Woman of His Dreams - Part XLII
Welcome to Part 42 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 42
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Cynthia followed Rascal and Cassia down a wholly unfamiliar, narrow stairwell. Rascal carried a baseball bat and Cassia clutched Tales tightly to her chest. The building had changed around them, grown ancient and dark, only faint light penetrating the descending flight somewhere far below them. The elevators had vanished entirely.They hurried as fast as they dared, spurred by Cassia’s insistence and by Cynthia’s memory of Stephen’s awful scream – which she realized might well be only another delusion. The stairs felt solid under her feet; the air smelled of mildew and dust. The hastily-donned dress was one she remembered owning but the memory was odd, and the dress was from another era, possibly meant to be worn over hoops, so it fit her badly and she had to hold it up to keep from tripping in the tight, nearly dark stairwell.
Dull yellow light filtered up from a half open door at the bottom. Cassia let Rascal go first and he hit it with his shoulder as though he expected it to resist him. Instead it spilled him clumsily onto a narrow street. Garish light poured into the stairwell, along with the sounds of desperate pursuit.
As Cynthia stumbled out the door, two naked figures ran past. Anthony and … Brigitte! Relief struggled with alarm as Cynthia watched a horde of pursuing figures, creatures so wild and ragged she took them at first for apes or sasquatch. The streets echoed with familiarity, yet still burned alien, and oddly, everything felt two-dimensional. The idea struck her that this was like a film set and, if she wandered a block or two in any direction, she would find normality – taxis and businessmen, maybe even a Starbuck’s. She closed her eyes tightly and reopened them, but the screaming rush of urban savages persisted, closer now, and they had seen her, Cassia, and Rascal.
A few of the crazies continued their pursuit of Tony and Brigitte, but most of them stopped, gathering in a twitching, snarling semi-circle around Cynthia and her companions. A tall, nude woman emerged from their midst. At first, Cynthia thought the woman had painted herself red, but then she smelled the iron tang of blood and recognized the slow ooze of coagulating life fluid, all the way from chin to thighs, clots of tissue among the red slick. It came to Cynthia that the woman was some sort of primitive priestess who had just presided over a rite of sacrifice.
She remembered Stephen’s scream and her stomach turned over.
The bloody woman eyed only Cassia. Cynthia clung to Rascal and they both stepped back, frozen as though forced to watch. She looked for an opening to pull Rascal away, to run after Tony and Brigitte and away from the madness.
Cassia had dressed in her black skirt, not bothering with a top, so she looked only a little less wild than the gory figure confronting her. And, of course, she had the book, a weapon and a shield.
“Go away,” Cassia told the crowd. “It’s not your time here.”
“Give us the man,” the bloody priestess said. “We’ll let you go.”
Cassia made a noise like a balloon losing air, a pft of dismissal. “Tell you what. Let’s have a go at each other, eh? Right here. The one who gets back up wins all the marbles.” The bloody woman towered over her challenger, grinned with wild confidence, and beckoned to Cassia, nodding.
Cynthia and Rascal stayed near the black brick wall, keeping their distance from the savages as best they could, just back of the circle that formed around the two women. Cassia and the lanky priestess had already begun to circle each other.
Cassia dropped the book and grabbed at her foe first, failing to grip her blood-slippery skin, stumbling. The priestess kicked the book aside and caught her in a bear hug. Cassia turned red, painted with sacrificial blood. With fierce determination Cassia struck out with her open hand, nails bared and tearing flesh, but the woman held tight to her, one hand on the hem of the black skirt, ripping it from Cassia as though it had been made of lint. Naked and red, they fell in a tangle to the street, the priestess’ hand reaching to Cassia’s cunt, deliberately fingering her while she bit at Cassia’s throat and breasts.
Cynthia wanted to do something, anything, to help Cassia, though she truly had no idea which outcome of this primal struggle would be more favorable for her and Rascal. Still, she thought, better the devil you know.
The priestess pinned Cassia to the ground, pressing her calves down over her opponent’s arms to hold her helpless. She bent to feed with sharp bites down Cassia’s belly to the open flower of her spread pussy. Cassia fought uselessly, overcome by the priestess’ strength and size. As the woman licked and bit, mercilessly assaulting her most sensitive places, Cynthia started to calculate just how long Cassia could last.
Changes registered, the redness deepened under the priestess where she arched over Cassia and Cynthia strained to see, even as her instincts told her to look away. The priestess appeared to be splitting down her center, her skin peeling back like a razor wound, showing sharp white teeth along the length of the opening, the orifice of something unimaginable gaping to feed.
Rascal drooled on Cynthia’s shoulder, distracting her, and she turned to look at him, saw that he would be no help at all in whatever followed, that his mind was shattered, perhaps permanently. When she turned her attention back to the horror writhing on the street, she saw at once that Cassia was changing too.
The Goth girl’s pinned arms turned rubbery and grew longer. Her thighs twined together, more joints there than mere knee and ankle. Serpentine ripples of something unspeakable shimmered in the dim light. Her head tapered and lengthened and she twisted with awful strength against the pressure of the priestess’ grip, pushing her back to avoid the razored gateway of unnatural transformation.
Cassia became a worm, an immense, twisting white worm, impossible for the bifurcated thing that had been a priestess, or maybe a librarian, to hold down any longer. Entwined together on the sidewalk, the two monstrous creatures might have been nightmare life beneath a giant’s microscope. They continued to transform, the giant vulva form extruding thread-like legs to grip the worm, leaking a pungent fluid that mingled with the blood. The worm, hardly defenseless, took in stride the teeth and thrust between the enormous lips in undulating rhythm.
Cynthia tore her gaze away, fighting nausea and a strange sense of wonder, as though this awful thing she witnessed might be a sort of miracle, a divine revelation of the true order of the universe.
The coupling of the two monstrous creatures gave birth to a hypnotic sense of paralyzing awe. The savage tribe appeared transfixed, on their knees, mouths gaping, worshipping. Was she much different?
“Cynthia!” Tony’s voice. He had come back for her, and Brigitte waited a little ways down the street, staring in shock at what was happening. “For the sake of your soul,” Tony screamed, pulling at her arm.
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 3/26/2011 8:05 AM 
Categories: dark erotica, Lovecraft, Angela Caperton, Woman of His Dreams
Tags: Woman of His Dreams Lovecraft
Categories: dark erotica, Lovecraft, Angela Caperton, Woman of His Dreams
Tags: Woman of His Dreams Lovecraft
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