Woman of His Dreams - Part XXXVII
Welcome to Part 37 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
Tony was about to button his shirt when Stephen stopped him. "Whoa, hoss! What’s that?” He pointed to the puckered scar on Stephen’s side. Stephen looked down and saw that the wound had assumed a new form, a curving line, not unlike a smile, white scar tissue that almost made teeth between the pink, ravaged flesh. He fingered it tentatively and felt relieved when it didn’t bite him.
“I … the first time I touched the book. There was a dream…I…a girl…”
“Yes. Yes. I know. Cassilda, Cassie, whatever. Did she do that?”
“I’m not sure it was her … it was …it turned into a worm. A big, white worm.”
As though cued, the picture on Stephen’s TV, still broadcasting news from downtown. displayed a close-up of a hysterical interviewee, with the screaming caption under it, “Witnesses report enormous worms!”
“Hold still,” Professor Wentworth ordered. “Raise your arms.” He palpitated Tony’s side, his face screwing into a mask of slightly disgusted concern.
“There’s something under your skin there. We probably need to get you to a doctor, maybe a fucking witch doctor.”
“What about Cynthia? A-and saving the world?”
“Right,” Stephen said, his expression a mosaic of agitation, concern, and resolution. “Just tell me, if you feel anything there…” He pointed at the wound. “Anything at all. Tell me right away, okay?”
Tony looked down and it seemed as though the edges of the scar drew further part, curling up, smiling wider.
#
What day was it? Wednesday? The nature of Tony’s job made him oblivious to weekdays and weekends, but it seemed to him there should be a lot more inner city-bound traffic on the bridge. Stephen drove effortlessly, as if the roads were his and no one else wanted to go downtown. Tony kept his hand on his side, trying to feel what Stephen had mentioned, something under his skin, the words penetrated the general fog in his head and made him feel more than a little sick.
He remembered words in a story he had once read, some velvet-tinged horror tale set in fin de siècle London.
“It’s growing in you now,” Sir Geoffrey said as George entered the lord’s high-ceilinged study. “Ripening.”
No, he had never read such a thing. He had lived it though. Recently.
From the bridge, the city seemed an alien place, the up-reaching towers fanciful and majestic, but strangely unreal. He imagined them made of glass. He saw them as the earthen towers of an enormous termite mound, teeming with untouched lives, parasites in the bones of old gods.
He wondered if Stephen’s car was real, if the whir of wheels on pavement was only the song of his madness, the grinding of bones inside his head.
Inside the coach, he looked down on the Thames and at the city beyond the river, smoldering ruins of man’s vanity. Sir Geoffrey had been right. A new people had been born of divine rites and pleasures that defied understanding.
The girl Brigitte rode beside him, her hand working his cock through his breeches. What had Sir Geoffrey called her? Mother of the new race.
Chosen daughter of Shub Niggurath.
Something poked Tony in the side and he jumped. Stephen maneuvered the car with one hand and wielded the ankh with the other. “Snap out of it, man! Wake up! What are you seeing?”
“London,” he answered, focusing on the here and now. “In a story. Something the book did to me…”
“It’s fucking everywhere now,” Stephen exclaimed. “We’re all in it. Here and now! There’s no telling the real from the stories now. You can’t let it distract you!”
Flames licked lazily above the stones of St. Magnus the Martyr and reflected in the muddy Thames. From the Old City there arose a sound of ten thousand wolves.
Tony closed his eyes and wished London and the church away, just as Stephen whipped off the first exit and raced down the ramp and onto Commerce Street. Tony blinked repeatedly, trying to banish the things he saw, not Victorian nightmares now but, just as Stephen had said, here and now.
The black husk of a Checker Cab smoldered in the opposite lane, and the fire had spread to a block of old warehouses that burned with steady fury. No firemen anywhere. Stephen drove with calm speed past abandoned cars, overturned waste cans, garbage.
And bodies, most of them naked, some of them mutilated. Tony tried not to look.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Where are the cops?”
From somewhere a long way off, they heard sirens.
Stephen ignored the question. “Where do you think Cynthia went?” he asked.
“Maybe her place. Maybe mine.”
“Let’s try hers.” Tony gave him the address and they headed north, the destruction and wreckage thinning behind them, the streets deserted entirely, no moving cars, no people.
At the end of 52nd Street they ran up against a roadblock. Tony saw Stephen’s hesitation, a moment when he almost turned the car around, but instead the professor pulled over and they both climbed out. Two nervous cops approached with drawn pistols.
“Hands on the car,” one of them ordered.
“What’s happening, officer?” Stephen started, but the policeman ignored him while they patted down both men. One cop found the ankh in Professor Wentworth’s pocket and laid it on the hood of the car.
Where was the dagger?
“What were you doing in there?” the officer asked Stephen. “That’s restricted space.”
“We just drove over the bridge. No one stopped us.” The two officers looked at each other and Tony saw that they both were worried. Perhaps terrified.
“Did you see anything?”
“A big fire. Some dead people.”
“Nothing else?” The cop looked at Tony.
He considered asking, “Isn’t that enough?” but settled for shaking his head no.
“What’s this?” The cop pointed at the ankh.
“Nothing,” Stephen answered. “An old thing. Nothing important.”
“Yeah?” The officer had his handcuffs out and the other policeman moved in on Tony. “Looks like something to me.”
Click went the cuffs on Stephen as Tony’s hands were pulled behind him.
“Hey Marty,” the cop holding Tony said. “I used my bracelets on that blonde. I got nothing for this guy.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Marty said, pushing Stephen to the ground, turning toward Tony, holding the ankh, running his hand along its shaft.
Marty began to unbuckle his uniform pants, as Anthony fought the guy who held him.
“You hold him still, and I’ll fuck him right here.”
