Woman of His Dreams - Part XXXVI
Welcome to Part 36 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
Cynthia stepped through the doorway of her apartment, her heart pounding in anticipation and, yes, fear. She clutched the book to her chest, the leather warm against her hardened nipples, like a firm cheek pressed against her thinly covered breasts. She tried to make sense of the myriad excuses and explanations that swirled in her mind. Rascal would want answers about Brigitte. Nothing – nothing! -- Cynthia could say would ease any misgivings Rascal might have. All Cynthia knew were fragments of impossibilities. The things Stephen had hinted at – the things the book had shown her – defied explanation. She knew with certainty that Brigitte was lost to sanity, perhaps to reality, but whether there was any chance of recovering her was as unknown as God’s e-mail address.
She walked through the small foyer, expecting to find Rascal waiting, his full lawyerly powers of intimidation ready to turn her into a puddle of babbling confession. Her bare, dirty feet burned cool on the tile, but Rascal wasn’t there.
“Rascal?” she piped, her voice tight with conflicting emotion. She walked into the living room and froze.
Rascal lay splayed on her couch, arms out as if he had been crucified, his eyes closed in rapture. A slender woman, wearing only a short, black skirt, crouched between his legs, her ebony-crowned head bobbing, blowing him with apparent skill.
Cynthia froze. A temporary void replaced her jumbled emotions as she tried to fit this vision into the psychotic puzzle of her last few days. The book quivered against her breasts, suddenly alive, the leather seeming to become lips, mauling her breasts beneath the flimsy shirt, closing around her nipples, suckling them with a fervor equal to the energy the brunette applied to Rascal’s cock.
Fight it, Cynthia. You must. The useless voice again, the same one that had urged her to burn the book. Fuck it, she thought. She had no friends in high or holy places and only the here and now needed her attention.
A thick, invisible tongue whipped her breast, and the chiding voice beat against the rising pleasure in her body.
“Fuck you both,” she whispered. With effort she lowered the book, pulling it from her chest, exposing the wet shirt and her hard nipples to a shock of cool air. She tried to ignore the voice’s keening cries and she set the book on an end table, wishing it would vanish, but knowing it wouldn’t.
“Rascal! What the hell are you doing?”
He didn’t shove the girl away, but lowered his hand on her head, urging on her suckling. He looked at Cynthia with drunken eyes, lost in the pleasure the half-naked girl gave him with her mouth. The damned book – or something related to it – had already entrapped him. The sudden urge to protect him flooded Cynthia. He couldn’t end up like his sister or like the stud Derrick back at Stephen’s office, ravaged by something unspeakable. She reached out to grab hold of the mysterious woman, apparently so engrossed in fellatio that she hadn’t even heard Cynthia enter, but Rascal caught her wrist in a burning grip.
“Where the fuck have you been, Eliana?” His fingers crowned the fellater’s head, forcing her face onto his cock, the movement natural, as if Cynthia were not standing there watching them.
Eliana. Cynthia’s vision blurred. She remembered her other lives, but pushed back against the memories, struggling to see the room as it was. She hoped the bare-backed nymphet would vanish, but no such luck graced her.
“Where the fuck is my sister?” Rascal growled, then bit his lower lip, his face a mask of edging ecstasy.
Cynthia reached to touch the book where she had set it, Rascal’s use of that name seeded sharp fear in Cynthia’s belly, but she held tight to little things, the familiar sofa, a coffee cup on the table, unwashed for three days, its contents consumed back in the world of normality. She could do this. She had to do this. Brigitte, Tony, Stephen, and now Rascal – they all had stakes in sorting through this, in surviving it.
“Rascal… It’s not that easy. She… there … you know, those lips circling your cock? Do you know who’s sucking you off right now?”
Rascal grunted. Cynthia saw his eyes clear a little as if he tried to find something familiar too. She doubted that the dirty coffee cup would be an anchor for him, so she pressed on. “She’s no friend of mine, regardless of what she might’ve told you – I’ve never seen her in my life, and considering what I have been through the last couple days, I doubt she’s even real.”
“Oh, fuck!” Rascal cried as the girl apparently scraped him with her teeth.
Cynthia frowned. The brunette was real enough and she had Rascal’s very male attention.
“Focus, damn it. You’re tangled up in something that not even your Harvard Law education is going to help.”
“Duke. I graduated from Duke.”
“Whatever. The point is Rascal, that the mouth getting you off right now, it’s … systemic to our problem, yours and mine and Brigitte’s. I’m betting Miss Suck-all there knows exactly where your sister is.”
His head slammed back into the wall behind the couch, the sharp thump startling Cynthia. His face screwed up into a goofy mask of unconcerned divinity as he howled, thrust his hips up into the brunette’s face and came. Sticky pearls of spend splashed across the girl’s forehead and pearled the top of her head as she pumped him with her hand after taking the first jet in her mouth.
Cynthia’s pussy creamed, her arousal mingling uncomfortably with a crazy mixture of dread, desperation, invasion and discomfort.
The brunette turned her head, her messy fingers still wrapped around Rascal’s diminishing knob. Her immense dark eyes shone with lust and mischief as she appraised Cynthia. “Glad you’re here, baby. I was wondering how long you’d be.” She licked the last drop of semen from the glistening head, pushed back a pearly lock of hair from her eyes, and pinned Cynthia with a dangerous gaze.
“He’s tasty. You ever indulge?”
