Woman of His Dreams - Part XLIII
Welcome to Part 43 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
A long time ago, in the room behind the video store, Anthony bolted for the door, pushed by the hot lights behind him and by the blind panic in his head. The breathless hand on his chest, and the cold touch of madness in his brain whipped him more effectively than any crop or cane. With every step, the memory of the thing behind him grew less distinct, but at the door, on the very edge of freedom, he looked back.
Anthony remembered himself on the video tape, his face reflecting the horror in the bare room where he had been tied, where he had bathed in nightmare’s milk and been fucked by Nyarlathotep himself.
He tried not to look at the worm, at Cassia, and the enormous, pulsing, oozing pocket the transformed, otherworldly goth chick entwined. He had to save Cynthia; that was his only imperative. Rascal was a lawyer – he could look out for himself, and Cassia... Anything he might think to contribute to her defense would be useless.
Spittle gathered on his lips. He wanted to wet himself with awe at the waves of emotional force radiating from the fucking monsters, but he held on, held on to Cynthia with his right hand, keeping her tight against his chest even as he held Brigitte with his left. Brigitte had the ankh. When she waved it, she and the stone both glowed faintly blue. Anthony took that as a good sign.
Tales lay on the sidewalk, four or five feet from the unspeakable, writhing lovers. The spreading pool of slime around them had not yet touched the pages.
“Rascal,” Anthony yelled. “Get the book.”
The big guy gave it his best, obeying without question. Anthony watched as Rascal, probably already dead in his brain, fought against the naked goons, and started for the volume, as if he knew it had a chance at restoring his sanity. Tell him a story to ease his mind.
Rascal pushed past the urban savages, shoving just as hard as he needed to, clearing them. He crouched six feet from Cassia, and reached out for the book. He caught hold of a corner and pulled it to him. The tribe closed around him. They didn’t touch him, but pinned him in.
With Cassia and her inhuman lover.
Rascal looked around, panicky. Eventually his wild, desperate gaze found Anthony.
“Throw me the book!” Anthony called to him. Cynthia clung to Anthony now just as Brigitte did. The ankh seemed to be keeping the savages at bay.
A sense of urgency crept up his spine as he sensed the probing legs and the worm’s fierce nuzzling.
Rascal tried. He tried to fling the old book like a Frisbee but one of the spidery legs that had extruded from the priestess blocked his arm and the book flew backward, striking the monsters in their coital frenzy. The Cassia worm thrashed and the swollen priestess oozed more copiously. The air stank of something like raw rubber and rank latex.
It’s gone, Anthony thought, the book’s gone – and so is Rascal. No sooner had the spindly appendage bumped Brigitte’s brother than the twisting hulk of flesh curved toward the hapless lawyer and a half dozen probing legs groped him. The worm took notice of its paramour’s distraction and raised its tapering white snout that dripped with the spend of will and the coming of consciousness. It nuzzled Rascal where he hung in the web of feelers. He screamed and struggled, but his cry sounded more like one of pleasure than of horror or pain. The lawyer seemed to diminish, as though some part of him was being pulled into the mad pairing of monsters.
Turning, running, dragging the women with him, Anthony could not remember what happened next, no matter how hard he tried. With every running step, the memory grew hazier. He led Cynthia and Brigitte in a hard run, fighting the psychic power of the frenzied, fucking monsters, their violent coupling quickened by whatever they had taken from Rascal.
“Run,” Anthony screamed, a mantra of survival. The girls listened to him and together they ran away from the worm and its mate, over cobblestones, hard-packed dirt, sunlight broken among the buildings, shining in the towers of glass, smoky red above the burning city of old London.
Behind them, the tribe clamored and stirred, reluctant to leave the nuptial bed of dreams, spurred by whips of languid will. Anthony’s cock twitched with the call too. Go, take them and bring them to us that we may know them.