Continued in Part 38
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 37
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Part 37
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Tony was about to button his shirt when Stephen stopped him. "Whoa, hoss! What’s that?” He pointed to the puckered scar on Stephen’s side. Stephen looked down and saw that the wound had assumed a new form, a curving line, not unlike a smile, white scar tissue that almost made teeth between the pink, ravaged flesh. He fingered it tentatively and felt relieved when it didn’t bite him.“I … the first time I touched the book. There was a dream…I…a girl…”
“Yes. Yes. I know. Cassilda, Cassie, whatever. Did she do that?”
“I’m not sure it was her … it was …it turned into a worm. A big, white worm.”
As though cued, the picture on Stephen’s TV, still broadcasting news from downtown. displayed a close-up of a hysterical interviewee, with the screaming caption under it, “Witnesses report enormous worms!”
“Hold still,” Professor Wentworth ordered. “Raise your arms.” He palpitated Tony’s side, his face screwing into a mask of slightly disgusted concern.
“There’s something under your skin there. We probably need to get you to a doctor, maybe a fucking witch doctor.”
“What about Cynthia? A-and saving the world?”
“Right,” Stephen said, his expression a mosaic of agitation, concern, and resolution. “Just tell me, if you feel anything there…” He pointed at the wound. “Anything at all. Tell me right away, okay?”
Tony looked down and it seemed as though the edges of the scar drew further part, curling up, smiling wider.
#
What day was it? Wednesday? The nature of Tony’s job made him oblivious to weekdays and weekends, but it seemed to him there should be a lot more inner city-bound traffic on the bridge. Stephen drove effortlessly, as if the roads were his and no one else wanted to go downtown. Tony kept his hand on his side, trying to feel what Stephen had mentioned, something under his skin, the words penetrated the general fog in his head and made him feel more than a little sick.
He remembered words in a story he had once read, some velvet-tinged horror tale set in fin de siècle London.
“It’s growing in you now,” Sir Geoffrey said as George entered the lord’s high-ceilinged study. “Ripening.”
No, he had never read such a thing. He had lived it though. Recently.
From the bridge, the city seemed an alien place, the up-reaching towers fanciful and majestic, but strangely unreal. He imagined them made of glass. He saw them as the earthen towers of an enormous termite mound, teeming with untouched lives, parasites in the bones of old gods.
He wondered if Stephen’s car was real, if the whir of wheels on pavement was only the song of his madness, the grinding of bones inside his head.
Inside the coach, he looked down on the Thames and at the city beyond the river, smoldering ruins of man’s vanity. Sir Geoffrey had been right. A new people had been born of divine rites and pleasures that defied understanding.
The girl Brigitte rode beside him, her hand working his cock through his breeches. What had Sir Geoffrey called her? Mother of the new race.
Chosen daughter of Shub Niggurath.
Something poked Tony in the side and he jumped. Stephen maneuvered the car with one hand and wielded the ankh with the other. “Snap out of it, man! Wake up! What are you seeing?”
“London,” he answered, focusing on the here and now. “In a story. Something the book did to me…”
“It’s fucking everywhere now,” Stephen exclaimed. “We’re all in it. Here and now! There’s no telling the real from the stories now. You can’t let it distract you!”
Flames licked lazily above the stones of St. Magnus the Martyr and reflected in the muddy Thames. From the Old City there arose a sound of ten thousand wolves.
Tony closed his eyes and wished London and the church away, just as Stephen whipped off the first exit and raced down the ramp and onto Commerce Street. Tony blinked repeatedly, trying to banish the things he saw, not Victorian nightmares now but, just as Stephen had said, here and now.
The black husk of a Checker Cab smoldered in the opposite lane, and the fire had spread to a block of old warehouses that burned with steady fury. No firemen anywhere. Stephen drove with calm speed past abandoned cars, overturned waste cans, garbage.
And bodies, most of them naked, some of them mutilated. Tony tried not to look.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Where are the cops?”
From somewhere a long way off, they heard sirens.
Stephen ignored the question. “Where do you think Cynthia went?” he asked.
“Maybe her place. Maybe mine.”
“Let’s try hers.” Tony gave him the address and they headed north, the destruction and wreckage thinning behind them, the streets deserted entirely, no moving cars, no people.
At the end of 52nd Street they ran up against a roadblock. Tony saw Stephen’s hesitation, a moment when he almost turned the car around, but instead the professor pulled over and they both climbed out. Two nervous cops approached with drawn pistols.
“Hands on the car,” one of them ordered.
“What’s happening, officer?” Stephen started, but the policeman ignored him while they patted down both men. One cop found the ankh in Professor Wentworth’s pocket and laid it on the hood of the car.
Where was the dagger?
“What were you doing in there?” the officer asked Stephen. “That’s restricted space.”
“We just drove over the bridge. No one stopped us.” The two officers looked at each other and Tony saw that they both were worried. Perhaps terrified.
“Did you see anything?”
“A big fire. Some dead people.”
“Nothing else?” The cop looked at Tony.
He considered asking, “Isn’t that enough?” but settled for shaking his head no.
“What’s this?” The cop pointed at the ankh.
“Nothing,” Stephen answered. “An old thing. Nothing important.”
“Yeah?” The officer had his handcuffs out and the other policeman moved in on Tony. “Looks like something to me.”
Click went the cuffs on Stephen as Tony’s hands were pulled behind him.
“Hey Marty,” the cop holding Tony said. “I used my bracelets on that blonde. I got nothing for this guy.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Marty said, pushing Stephen to the ground, turning toward Tony, holding the ankh, running his hand along its shaft.
Marty began to unbuckle his uniform pants, as Anthony fought the guy who held him.
“You hold him still, and I’ll fuck him right here.”
Continued in Part 38
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 2/19/2011 8:21 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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