Woman of His Dreams - Part XLI
Welcome to Part 41 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
Anthony considered trying to run, but the urban savages blocked both directions along the street, and Stephen seemed bent on a different reaction to the naked woman with her grisly necklace.
Dr. Wentworth brandished the ankh, like Van Helsing confronting an army of vampires.
“Back!” he cried. “By the power of the looped cross, I command you!”
His gesture had some effect. The men and women stopped approaching and looked at each other, their gazes turning from bloodlust to bewilderment.
But the almost-naked woman who seemed to be their leader, or perhaps their priestess, was not deterred. She sidled up to Stephen, more seductive than menacing, and stroked his cheek with her long fingers.
“You have nothing to fear, dearest,” she said, her voice rich and cultured. “We won’t hurt you. I only want to know you. All flesh must be one flesh, through ecstasy or death, yes?”
“Back!” Stephen yelled as he glanced at Anthony. “Use the knife if you have to,” he commanded as he shuffled back for better position.
Anthony remembered what the dagger had done to the two monstrous cops, but there must have been fifty or sixty people here. Did it have that kind of power?
“Maybe we should do what she wants…” he offered.
Stephen tried to push the woman away using the ankh as a goad, but a pair of her companions, a guy who looked like a truck driver and a woman the size of a refrigerator, were on him, not rough, but firm.
“Strip him,” the woman commanded and the two proceeded to do just that, shredding the professor’s clothing with calm efficiency. “You too,” she told Anthony. “Get it all off.”
Why not? He shucked his few garments. Was he really just a porn star for some pulp fiction devil? If so, he might as well do his best. How many times had he fucked and been fucked in recent days? He was well past any normal endurance rate and the sex had been amazing. As long as the priestess didn’t intend to add his cock to her collection, he’d go along with whatever she wanted.
Stephen appeared completely over his initial reluctance too. Naked, still in the grip of the two big people, the professor sported a hard-on as long as the haft of the ankh, which lay at his feet now.
The priestess took hold of Stephen by his fleshy handle, weighing him. She waved Anthony closer. “You will race,” she told both men. “You will fuck me,” she said to Stephen, “and you will make me come.” She pointed to Anthony and to a woman who had emerged from the tribe. “You will fuck her and you will make her come. Whoever makes his woman come first wins!”
“What will I win?” Stephen asked confidently.
“You will win the privilege of keeping your cock, silly.”
Now there’s an inspiring prize, Anthony thought. The woman’s tone was teasing and, if not for the evidence of numerous recent castrations that she wore around her neck, he would have thought she was joking.
The priestess sat down on the sidewalk and opened her legs. Stephen’s captors pushed him to his knees. Anthony noticed the professor’s wilting cock. Hell, he understood. Just the memory of the cock necklace made him softer, and he wasn’t staring at it up close.
Anthony turned his attention to the woman he had been paired with. She was bare, pale-skinned and dirty, her hair mussed and hanging in her face. Recognition came as if through a thick, blinding fog.
“Brigitte!”
“Tony? Tony!”
She clung to him, her body warm and a little gritty. He tried to feel the edges of the vision, to see this as another dream, or another hallucination, the way all Brigitte’s other appearances had been but, as far as Anthony could tell, this was real.
“My god,” he whispered to her. “Where have you been?”
She attacked his neck and shoulder with little love bites, then put her tongue in his ear. “I’ve been … amazing places. So much pleasure. You can’t know…”
Oh but I can, he thought, aching for more, amazed at his own vigor and grateful that he wasn’t in the same predicament as Stephen, who was gamely trying to mount the priestess without embracing her and her ghastly trophies. The shaman’s jewelry would be enough to turn Superman into a eunuch.
Anthony put his hands under Brigitte’s round butt and lifted her, letting her wrap his waist between her strong legs, his cock sliding into her effortlessly. Around them, the savage crowd began to drum and chant and, here and there, in every possible copulation and twining, the tribe groped and stroked, licked and fucked, a spontaneous orgy in the middle of a city street.
