Woman of His Dreams - Part XLV
Welcome to Part 45 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 held Cynthia close, the aura of warmth and wonder golden around them. In the rising rhythm, deep inside her, their hands became extensions of their united will, lips joined in a breathless kiss. All the horror of his dreams – they were only dreams – fell away from him and there was nothing beyond the two of them, one love, perfect and whole.
They came together, echoing another coupling he recalled dimly from his dreams, though the image escaped him, lost in the awe of shared souls, the fulfillment of divine desire.
He loved her. He loved Cynthia and he knew, with all his heart that she loved him too.
The three of them slept in Anthony’s bed, a tight fit. He held Cynthia and Brigitte, cocooned between them, and every time he moved or shifted his position, the touch of warm, female flesh blessed him with scented heat.
He did not dream.
#
They woke together in muted morning light, and Anthony fought a moment of panic before he realized that – contrary to his fear, or to a memory – Brigitte was not gone, but beautifully present, warm and naked beside him.
He shared a look with Cynthia and understood his fear had a partner in her. They embraced the same relief as Brigitte stretched on the bed, then they all showered together, washing away the night. The women took turns soaping Anthony, bringing his cock to full life, and he kissed Cynthia while Brigitte sucked him off. Then it was Cynthia’s turn for dual attention, as Anthony knelt in the hot spray and licked her to orgasm while Brigitte played with her breasts and delivered long, deep kisses. Out of the shower, Cynthia and Anthony dried Brigitte, mostly, before they took turns going down on her until she begged them to stop.
What day is it? Anthony wondered, still on his knees, kissing the juices on Brigitte’s thighs, realizing that the question rang meaningless in his head. He experienced a stab of panic at the sudden thought that the world did not exist beyond the walls of his townhouse, but Cynthia opened the curtains and he saw sky and the tops of neighboring buildings beyond the glass.
Everything shined, normal; everything was perfect.
Anthony made breakfast while the girls dressed, their laughter ringing like morning bells. He could live like this forever (the word worried him for some reason), happy and complete, beyond jealousy, sharing pleasure naturally, sharing Brigitte with Cynthia, the three of them open to other lovers. Anthony didn’t want to be selfish.
The women joined him in the little dining space off the kitchen and they ate omelets and fresh fruit while seated around the table, content and ready to face the day.
“How’s your brother?” Cynthia asked Brigitte, and there was a note in her voice that Anthony didn’t like at all. The very topic froze his fork in mid-stab above a strawberry.
Brigitte laughed. “What do you mean?”
“Rascal. How’s Rascal?”
“I..I don’t have a brother,” Brigitte said, but her voice broke into pieces.
Anthony saw the edge of panic in her eyes and a fragment of memory like a film half-watched, pulled at his teeth – a man pierced and ravished by spidery legs, a nightmare vision from a living Bosch painting.
“My god,” he gasped, rising from the table, headed for the living room. Behind him, Brigitte and Cynthia sat in frozen silence and he knew they shared his memories. Something black and thick as mud began to ooze in around the boarded door in his brain.
He found it where Brigitte had dropped it, the weird tablet computer that shifted and warped as he picked it up, the plastic becoming leather under his thumbs, the shiny screen etched with letters that spelled a single word. He concentrated, trying to reverse the metamorphosis, to turn it back into a blank surface or, better yet, to banish it entirely, but the screen showed the word, three dimensional, embossed, a perfect facsimile.
Tales.
Cynthia had come into the room behind him, her hand clutching his arm, and he felt tension and horror in her touch, saw a hall of doors opening into other worlds, London and Merrymount, the blasted streets of a lost future, a forgotten past, a city of glass that had fallen to shining dust before the age of pyramids. “Oh god,” he said. “It’s true. It’s all true.”
On a table by the sofa, his phone buzzed and, still holding the ghastly e-book, he answered the summons.
He knew the voice on the other end instantly, and remembered the phone call he had made in what seemed another epoch, trying to find information on Carcossia’s Books, trying to find the answer to dreams.
“’Lo, Tony. I’m on my way from the airport to the office on 18th and Durer. Got my book? The one you told me about? Can you bring it to me?” Charlie Bankston, head buyer for the MacIllan rare book dynasty in London.
Momentarily speechless, Anthony regarded the electronic device in his hand, the digital picture of the old tome’s cover, sparkling and new. “I don’t know,” Anthony started to say, but Charlie interrupted him.
“Listen, boyo. I cut my trip to Maui short for this. What do you mean, you don’t know?” There was mockery in his tone, and derision. Anthony remembered just how much he hated Charlie. “Do you have this wonderful old book, or don’t you?”
He couldn’t concentrate on Charlie’s words because something was happening to the place on his side. He felt thick warmth there, not painful but hot and pressing and he put his hand to his shirt, tentatively, afraid of what he would feel. Under the cloth, something moved, like a coiled serpent or an extension of his flesh, hot and wet. He couldn’t look down but Cynthia and Brigitte’s horrified faces as they watched him were bad enough.
The world trembled around them but he heard Charlie’s words clearly enough. The e-book shimmered, plastic becoming leather, the screen resolving completely into an ancient, worn cover, the title appearing just as it had days, weeks, centuries earlier.
“You know where the office is, Tony,” Charlie said. “You’d better bring me the fucking book in an hour, or you can’t begin to imagine what will happen to you.”
Continued in Part 46.
