Woman of His Dreams - Part XLIV
Welcome to Part 44 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
They walked six blocks to the townhouse. Cynthia linked her arm with Brigitte’s, the warmth between them electric and promising. She had wanted this for so long, to share Brigitte with Tony, to taste both of them, to lick Brigitte’s clit while Tony fucked her. Early spring breeze blew among the buildings, the street not full at all, a pause between the beating of the great subway heart of the city, these streets left to residents and a scattering of passersby. For a moment, disassociation clouded her vision, the nearby skyline spangled purple, seemed like something in a memory, another city of towers in another time. She remembered a room within one crystalline spire, a chamber of limitless desire and dread.
She had never felt so horny, so absolutely consumed with desire. She remembered the dream in Tony’s bed. Something powerful as a storm, hairy, long-shanked and insatiable. She dreamed of him after she had … after she had read, had seen…
The thought would not form. She looked at Tony and wondered what he was thinking, yet she knew exactly, felt the hot rush of neurons, the shared bolt between them.
Three opened such possibilities, a tongue on his balls while he pushed into Cynthia’s dripping cunt, hands, teeth, the options multiplied, morphing into heat and motion, no direction, no bones in their bodies, only nerves firing pleasure, the border of intensity beyond tolerance, rhythm, sweat…
Then the vision vanished, the moment gone. What the hell had she been thinking?
They were just going to look at some fucking tile.
**
Thom Yorke’s moody tenor laced the room with music. Cynthia had just opened the third bottle of good wine and the conversation had ranged over the politics of Brigitte’s job, the inarguable superiority of OK Computer to Hail to the Thief, dogs and how much trouble they were to keep, and now they had lapsed into comfortable silence, tasting the Riesling.
Cynthia and Brigitte shared the little sofa and Anthony sat at Cynthia’s feet, his head resting warm against her thigh. Brigitte was staying with them. The bed was big enough for three. A trickle of acid worry flowed through the Riesling fog, the veil of memory across …what?
She saw light through crystal walls and remembered the virgin forest of Merrymount.
“What’s this?” Brigitte asked, her voice rising a little.
“What?” Anthony almost slurred. Cynthia’s breath froze at her lips. She remembered this.
“This your tablet? It was on the floor here by the couch. It’s not an iPad. What is it?”
Cynthia looked up into Anthony’s face, saw his widened eyes, the o of his frightened mouth. She started to speak, but words failed.
Brigitte had already tapped the tablet into life. “Oh man,” she said. “It’s some kind of eBook reader, I guess.”
The room began to tatter, shards of crystal breaking light of nameless colors.
“Listen,” Brigitte read. “Once there were creatures so long bereft of flesh that they had forgotten its nature, transcendent and sublime, but lonely. In their realms of sea and time, in the space between atoms and worlds, they dreamed of pleasures lost long ago.
“Their messenger they sent, their dark courier, Nyarlathotep, to earth to find a mortal who might aid them, a cosmic dildo if you will, to satisfy their unholy lust.”
Cynthia giggled, unable to help herself. Brigitte looked up at them with playful hunger and laid the pad aside, where it flickered into blackness. Tony got to her first, claiming Brigitte’s lips with his in a fierce, savage kiss, but Cynthia moved right behind him, her hands on Brigitte’s thighs, under her skirt, tearing urgently.
They fell in a tangle to the floor. Tony had Brigitte’s blouse off; she was naked under it, her breasts firm, nipples stiff as stones, apparently impossible to resist. Cynthia worked with Brigitte to strip Tony, his pants first, then his ridiculously tented boxers, freeing his cock. While Brigitte went to work with her mouth, Cynthia tore his shirt from him, biting and stroking hard, stomach and shoulder, the smooth heat of his back and hips.
His side. She touched the wound and instinctively drew away from it.
She knew this. She remembered it.
Brigitte took all of Tony’s cock into her mouth, almost choking when he came, the white goo overflowing her lips as she shrieked with delight, disgorging his spent length, though it already showed new promise. “First,” she cried.