Continued in Part 37
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 36
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Part 36
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Cynthia stepped through the doorway of her apartment, her heart pounding in anticipation and, yes, fear. She clutched the book to her chest, the leather warm against her hardened nipples, like a firm cheek pressed against her thinly covered breasts. She tried to make sense of the myriad excuses and explanations that swirled in her mind. Rascal would want answers about Brigitte. Nothing – nothing! -- Cynthia could say would ease any misgivings Rascal might have. All Cynthia knew were fragments of impossibilities. The things Stephen had hinted at – the things the book had shown her – defied explanation. She knew with certainty that Brigitte was lost to sanity, perhaps to reality, but whether there was any chance of recovering her was as unknown as God’s e-mail address. She walked through the small foyer, expecting to find Rascal waiting, his full lawyerly powers of intimidation ready to turn her into a puddle of babbling confession. Her bare, dirty feet burned cool on the tile, but Rascal wasn’t there.
“Rascal?” she piped, her voice tight with conflicting emotion. She walked into the living room and froze.
Rascal lay splayed on her couch, arms out as if he had been crucified, his eyes closed in rapture. A slender woman, wearing only a short, black skirt, crouched between his legs, her ebony-crowned head bobbing, blowing him with apparent skill.
Cynthia froze. A temporary void replaced her jumbled emotions as she tried to fit this vision into the psychotic puzzle of her last few days. The book quivered against her breasts, suddenly alive, the leather seeming to become lips, mauling her breasts beneath the flimsy shirt, closing around her nipples, suckling them with a fervor equal to the energy the brunette applied to Rascal’s cock.
Fight it, Cynthia. You must. The useless voice again, the same one that had urged her to burn the book. Fuck it, she thought. She had no friends in high or holy places and only the here and now needed her attention.
A thick, invisible tongue whipped her breast, and the chiding voice beat against the rising pleasure in her body.
“Fuck you both,” she whispered. With effort she lowered the book, pulling it from her chest, exposing the wet shirt and her hard nipples to a shock of cool air. She tried to ignore the voice’s keening cries and she set the book on an end table, wishing it would vanish, but knowing it wouldn’t.
“Rascal! What the hell are you doing?”
He didn’t shove the girl away, but lowered his hand on her head, urging on her suckling. He looked at Cynthia with drunken eyes, lost in the pleasure the half-naked girl gave him with her mouth. The damned book – or something related to it – had already entrapped him. The sudden urge to protect him flooded Cynthia. He couldn’t end up like his sister or like the stud Derrick back at Stephen’s office, ravaged by something unspeakable. She reached out to grab hold of the mysterious woman, apparently so engrossed in fellatio that she hadn’t even heard Cynthia enter, but Rascal caught her wrist in a burning grip.
“Where the fuck have you been, Eliana?” His fingers crowned the fellater’s head, forcing her face onto his cock, the movement natural, as if Cynthia were not standing there watching them.
Eliana. Cynthia’s vision blurred. She remembered her other lives, but pushed back against the memories, struggling to see the room as it was. She hoped the bare-backed nymphet would vanish, but no such luck graced her.
“Where the fuck is my sister?” Rascal growled, then bit his lower lip, his face a mask of edging ecstasy.
Cynthia reached to touch the book where she had set it, Rascal’s use of that name seeded sharp fear in Cynthia’s belly, but she held tight to little things, the familiar sofa, a coffee cup on the table, unwashed for three days, its contents consumed back in the world of normality. She could do this. She had to do this. Brigitte, Tony, Stephen, and now Rascal – they all had stakes in sorting through this, in surviving it.
“Rascal… It’s not that easy. She… there … you know, those lips circling your cock? Do you know who’s sucking you off right now?”
Rascal grunted. Cynthia saw his eyes clear a little as if he tried to find something familiar too. She doubted that the dirty coffee cup would be an anchor for him, so she pressed on. “She’s no friend of mine, regardless of what she might’ve told you – I’ve never seen her in my life, and considering what I have been through the last couple days, I doubt she’s even real.”
“Oh, fuck!” Rascal cried as the girl apparently scraped him with her teeth.
Cynthia frowned. The brunette was real enough and she had Rascal’s very male attention.
“Focus, damn it. You’re tangled up in something that not even your Harvard Law education is going to help.”
“Duke. I graduated from Duke.”
“Whatever. The point is Rascal, that the mouth getting you off right now, it’s … systemic to our problem, yours and mine and Brigitte’s. I’m betting Miss Suck-all there knows exactly where your sister is.”
His head slammed back into the wall behind the couch, the sharp thump startling Cynthia. His face screwed up into a goofy mask of unconcerned divinity as he howled, thrust his hips up into the brunette’s face and came. Sticky pearls of spend splashed across the girl’s forehead and pearled the top of her head as she pumped him with her hand after taking the first jet in her mouth.
Cynthia’s pussy creamed, her arousal mingling uncomfortably with a crazy mixture of dread, desperation, invasion and discomfort.
The brunette turned her head, her messy fingers still wrapped around Rascal’s diminishing knob. Her immense dark eyes shone with lust and mischief as she appraised Cynthia. “Glad you’re here, baby. I was wondering how long you’d be.” She licked the last drop of semen from the glistening head, pushed back a pearly lock of hair from her eyes, and pinned Cynthia with a dangerous gaze.
“He’s tasty. You ever indulge?”
Continued in Part 37
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 2/11/2011 8:51 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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