Woman of His Dreams - Part XXXIX
Welcome to Part 39 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
"Woman of His Dreams"
Part 39
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Anthony struggled with the cop who held his arms. The burly man intended rough sodomy and though Tony found the notion somewhat appealing, he didn’t like where things might go from there. Billy-clubbed resisting arrest to mask delicious fuck bruises was an optimistic outcome. Death by close-up headshot seemed far more likely.Marty had his cock out, belt open and his shirttail flopping. When Anthony saw that the white hem of the cop’s shirt was wet and red with blood, he fought his captor harder. The sleeve of his shirt tore and one of his hands flew free to his belt where the dagger’s phallic hilt slid into his hand.
What the fuck? Stephen had the dagger. Anthony was certain of it – he’d seen the professor pocket it back at the apartment -- but here it was, right where he needed it!
Just like a story, some quaint serial play.
He elbowed the cop behind him and pulled completely free, the knife cutting an arc that made Marty pause and grin. With his cock standing out and up, the officer reached for his service piece. Anthony heard the cop behind him back away to give his partner a clear shot when Stephen, handcuffed but frisky, lurched forward, hitting Marty behind his knees. The cop fell at Anthony, a slow motion anime villain, four-color and sharply outlined.
Right onto the blade.
The dagger sang in Anthony’s hand – he felt the weapon vibrate with crazy magic as it eased through the cop’s shirt, hungry and sharp, ripping like a single, determined tooth. Behind the metal bite, Marty’s skin parted like onionskin, spilling red innards and white smoke.
Blood spattered Anthony’s face and torso. He heard the cop behind him say “Fuck!” and knew he had no choice at all now.
Desperately, he turned, pushing Marty away, feeling the cop’s strangely light body, not daring to focus on what else might be flowing from the gaping wound.
The second cop had lost his shape, the uniform bulging and tearing with the transformation of the flesh within it. The officer’s mouth opened impossibly wide, his chin drooping down to his belly, the maw dripping, his eyes huge and black and multiplying like blisters on a burning man.
Anthony screamed and threw the dagger. It flew true, as though powered by its own desires, spinning in the air to land point first among the clustered eyes. Marty’s partner burst like a balloon, his bulbous shape boiling nasty white grease in the air, then he was gone, leaving shreds of sticky uniform on the street.
Anthony picked up the knife, wiping it clean on a blue scrap, and turned back to Stephen. Marty’s body had vanished too, but his keys lay among the gooey sludge of his passing. Anthony unlocked the professor’s cuffs and helped him up.
“Wonderful!” Stephen exclaimed, clapping Anthony’s shoulder before he reclaimed the ankh. “There may be hope for us yet.”
“I just killed two policemen,” Anthony said, struggling to make the words real.
“Yeah, but I don’t think you’ll ever go to court.” Stephen pointed at something up in the sky and Anthony followed his gesture. The sun burned sickly red, too large in the sky, and things that looked like enormous vultures flew among the big buildings downtown. Anthony heard a symphony of distant screaming, the sound of crowds in slow torment.
“How far to Cynthia’s?” Wentworth asked him.
“A mile?”
“Let’s keep the car.”
They cleared the barricade quickly and proceeded down the empty streets with Anthony navigating, but nothing looked right, the roads too narrow and clogged with rubble and dead cars. Finally, Anthony and the professor gave up, parked the car for a quick getaway, and set out on foot, following Anthony’s shredded sense of space and direction.
He held the dagger ready and Stephen wielded the ankh. They kept as much as they could to the center of the deserted street, away from the dark mouths of alleys and the gaping wells of manhole covers, every one of which seemed to open like a pipe to hell. The city smelled of rot and blood. They saw little groups of figures, always at a distance, indeterminate of nature, more like apes than men.
“This is fucked up,” Anthony told Professor Wentworth. “Her apartment should be right here, but nothing looks the same. There should be a store and her building’s lobby right here.” He pointed to the blackened face of a building that must have dated from the 19th century. “Nothing’s right.”
“It’s trying to keep us away,” Stephen said. “The damned book has put us in another story.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Tell me what the fuck you mean.”
“It’s … the goddamned book… magazine… video tape … it’s like pornography for the great old ones. It bends reality and we’re caught in the story it’s telling.”
“Great old ones?”
“We don’t have time now. Devils. Demons.”
“We’re part of some kind of pornography for demons?” He looked around, saw that the clusters of bestial figures had grown closer. The more he looked at them, the less distinct they seemed. “What about this L’ias? What’s he called? The Procurer….”
“He’s the fucking book dealer,” Stephen said. “He’s like a cosmic smut monger. Some of the stories say he was human once and that he made a deal with Nyarlathotep himself to supply human souls for the entertainment of the elder gods where they lay in their dark prisons.”
“That’s insane!”
“No,” Stephen pointed. “That is!”
Anthony turned to follow the professor’s gesture. The beast men – and women -- had approached from both directions on the street. He and Stephen were surrounded entirely. Up close, the creatures looked more or less like ordinary people, cabbies, administrative assistants, lawyers, and bums, but the distortions of their forms were caused by the ornamentations they had donned on their otherwise naked bodies, the skin and bones of other people, ribcage bustiers, masks made from sewn faces, bloody war paint.
One of them approached, a woman, tall and thin, mostly naked. She might have been a librarian, Anthony thought, or somebody’s biology teacher, but here and now she looked as savage as a big, rabid cat.
Behind her, the ragged, dripping army closed ranks.
The woman wore a looping necklace made of severed cocks. She stopped an arm’s length from Tony and Stephen and regarded them with a snarl.
The men looked at each other. Flight was out of the question.
When she finally spoke, her voice was deep and cultured, a voice from another life. This book is overdue.
“Please, would you give me your cocks?” she asked, and before they could react, she closed all hopes of negotiation. “Or I’ll just take them.” She giggled.
“They’re mine, one way or another.”
Continued in Chapter 40
Copyright 2011 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
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 3/5/2011 7:09 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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