Cynthia dove into Brigitte’s cunt, tongue-first, her thumbs almost brutal against her friend’s thighs, bruising milk-pale skin. Brigitte tasted delicious. She and Cynthia had played around some in college, but it had been way too long since Cynthia went down on a hot girl.
How long ago had it been? The question made her head spin even as logic evaporated under the assault of Tony’s fingers on her own cunt as he stroked and primed her for his re-engorging prick.
Nothing in the world was as important as a good fuck, she thought, except the bond of trust that held the three of them together, the warmth and closeness that would follow mind-blowing orgasms. Tony slid into her, still stiffening as he worked his way in, his forefinger and thumb busy with her clit. She fumbled her rhythm, her mouth messy on Brigitte’s open slit, lips open to lips, tongue suddenly clumsy as she lapped deep then shallow, almost choking on the flow.
Tony slapped her ass and began to pound her and she gasped, then recovered enough to find the pace of her lapping again, feeding on Brigitte’s cry, the grip of sharp nails in her shoulders, Tony’s urgency, harder and deeper.
The world came apart, the edges of reason and sanity unraveled, a hall of mirrors in infinite parallel, non-Euclidean lines, every moment sublime.
Brigitte screamed her orgasm, her thighs gripping Cynthia’s head, thrashing and coming again and again. Cynthia felt her own climax rising like a holy sun above the depthless sea, red and full and whole, felt Tony’s cock in her, every hard inch divine.
He forced her butt up so he could plunge deeper and he turned her, pivoting her so that she faced him, held him between her legs, settling back onto the rug, Brigitte lost to them now in the afterglow, only Cynthia and Tony, finishing something they had begun an eon before.
Continued in part 45
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 44
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Part 44
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
They walked six blocks to the townhouse. Cynthia linked her arm with Brigitte’s, the warmth between them electric and promising. She had wanted this for so long, to share Brigitte with Tony, to taste both of them, to lick Brigitte’s clit while Tony fucked her. Early spring breeze blew among the buildings, the street not full at all, a pause between the beating of the great subway heart of the city, these streets left to residents and a scattering of passersby. For a moment, disassociation clouded her vision, the nearby skyline spangled purple, seemed like something in a memory, another city of towers in another time. She remembered a room within one crystalline spire, a chamber of limitless desire and dread.She had never felt so horny, so absolutely consumed with desire. She remembered the dream in Tony’s bed. Something powerful as a storm, hairy, long-shanked and insatiable. She dreamed of him after she had … after she had read, had seen…
The thought would not form. She looked at Tony and wondered what he was thinking, yet she knew exactly, felt the hot rush of neurons, the shared bolt between them.
Three opened such possibilities, a tongue on his balls while he pushed into Cynthia’s dripping cunt, hands, teeth, the options multiplied, morphing into heat and motion, no direction, no bones in their bodies, only nerves firing pleasure, the border of intensity beyond tolerance, rhythm, sweat…
Then the vision vanished, the moment gone. What the hell had she been thinking?
They were just going to look at some fucking tile.
**
Thom Yorke’s moody tenor laced the room with music. Cynthia had just opened the third bottle of good wine and the conversation had ranged over the politics of Brigitte’s job, the inarguable superiority of OK Computer to Hail to the Thief, dogs and how much trouble they were to keep, and now they had lapsed into comfortable silence, tasting the Riesling.
Cynthia and Brigitte shared the little sofa and Anthony sat at Cynthia’s feet, his head resting warm against her thigh. Brigitte was staying with them. The bed was big enough for three. A trickle of acid worry flowed through the Riesling fog, the veil of memory across …what?
She saw light through crystal walls and remembered the virgin forest of Merrymount.
“What’s this?” Brigitte asked, her voice rising a little.
“What?” Anthony almost slurred. Cynthia’s breath froze at her lips. She remembered this.
