Woman of His Dreams - Part XXXIV
Welcome to Part 34 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
When Stephen took hold of Anthony’s cock, Cynthia didn’t hesitate. She seized the moment and grabbed the book. The desire to watch Stephen blow Tony gnawed at her, an insatiable hunger, but something far stronger urged her to run.
Now, Cynthia. There will never be another time.
She thought at first, the book spoke to her again, but this was something else. This sensuous narrator who spoke inside her head didn’t twist her spine with fear and turn the world to stories and dreams. This voice soothed, warm honey to tame irritation, a kinder tone more god than devil.
Run, Cynthia. Run, Eliana. Run, Juliette. Take the book. Take Tales and run away.
In the moment when Anthony’s dagger thrust had penetrated the looped end of Stephen’s ankh, something had happened to her, a clarity she’d not known in – how long? – and a clouding of her nerves but not her senses. In that moment, Cynthia knew the actuality of her place in the cosmos, realized the truth of all she had undergone, but she also felt numb, calm, as though the new voice in her head guided her and kept away distracting madness.
When she held the book again, she felt its power but it did not control her. She dashed out of Stephen’s apartment, past the bloody security gate, and into the parking lot. She wore panties and a shirt, dimly grateful she had been wearing that much, and she ran breathless, crazed. The book reached out with extrusions, invisible, groping, dripping like thick, cold syrup along her belly, down her stomach into the cleft of her pussy, streaking her thighs.
She hardly knew this part of town, apartments and strips of green space, a shopping district of considerable size way down the street. She considered her options. No money or plastic, mostly naked, mid-morning, carrying a cursed book that summoned all the pornographic devils of some Medieval monk’s wet dream, a gateway to Boschville, by way of De Sade.
It’s real, the voice told her. Deal with it.
Off to her left, she saw a train station, the rail line to the city, and she headed that way. Sometimes, she knew, a person could ride the train without a ticket, if one careful was careful and switched seats at the right moment. The morning commuter crowd had already thinned and only a dozen or so men and women, mostly inbound college students, waited on the platform. Cynthia pulled her shirt down as much as she could and took a bench as far as possible from anyone.
She looked down at the book.
“Open me,” it said to her.
No, Cynthia! The voice of god crashed in her head. Don’t listen.
Then both voices were drowned in the roar of the arriving 9:20 and she followed the students into the metal snake, dancing like a puppet pulled between two masters. The conductor was a sleepy old man and she dodged him easily, feeling invisible as she passed him between the cars, smiling into vacancy, pulling the shirt down to keep anyone from seeing her panties. Satisfied she could ride without paying, she sank into a seat in the last car and let the rumble and thump of the train lull her.
The train rolled into the station, brakes screaming, and she stepped out onto a platform crowded with transfers, uncomfortably aware that something had changed. The people wore clothing from another time, the 1930s or 40s, and she saw signs posted in hieroglyphs of no language she had ever seen.
Fuck, she thought. I’m dreaming again.
Caught in the rush from another arriving train, she let the crowd push her into the station, aware that her dream had at least allowed her clothing, a woolen skirt and a cotton blouse, colorless in the shoving commuter mass. She still clutched the book and followed the voice.
“This way. This way to the burning.”
A block from the train station, in a square surrounded by gray stone buildings, a mob had gathered around an immense pile of books. Tales weighed heavy in her grasp, her contribution to the day. As though pulled by unseen hands, she stumbled toward the pyre and saw among the flames books she knew, bright obscene comics, and ancient texts that fluttered in the wind, displaying pornographic drawings, photographs of every depravity.
The books of forbidden faiths lay in the heap, the names written in script she could not read, but the pull unmistakable, the summation of truth and desire beyond skin, divine fucking written in a thousand languages, dead and living.
Someone lit the stack of books and scrolls and magazines and the flames danced luridly among the leather and parchment, sensuous shapes rising up in the smoke to cavort and couple among the licking fire.
“Throw the book into the fire,” the god voice told her, and the book quivered in her hands at the imminence of her action. The crowd watched her and she saw, with cold horror, that some among them were not human, but creatures with black-glass eyes and bird beaks, uniformed in black feathers, shiny and pungent as leather.
She raised Tales above her head but she could not release it. Its power wrapped her wrists, bound itself to her, the insistent tentacles of its will on her breasts, teasing her nipples, sliding into her with serpentine insistence, cunt and ass, penetrating her.
“I can’t,” she screamed. “I can’t!”
The bird men moved closer to her. She saw one them sported a plumed erection.
“Good girl,” a voice said to her. “So very good.”
Cynthia opened her eyes and saw the station platform, not crowded and free of mysteries or horrors, just another morning at the tracks, everything normal here, nothing unspeakable at all.
Holding down her shirt with one hand, carrying the book with the other, she stumbled out of the train and through the station, hardly feeling the street beneath her feet. She smelled something burning nearby but walked away from it, catching the gazes of passersby now, lustful stares but cautious. She made a conscious effort to look crazy, realizing with shock just how easy that was.
The walk to her apartment took almost two hours, but she reached it without incident, gave the landlady a story of lost keys and pants – stolen while she swam, she said – and the woman gave her a hard look but finally consented and offered a spare.
As Cynthia turned away, walking to the elevator, the landlady called after her, “There’s a guy up there waiting for you. Says he knows you. He had a badge so I let him in.”
Cynthia turned back to her as the elevator arrived, heard the woman’s words as though they had been spoken in a dream.
“His name’s Max. Says he’s the brother of your friend. Brigitte? That’s okay, right?”
Cynthia mumbled noncommittally but, as the elevator door closed and she began to ascend, she decided that any help would be welcome now.
Even Rascal’s.