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 45
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Part 45
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Anthony held Cynthia close, the aura of warmth and wonder golden around them. In the rising rhythm, deep inside her, their hands became extensions of their united will, lips joined in a breathless kiss. All the horror of his dreams – they were only dreams – fell away from him and there was nothing beyond the two of them, one love, perfect and whole.They came together, echoing another coupling he recalled dimly from his dreams, though the image escaped him, lost in the awe of shared souls, the fulfillment of divine desire.
He loved her. He loved Cynthia and he knew, with all his heart that she loved him too.
The three of them slept in Anthony’s bed, a tight fit. He held Cynthia and Brigitte, cocooned between them, and every time he moved or shifted his position, the touch of warm, female flesh blessed him with scented heat.
He did not dream.
#
They woke together in muted morning light, and Anthony fought a moment of panic before he realized that – contrary to his fear, or to a memory – Brigitte was not gone, but beautifully present, warm and naked beside him.
He shared a look with Cynthia and understood his fear had a partner in her. They embraced the same relief as Brigitte stretched on the bed, then they all showered together, washing away the night. The women took turns soaping Anthony, bringing his cock to full life, and he kissed Cynthia while Brigitte sucked him off. Then it was Cynthia’s turn for dual attention, as Anthony knelt in the hot spray and licked her to orgasm while Brigitte played with her breasts and delivered long, deep kisses. Out of the shower, Cynthia and Anthony dried Brigitte, mostly, before they took turns going down on her until she begged them to stop.
What day is it? Anthony wondered, still on his knees, kissing the juices on Brigitte’s thighs, realizing that the question rang meaningless in his head. He experienced a stab of panic at the sudden thought that the world did not exist beyond the walls of his townhouse, but Cynthia opened the curtains and he saw sky and the tops of neighboring buildings beyond the glass.
Everything shined, normal; everything was perfect.
Anthony made breakfast while the girls dressed, their laughter ringing like morning bells. He could live like this forever (the word worried him for some reason), happy and complete, beyond jealousy, sharing pleasure naturally, sharing Brigitte with Cynthia, the three of them open to other lovers. Anthony didn’t want to be selfish.
The women joined him in the little dining space off the kitchen and they ate omelets and fresh fruit while seated around the table, content and ready to face the day.
“How’s your brother?” Cynthia asked Brigitte, and there was a note in her voice that Anthony didn’t like at all. The very topic froze his fork in mid-stab above a strawberry.
Brigitte laughed. “What do you mean?”
“Rascal. How’s Rascal?”
“I..I don’t have a brother,” Brigitte said, but her voice broke into pieces.
Anthony saw the edge of panic in her eyes and a fragment of memory like a film half-watched, pulled at his teeth – a man pierced and ravished by spidery legs, a nightmare vision from a living Bosch painting.
“My god,” he gasped, rising from the table, headed for the living room. Behind him, Brigitte and Cynthia sat in frozen silence and he knew they shared his memories. Something black and thick as mud began to ooze in around the boarded door in his brain.
He found it where Brigitte had dropped it, the weird tablet computer that shifted and warped as he picked it up, the plastic becoming leather under his thumbs, the shiny screen etched with letters that spelled a single word. He concentrated, trying to reverse the metamorphosis, to turn it back into a blank surface or, better yet, to banish it entirely, but the screen showed the word, three dimensional, embossed, a perfect facsimile.
Tales.
Cynthia had come into the room behind him, her hand clutching his arm, and he felt tension and horror in her touch, saw a hall of doors opening into other worlds, London and Merrymount, the blasted streets of a lost future, a forgotten past, a city of glass that had fallen to shining dust before the age of pyramids. “Oh god,” he said. “It’s true. It’s all true.”
On a table by the sofa, his phone buzzed and, still holding the ghastly e-book, he answered the summons.
He knew the voice on the other end instantly, and remembered the phone call he had made in what seemed another epoch, trying to find information on Carcossia’s Books, trying to find the answer to dreams.
“’Lo, Tony. I’m on my way from the airport to the office on 18th and Durer. Got my book? The one you told me about? Can you bring it to me?” Charlie Bankston, head buyer for the MacIllan rare book dynasty in London.
Momentarily speechless, Anthony regarded the electronic device in his hand, the digital picture of the old tome’s cover, sparkling and new. “I don’t know,” Anthony started to say, but Charlie interrupted him.
“Listen, boyo. I cut my trip to Maui short for this. What do you mean, you don’t know?” There was mockery in his tone, and derision. Anthony remembered just how much he hated Charlie. “Do you have this wonderful old book, or don’t you?”
He couldn’t concentrate on Charlie’s words because something was happening to the place on his side. He felt thick warmth there, not painful but hot and pressing and he put his hand to his shirt, tentatively, afraid of what he would feel. Under the cloth, something moved, like a coiled serpent or an extension of his flesh, hot and wet. He couldn’t look down but Cynthia and Brigitte’s horrified faces as they watched him were bad enough.
The world trembled around them but he heard Charlie’s words clearly enough. The e-book shimmered, plastic becoming leather, the screen resolving completely into an ancient, worn cover, the title appearing just as it had days, weeks, centuries earlier.
“You know where the office is, Tony,” Charlie said. “You’d better bring me the fucking book in an hour, or you can’t begin to imagine what will happen to you.”
Continued in Part 46.
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 4/16/2011 6:43 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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