Anthony tuned them all out, tried to forget Stephen and the shaman’s threat. He focused without thinking on the hard flesh he thrust into Brigitte, and on the wet constriction she offered between her legs, her mouth as busy and hungry as any lover he had ever known, devouring his shoulders and throat, finding his lips, tongues tangling. She tasted like salt and spice as she gripped his bottom and pulled herself against him, the rhythm set by the savages, by the cries and punctuating screams of women as they came, and of men as they howled in release.
Orgasm rose inside him, but he tried to hold back. She had to come first. Had to! He heard the shaman, writhing under Stephen’s increasingly frantic pounding, her panting and little cries telegraphed her approach to the precipice.
Anthony tried not to think, just to fuck, animal, primal.
Brigitte’s legs threatened to cut him in half, her cunt tightening, pulling him, her head thrown back, crying like a wild bird, gushing around him, juicy enough to spatter his stomach and run down his thighs as he realized he had come too, the release almost unbearable in its intensity.
They staggered and fell, Brigitte’s butt bouncing on the sidewalk, Anthony’s knees abrading on the concrete, but his cock remained buried in her. He panted, his hips still moving in a slow, deep piston rhythm.
The shaman screamed too, but Anthony realized that Stephen had lost the race. He looked over at the other couple and saw the look of horror on the professor’s face, desperate to uncouple from his wiry lover who held him tight, the slit between her legs transforming, lengthening into a split that ran from between her legs up her stomach, between her breasts, a red mouth complete with sharp teeth and a tongue.
In shock, Anthony touched the forgotten wound in his side. It opened, desperately suckling at his fingers, the sharp edges like the feral promise of puppy teeth. He looked down and saw a similar, smaller mouth, sharp-fanged and hungry, turned away from his own flesh in horror just in time to see the transformed priestess bite Stephen, his cock not even a morsel, the awful mouth as long as her body shearing off the professor’s stomach and chest, peeling meat from ribs, slowly enough that Stephen Wentworth’s scream seemed to last forever.
Continued in Part 42
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 41
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Part 41
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Anthony considered trying to run, but the urban savages blocked both directions along the street, and Stephen seemed bent on a different reaction to the naked woman with her grisly necklace.Dr. Wentworth brandished the ankh, like Van Helsing confronting an army of vampires.
“Back!” he cried. “By the power of the looped cross, I command you!”
His gesture had some effect. The men and women stopped approaching and looked at each other, their gazes turning from bloodlust to bewilderment.
But the almost-naked woman who seemed to be their leader, or perhaps their priestess, was not deterred. She sidled up to Stephen, more seductive than menacing, and stroked his cheek with her long fingers.
“You have nothing to fear, dearest,” she said, her voice rich and cultured. “We won’t hurt you. I only want to know you. All flesh must be one flesh, through ecstasy or death, yes?”
“Back!” Stephen yelled as he glanced at Anthony. “Use the knife if you have to,” he commanded as he shuffled back for better position.
Anthony remembered what the dagger had done to the two monstrous cops, but there must have been fifty or sixty people here. Did it have that kind of power?
“Maybe we should do what she wants…” he offered.
Stephen tried to push the woman away using the ankh as a goad, but a pair of her companions, a guy who looked like a truck driver and a woman the size of a refrigerator, were on him, not rough, but firm.
“Strip him,” the woman commanded and the two proceeded to do just that, shredding the professor’s clothing with calm efficiency. “You too,” she told Anthony. “Get it all off.”
Why not? He shucked his few garments. Was he really just a porn star for some pulp fiction devil? If so, he might as well do his best. How many times had he fucked and been fucked in recent days? He was well past any normal endurance rate and the sex had been amazing. As long as the priestess didn’t intend to add his cock to her collection, he’d go along with whatever she wanted.
Stephen appeared completely over his initial reluctance too. Naked, still in the grip of the two big people, the professor sported a hard-on as long as the haft of the ankh, which lay at his feet now.