Continued in Part 35
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 34
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Part 34
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
When Stephen took hold of Anthony’s cock, Cynthia didn’t hesitate. She seized the moment and grabbed the book. The desire to watch Stephen blow Tony gnawed at her, an insatiable hunger, but something far stronger urged her to run.Now, Cynthia. There will never be another time.
She thought at first, the book spoke to her again, but this was something else. This sensuous narrator who spoke inside her head didn’t twist her spine with fear and turn the world to stories and dreams. This voice soothed, warm honey to tame irritation, a kinder tone more god than devil.
Run, Cynthia. Run, Eliana. Run, Juliette. Take the book. Take Tales and run away.
In the moment when Anthony’s dagger thrust had penetrated the looped end of Stephen’s ankh, something had happened to her, a clarity she’d not known in – how long? – and a clouding of her nerves but not her senses. In that moment, Cynthia knew the actuality of her place in the cosmos, realized the truth of all she had undergone, but she also felt numb, calm, as though the new voice in her head guided her and kept away distracting madness.
When she held the book again, she felt its power but it did not control her. She dashed out of Stephen’s apartment, past the bloody security gate, and into the parking lot. She wore panties and a shirt, dimly grateful she had been wearing that much, and she ran breathless, crazed. The book reached out with extrusions, invisible, groping, dripping like thick, cold syrup along her belly, down her stomach into the cleft of her pussy, streaking her thighs.
She hardly knew this part of town, apartments and strips of green space, a shopping district of considerable size way down the street. She considered her options. No money or plastic, mostly naked, mid-morning, carrying a cursed book that summoned all the pornographic devils of some Medieval monk’s wet dream, a gateway to Boschville, by way of De Sade.
It’s real, the voice told her. Deal with it.
Off to her left, she saw a train station, the rail line to the city, and she headed that way. Sometimes, she knew, a person could ride the train without a ticket, if one careful was careful and switched seats at the right moment. The morning commuter crowd had already thinned and only a dozen or so men and women, mostly inbound college students, waited on the platform. Cynthia pulled her shirt down as much as she could and took a bench as far as possible from anyone.
She looked down at the book.
“Open me,” it said to her.
No, Cynthia! The voice of god crashed in her head. Don’t listen.
Then both voices were drowned in the roar of the arriving 9:20 and she followed the students into the metal snake, dancing like a puppet pulled between two masters. The conductor was a sleepy old man and she dodged him easily, feeling invisible as she passed him between the cars, smiling into vacancy, pulling the shirt down to keep anyone from seeing her panties. Satisfied she could ride without paying, she sank into a seat in the last car and let the rumble and thump of the train lull her.
The train rolled into the station, brakes screaming, and she stepped out onto a platform crowded with transfers, uncomfortably aware that something had changed. The people wore clothing from another time, the 1930s or 40s, and she saw signs posted in hieroglyphs of no language she had ever seen.
Fuck, she thought. I’m dreaming again.
Caught in the rush from another arriving train, she let the crowd push her into the station, aware that her dream had at least allowed her clothing, a woolen skirt and a cotton blouse, colorless in the shoving commuter mass. She still clutched the book and followed the voice.
“This way. This way to the burning.”
A block from the train station, in a square surrounded by gray stone buildings, a mob had gathered around an immense pile of books. Tales weighed heavy in her grasp, her contribution to the day. As though pulled by unseen hands, she stumbled toward the pyre and saw among the flames books she knew, bright obscene comics, and ancient texts that fluttered in the wind, displaying pornographic drawings, photographs of every depravity.
The books of forbidden faiths lay in the heap, the names written in script she could not read, but the pull unmistakable, the summation of truth and desire beyond skin, divine fucking written in a thousand languages, dead and living.
Someone lit the stack of books and scrolls and magazines and the flames danced luridly among the leather and parchment, sensuous shapes rising up in the smoke to cavort and couple among the licking fire.
“Throw the book into the fire,” the god voice told her, and the book quivered in her hands at the imminence of her action. The crowd watched her and she saw, with cold horror, that some among them were not human, but creatures with black-glass eyes and bird beaks, uniformed in black feathers, shiny and pungent as leather.
She raised Tales above her head but she could not release it. Its power wrapped her wrists, bound itself to her, the insistent tentacles of its will on her breasts, teasing her nipples, sliding into her with serpentine insistence, cunt and ass, penetrating her.
“I can’t,” she screamed. “I can’t!”
The bird men moved closer to her. She saw one them sported a plumed erection.
“Good girl,” a voice said to her. “So very good.”
Cynthia opened her eyes and saw the station platform, not crowded and free of mysteries or horrors, just another morning at the tracks, everything normal here, nothing unspeakable at all.
Holding down her shirt with one hand, carrying the book with the other, she stumbled out of the train and through the station, hardly feeling the street beneath her feet. She smelled something burning nearby but walked away from it, catching the gazes of passersby now, lustful stares but cautious. She made a conscious effort to look crazy, realizing with shock just how easy that was.
The walk to her apartment took almost two hours, but she reached it without incident, gave the landlady a story of lost keys and pants – stolen while she swam, she said – and the woman gave her a hard look but finally consented and offered a spare.
As Cynthia turned away, walking to the elevator, the landlady called after her, “There’s a guy up there waiting for you. Says he knows you. He had a badge so I let him in.”
Cynthia turned back to her as the elevator arrived, heard the woman’s words as though they had been spoken in a dream.
“His name’s Max. Says he’s the brother of your friend. Brigitte? That’s okay, right?”
Cynthia mumbled noncommittally but, as the elevator door closed and she began to ascend, she decided that any help would be welcome now.
Even Rascal’s.
Continued in Part 35
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 1/29/2011 8:46 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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