“This your tablet? It was on the floor here by the couch. It’s not an iPad. What is it?”
Cynthia looked up into Anthony’s face, saw his widened eyes, the o of his frightened mouth. She started to speak, but words failed.
Brigitte had already tapped the tablet into life. “Oh man,” she said. “It’s some kind of eBook reader, I guess.”
The room began to tatter, shards of crystal breaking light of nameless colors.
“Listen,” Brigitte read. “Once there were creatures so long bereft of flesh that they had forgotten its nature, transcendent and sublime, but lonely. In their realms of sea and time, in the space between atoms and worlds, they dreamed of pleasures lost long ago.
“Their messenger they sent, their dark courier, Nyarlathotep, to earth to find a mortal who might aid them, a cosmic dildo if you will, to satisfy their unholy lust.”
Cynthia giggled, unable to help herself. Brigitte looked up at them with playful hunger and laid the pad aside, where it flickered into blackness. Tony got to her first, claiming Brigitte’s lips with his in a fierce, savage kiss, but Cynthia moved right behind him, her hands on Brigitte’s thighs, under her skirt, tearing urgently.
They fell in a tangle to the floor. Tony had Brigitte’s blouse off; she was naked under it, her breasts firm, nipples stiff as stones, apparently impossible to resist. Cynthia worked with Brigitte to strip Tony, his pants first, then his ridiculously tented boxers, freeing his cock. While Brigitte went to work with her mouth, Cynthia tore his shirt from him, biting and stroking hard, stomach and shoulder, the smooth heat of his back and hips.
His side. She touched the wound and instinctively drew away from it.
She knew this. She remembered it.
Brigitte took all of Tony’s cock into her mouth, almost choking when he came, the white goo overflowing her lips as she shrieked with delight, disgorging his spent length, though it already showed new promise. “First,” she cried.
Cynthia dove into Brigitte’s cunt, tongue-first, her thumbs almost brutal against her friend’s thighs, bruising milk-pale skin. Brigitte tasted delicious. She and Cynthia had played around some in college, but it had been way too long since Cynthia went down on a hot girl.
How long ago had it been? The question made her head spin even as logic evaporated under the assault of Tony’s fingers on her own cunt as he stroked and primed her for his re-engorging prick.
Nothing in the world was as important as a good fuck, she thought, except the bond of trust that held the three of them together, the warmth and closeness that would follow mind-blowing orgasms. Tony slid into her, still stiffening as he worked his way in, his forefinger and thumb busy with her clit. She fumbled her rhythm, her mouth messy on Brigitte’s open slit, lips open to lips, tongue suddenly clumsy as she lapped deep then shallow, almost choking on the flow.
Tony slapped her ass and began to pound her and she gasped, then recovered enough to find the pace of her lapping again, feeding on Brigitte’s cry, the grip of sharp nails in her shoulders, Tony’s urgency, harder and deeper.
The world came apart, the edges of reason and sanity unraveled, a hall of mirrors in infinite parallel, non-Euclidean lines, every moment sublime.
Brigitte screamed her orgasm, her thighs gripping Cynthia’s head, thrashing and coming again and again. Cynthia felt her own climax rising like a holy sun above the depthless sea, red and full and whole, felt Tony’s cock in her, every hard inch divine.
He forced her butt up so he could plunge deeper and he turned her, pivoting her so that she faced him, held him between her legs, settling back onto the rug, Brigitte lost to them now in the afterglow, only Cynthia and Tony, finishing something they had begun an eon before.
Continued in part 45
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 4/9/2011 6:29 AM 
Categories: dark erotica, Lovecraft, horror, Angela Caperton, Woman of His Dreams
Tags: Woman of His Dreams Angela Caperton dark erotica Lovecraft
Categories: dark erotica, Lovecraft, horror, Angela Caperton, Woman of His Dreams
Tags: Woman of His Dreams Angela Caperton dark erotica Lovecraft
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