The priestess took hold of Stephen by his fleshy handle, weighing him. She waved Anthony closer. “You will race,” she told both men. “You will fuck me,” she said to Stephen, “and you will make me come.” She pointed to Anthony and to a woman who had emerged from the tribe. “You will fuck her and you will make her come. Whoever makes his woman come first wins!”
“What will I win?” Stephen asked confidently.
“You will win the privilege of keeping your cock, silly.”
Now there’s an inspiring prize, Anthony thought. The woman’s tone was teasing and, if not for the evidence of numerous recent castrations that she wore around her neck, he would have thought she was joking.
The priestess sat down on the sidewalk and opened her legs. Stephen’s captors pushed him to his knees. Anthony noticed the professor’s wilting cock. Hell, he understood. Just the memory of the cock necklace made him softer, and he wasn’t staring at it up close.
Anthony turned his attention to the woman he had been paired with. She was bare, pale-skinned and dirty, her hair mussed and hanging in her face. Recognition came as if through a thick, blinding fog.
“Brigitte!”
“Tony? Tony!”
She clung to him, her body warm and a little gritty. He tried to feel the edges of the vision, to see this as another dream, or another hallucination, the way all Brigitte’s other appearances had been but, as far as Anthony could tell, this was real.
“My god,” he whispered to her. “Where have you been?”
She attacked his neck and shoulder with little love bites, then put her tongue in his ear. “I’ve been … amazing places. So much pleasure. You can’t know…”
Oh but I can, he thought, aching for more, amazed at his own vigor and grateful that he wasn’t in the same predicament as Stephen, who was gamely trying to mount the priestess without embracing her and her ghastly trophies. The shaman’s jewelry would be enough to turn Superman into a eunuch.
Anthony put his hands under Brigitte’s round butt and lifted her, letting her wrap his waist between her strong legs, his cock sliding into her effortlessly. Around them, the savage crowd began to drum and chant and, here and there, in every possible copulation and twining, the tribe groped and stroked, licked and fucked, a spontaneous orgy in the middle of a city street.
Anthony tuned them all out, tried to forget Stephen and the shaman’s threat. He focused without thinking on the hard flesh he thrust into Brigitte, and on the wet constriction she offered between her legs, her mouth as busy and hungry as any lover he had ever known, devouring his shoulders and throat, finding his lips, tongues tangling. She tasted like salt and spice as she gripped his bottom and pulled herself against him, the rhythm set by the savages, by the cries and punctuating screams of women as they came, and of men as they howled in release.
Orgasm rose inside him, but he tried to hold back. She had to come first. Had to! He heard the shaman, writhing under Stephen’s increasingly frantic pounding, her panting and little cries telegraphed her approach to the precipice.
Anthony tried not to think, just to fuck, animal, primal.
Brigitte’s legs threatened to cut him in half, her cunt tightening, pulling him, her head thrown back, crying like a wild bird, gushing around him, juicy enough to spatter his stomach and run down his thighs as he realized he had come too, the release almost unbearable in its intensity.
They staggered and fell, Brigitte’s butt bouncing on the sidewalk, Anthony’s knees abrading on the concrete, but his cock remained buried in her. He panted, his hips still moving in a slow, deep piston rhythm.
The shaman screamed too, but Anthony realized that Stephen had lost the race. He looked over at the other couple and saw the look of horror on the professor’s face, desperate to uncouple from his wiry lover who held him tight, the slit between her legs transforming, lengthening into a split that ran from between her legs up her stomach, between her breasts, a red mouth complete with sharp teeth and a tongue.
In shock, Anthony touched the forgotten wound in his side. It opened, desperately suckling at his fingers, the sharp edges like the feral promise of puppy teeth. He looked down and saw a similar, smaller mouth, sharp-fanged and hungry, turned away from his own flesh in horror just in time to see the transformed priestess bite Stephen, his cock not even a morsel, the awful mouth as long as her body shearing off the professor’s stomach and chest, peeling meat from ribs, slowly enough that Stephen Wentworth’s scream seemed to last forever.
Continued in Part 42
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 3/19/2011 8:17 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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