He remembered Sodom, the procurer’s angels, a rain of fire. Virgins of paradise beckoned, their marquee a six-armed goddess of desire, but all of them fell away as he led Cynthia and Brigitte through the lost city, bare feet on hard pavement. When they reached 3rd Avenue, the air rippled and smoked like canvas tearing, the picture giving way to actuality, beyond a web of red light.
He took the ankh from Brigitte. A gust of hot wind played around them then grew still. The women stayed near him as he raised the stone.
“Let us out!” he cried.
Pungent sweat oozed. Hands as broad as palm fronds stroked him, the curling touch of fingers with a dozen joints massaged and seduced. Beside him, Cynthia and Brigitte moaned.
“Let us out! We carry the mark and we are beyond your power.”
Something invisible, warm and bristly, stroked his cock.
More pleasure than you can imagine. Show us and we will show you.
Tell us stories.
The Black Pharaoh offered Anthony a cock like a scepter, stiff and perfect, warm as noon earth, soft as leather in the sun, a long, hard blessing. He took it between his lips, reverent and grateful, savoring the heat and the salty drink, thick and pungent as time itself. He had been here before. He had always been here.
Flickering film, tape fading to black, words erased by time on the page, eaten by vellum weevils, lost words, forbidden words.
Anthony gripped the ankh, tightening his hold against the mirage.
He had been used in every possible way. He made his way out of the bright studio, the walls painted in primary red and blue. They had finished with him, but would they let him go? He pushed at the door of the garishly lit studio and it opened.
On the other side, he saw morning.
#
“Tony?” Cynthia sounded worried.
He looked at her, at Brigitte, and then around Temptations to the waitress, the other diners, everything normal and right. “What?” he managed. “I’m okay. I’m okay now.”
“Brigitte can stay with us at your place tonight, right?” Cynthia asked.
“Sure,” he said, his hand going to his pocket. He touched the ankh, held it. “Course she can. She can stay with us.
He tried to sound reassuring and certain. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
Continued in Part 44
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 43
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Part 43
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
A long time ago, in the room behind the video store, Anthony bolted for the door, pushed by the hot lights behind him and by the blind panic in his head. The breathless hand on his chest, and the cold touch of madness in his brain whipped him more effectively than any crop or cane. With every step, the memory of the thing behind him grew less distinct, but at the door, on the very edge of freedom, he looked back.Anthony remembered himself on the video tape, his face reflecting the horror in the bare room where he had been tied, where he had bathed in nightmare’s milk and been fucked by Nyarlathotep himself.
He tried not to look at the worm, at Cassia, and the enormous, pulsing, oozing pocket the transformed, otherworldly goth chick entwined. He had to save Cynthia; that was his only imperative. Rascal was a lawyer – he could look out for himself, and Cassia... Anything he might think to contribute to her defense would be useless.
Spittle gathered on his lips. He wanted to wet himself with awe at the waves of emotional force radiating from the fucking monsters, but he held on, held on to Cynthia with his right hand, keeping her tight against his chest even as he held Brigitte with his left. Brigitte had the ankh. When she waved it, she and the stone both glowed faintly blue. Anthony took that as a good sign.
Tales lay on the sidewalk, four or five feet from the unspeakable, writhing lovers. The spreading pool of slime around them had not yet touched the pages.
“Rascal,” Anthony yelled. “Get the book.”
The big guy gave it his best, obeying without question. Anthony watched as Rascal, probably already dead in his brain, fought against the naked goons, and started for the volume, as if he knew it had a chance at restoring his sanity. Tell him a story to ease his mind.
Rascal pushed past the urban savages, shoving just as hard as he needed to, clearing them. He crouched six feet from Cassia, and reached out for the book. He caught hold of a corner and pulled it to him. The tribe closed around him. They didn’t touch him, but pinned him in.
With Cassia and her inhuman lover.
Rascal looked around, panicky. Eventually his wild, desperate gaze found Anthony.
