman from the ritual (Cynthia!) lay naked on a bed behind him, spread-eagled, her arms and legs bound in coils of black rope. “You want a turn with her?”
“The city,” George said to him. “What have you done to it?”
“I’ve done nothing. You took the goat in your ass, dear boy. What’s happening in London today is your entire fault.” He sat on the bed beside the woman, running his long, fine fingers over her breast and down her belly. “What happens tomorrow will be hers.”
The woman bucked and George saw the bed pressed down under the weight of something invisible, its shape impossible to distinguish. Enormous, unseen, and liquid, it boiled in the air above her.
George started toward it, the sword raised to strike and Sir Geoffrey blocked his path, the robe parting. Bare and shaggy beneath it, his cock loomed like a scaffold, as long as his forearm, erect, and inhuman.
At the head, a mouth opened.
He caught George’s sword in his bare hand, the lord’s skin slicing to show neither blood nor bone, the interior of his flesh like the crusty waste within an old cyst. With his other hand, he gripped George’s throat until air became precious and the sword clattered away, trailing dust as he struggled with both hands to prevent being strangled.
Sir Geoffrey stripped away George’s trousers to expose his cock, shrunken almost to nothingness with fear. The lord held George down, bending him back against the cold writhing mass that fucked the girl on the bed. It groped him with invisible feelers, like the feet of an enormous centipede, while the mouth at the end of Sir Geoffrey’s cock nuzzled Stephen’s length and began to suckle it.
Mad with horror, George (Anthony!) grew hard, filled the inside of the monstrous thing that fellated him, even as he fucked it. He groaned, powerless to stop the orgasm and oblivion ripped through him, coming inside Sir Geoffrey’s parasitic member, as the girl began to scream, and Sir Geoffrey said…
“There, now you should feel better.” Stephen Wentworth wiped his lips. The professor knelt before Anthony, his hands on Tony’s thighs, come on his chin and bare chest. “It was the only way to break the spell,” he said. “Don’t take it personally.”
“What?” was the best Anthony could manage, but Dr. Wentworth was right. The world seemed sharper, more real than it had since the bookstore.
“A little relief and this –” He showed Anthony a stone ankh, the blade of the dildo-handled knife neatly skewering its looped top. “I got lucky and caught your thrust here.”
“Where… where’s Cynthia?” Anthony asked, beginning to assemble the puzzle of what had happened.
“Well, that’s the unlucky part,” Stephen said, his frown accented by the come splotch. “She’s gone.
“And she’s taken the damned book.”
Continued in Part 34
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 1/22/2011 7:48 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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