“Throw me the book!” Anthony called to him. Cynthia clung to Anthony now just as Brigitte did. The ankh seemed to be keeping the savages at bay.
A sense of urgency crept up his spine as he sensed the probing legs and the worm’s fierce nuzzling.
Rascal tried. He tried to fling the old book like a Frisbee but one of the spidery legs that had extruded from the priestess blocked his arm and the book flew backward, striking the monsters in their coital frenzy. The Cassia worm thrashed and the swollen priestess oozed more copiously. The air stank of something like raw rubber and rank latex.
It’s gone, Anthony thought, the book’s gone – and so is Rascal. No sooner had the spindly appendage bumped Brigitte’s brother than the twisting hulk of flesh curved toward the hapless lawyer and a half dozen probing legs groped him. The worm took notice of its paramour’s distraction and raised its tapering white snout that dripped with the spend of will and the coming of consciousness. It nuzzled Rascal where he hung in the web of feelers. He screamed and struggled, but his cry sounded more like one of pleasure than of horror or pain. The lawyer seemed to diminish, as though some part of him was being pulled into the mad pairing of monsters.
Turning, running, dragging the women with him, Anthony could not remember what happened next, no matter how hard he tried. With every running step, the memory grew hazier. He led Cynthia and Brigitte in a hard run, fighting the psychic power of the frenzied, fucking monsters, their violent coupling quickened by whatever they had taken from Rascal.
“Run,” Anthony screamed, a mantra of survival. The girls listened to him and together they ran away from the worm and its mate, over cobblestones, hard-packed dirt, sunlight broken among the buildings, shining in the towers of glass, smoky red above the burning city of old London.
Behind them, the tribe clamored and stirred, reluctant to leave the nuptial bed of dreams, spurred by whips of languid will. Anthony’s cock twitched with the call too. Go, take them and bring them to us that we may know them.
He remembered Sodom, the procurer’s angels, a rain of fire. Virgins of paradise beckoned, their marquee a six-armed goddess of desire, but all of them fell away as he led Cynthia and Brigitte through the lost city, bare feet on hard pavement. When they reached 3rd Avenue, the air rippled and smoked like canvas tearing, the picture giving way to actuality, beyond a web of red light.
He took the ankh from Brigitte. A gust of hot wind played around them then grew still. The women stayed near him as he raised the stone.
“Let us out!” he cried.
Pungent sweat oozed. Hands as broad as palm fronds stroked him, the curling touch of fingers with a dozen joints massaged and seduced. Beside him, Cynthia and Brigitte moaned.
“Let us out! We carry the mark and we are beyond your power.”
Something invisible, warm and bristly, stroked his cock.
More pleasure than you can imagine. Show us and we will show you.
Tell us stories.
The Black Pharaoh offered Anthony a cock like a scepter, stiff and perfect, warm as noon earth, soft as leather in the sun, a long, hard blessing. He took it between his lips, reverent and grateful, savoring the heat and the salty drink, thick and pungent as time itself. He had been here before. He had always been here.
Flickering film, tape fading to black, words erased by time on the page, eaten by vellum weevils, lost words, forbidden words.
Anthony gripped the ankh, tightening his hold against the mirage.
He had been used in every possible way. He made his way out of the bright studio, the walls painted in primary red and blue. They had finished with him, but would they let him go? He pushed at the door of the garishly lit studio and it opened.
On the other side, he saw morning.
#
“Tony?” Cynthia sounded worried.
He looked at her, at Brigitte, and then around Temptations to the waitress, the other diners, everything normal and right. “What?” he managed. “I’m okay. I’m okay now.”
“Brigitte can stay with us at your place tonight, right?” Cynthia asked.
“Sure,” he said, his hand going to his pocket. He touched the ankh, held it. “Course she can. She can stay with us.
He tried to sound reassuring and certain. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
Continued in Part 44
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 4/2/2011 6:11 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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