Woman of His Dreams - Part XLVI
Welcome to Part 46 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
The three of them rode in the back on a cab, Tony squeezed between her and Brigitte, on their way to the office where his British boss had demanded a meeting. Cynthia felt the tension in Anthony, in the tightness in his jaw, the hard knot of muscle when she brushed his arm. So much anxiety, even after the delicious morning with Brigitte. Cynthia’s pussy still ached sweetly. Dear gods, she wondered. Could she be getting horny again?
Tony’s satchel, with Tales tucked safely inside, sat on the floor of the cab, Tony's calf trapping the straps to the hump he straddled, her ankle pressing against the bag itself. Cynthia, without telling him or Brigitte, still carried the ankh in her purse, though she could not clearly remember how the artifact had come into her possession. She reached into her bag and touched the cool stone, the comfort that flowed from the looped cross more real than even the flesh that pressed on each of her thighs. Disturbing memories hovered nearby, born of the ankh, of the book, but still she found comfort in the texture under her fingers. She imagined the book, hidden away in Tony’s valise, changed again while hidden by the canvas into something organic, ancient, a living coral, eager to cut away her jeans and into her leg, tiny polyps hungry for skin, blood.
Bone.
“Tony, I don’t know if this is such a good idea. Charlie’s never been so rude, has he?”
Tony stretched his arms along the cab’s wide back seat and squeezed her to him. He brushed his lips over her forehead, a silent warm pause on her head, while he chose his words. “I don’t think I ever told you about the time he had a lead on a tiny, private-press edition of a story by William Lumley – one of Lovecraft’s peers. Lovecraft was a rationalist, but this Lumley fellow was a believer in all manner of occult things. This particular little booklet contained a story that – legend says – was dictated to him by a demon. There was a bookseller in Boston who turned up a copy and offered it to Charlie, but things didn’t work out…”
Tony closed his fingers around Brigitte’s shoulder, drawing her to him too.
“What happened?” Brigitte whispered, a sound that barely reached beyond the spin of the wheels.
“Charlie lost his temper when the guy balked. I remember his exact words. ‘If you don’t sell me that book, the crabs won’t even be able to tell what they’re eating.”
Brigitte sucked in a startled breath. “He wasn’t serious, was he? Was he drunk?”
Tony nodded, his grip on Cynthia’s shoulder almost painful.
Was Tony’s cock hard? She glanced down, but couldn’t tell under the loose pants.
“Drunk? Probably. What I do know is this. The dealer showed up three days later looking like he’d just washed up on the beach – pale as a ghost, wet, eyes so bloodshot they looked like pools of blood with pupils. He handed over a velvet bag and walked out of Charlie’s office without so much as a penny for payment. He gave that book to Charlie.”
Cynthia instinctively touched the ankh. “We don’t have to give him Tales.” She couldn’t bring herself to verbalize her most dire fear – that the book might not even be in the bag when they met Charlie. She tried with mixed success to banish thoughts of the book turning gelid and seeping out of the valise.
She put her hand on Tony’s thigh, a mass of hard muscle, and allowed her fingers to trail to where his cock must be. Jesus. He was hard again. She wanted him to fuck her, needed him to fuck her. Would the cabby mind? He was a good-looking island guy, judging by his dreads and his accent. She could fuck him too. Brigitte could suck his balls. Yes. It could be just the four of them.
Too late. The cab pulled to the curb and Tony paid the Rasta a twenty – a generous tip for Tony. As the cab zoomed away to whatever future, Brigitte, Cynthia, and Tony stood on the sidewalk, frozen only a moment as they looked down the street.
“This way,” Tony instructed, but before they had traveled more than a few feet, he slowed, his steps awkward, as if he wasn’t sure of what direction he wanted to take. Half way down Jenkin Street, he stopped dead, forcing grim pedestrians to flow around them, the grumbles audible over scuffing footfalls. Cynthia stood before a squat building, older than the taller structures on both sides of it, a revenant from the turn of the 19th Century, its upper floors adorned with geometric gargoyles, doorway arched and ornamented with copper.
He pulled Cynthia and Brigitte to his sides, so the women faced each other. “He’s in there, but before we go in, I…I want to say this now,” Tony nuzzled them both, “because I don’t know if I’ll get to say it later. This – whatever this is, what we’ve shared, I want to keep, I want to hold onto, and if giving Charlie that damn book is how we can stay together, than I will. You two mean more to me than…than…”
She understood what he was trying to say. The bond that tied the three of them together in some semblance of a true knot radiated in her too. It was something born of unspeakable experience and manifested into trailing ends of a tie so complex and precise it would take sailor magicians centuries to unravel it.
She thought of Stephen and remembered something had happened to him, but she could not recall the circumstances. Rascal too, though Brigitte seemed foggy on the question of whether she really had a brother. And someone else, a pale, young woman in black who had transformed horribly into a hungry nightmare.
“Cassia,” Tony said, his tone dead even as he gripped Cynthia and Brigitte. His focus directed their gazes to the doorway of the brownstone. And, sure enough, there she was, the Goth chick, wearing a dress of tattered black lace that clung to her small, shapely breasts, pink nipples poking through with crass impudence, ivory skin beckoning through ragged mesh.
“They mean more than what, bookworm?” Cassia asked, not without warmth. “More than me?”
Cynthia put her arm around Tony, her hand finding the wound in his side, feeling serpentine movement as though a tongue or a tentacle protruded from the gash, licking, questing.
Wanting her.
Men and women on the street passed by without a glance like extras in a film unaware of the godlike actors and wicked acts all around them.
With her other hand, Cynthia reached for the ankh, but Cassia’s laugh stopped her.
“You won’t need that, honey, but pull it out if it makes you feel better. Take this too.” She held the ceremonial dagger by its blade and offered the phallic hilt to Tony. “You’re going to use this on me before the day’s over, bookworm. Up to you which end.”
She turned away, confident, and walked up the three steps to the door. They followed her into the old building with no hesitation.
“I’ve been here before,” Tony barely breathed. “There’s… from the top floor, you can see…”
“Forever,” Cassia finished, looking over her shoulder, her smile bordering smug and adventurous. “I’m afraid the elevator’s out. Up the stairs we go.” She started up with wide steps, taking them two at a time. “You know who’s waiting for us up there, right?”
Cynthia started up after her, matching her pace.
“Charlie,” Anthony said, behind Cynthia, still holding Brigitte’s hand and leading her up the spiral.
“Nah. Well, yeah, but not just Charlie. The fucking Procurer is waiting up there. He’s my sweetie.”
“Match made in heaven,” Cynthia said as she adjusted her breath for the climb.
They ascended in silence, the wide spiral narrowing, sometimes opening out onto the landings of shadowy floors that whispered and groaned, other times winding upward through walled spaces where the only light was cast from above and below.
After ten flights, Cynthia’s stomach began to churn and her breath came harder, but Cassia seemed unfazed by the exertion. “Hurry up,” she urged, her voice cold with awful promise. “The Procurer is going to tell you how it ends.”
“What?” Cynthia asked, trying not to wheeze. “The story?”
“No, lazybones.” Cassia smiled down at her. “Everything.”
Continued in Part 47
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 46
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Part 46
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
The three of them rode in the back on a cab, Tony squeezed between her and Brigitte, on their way to the office where his British boss had demanded a meeting. Cynthia felt the tension in Anthony, in the tightness in his jaw, the hard knot of muscle when she brushed his arm. So much anxiety, even after the delicious morning with Brigitte. Cynthia’s pussy still ached sweetly. Dear gods, she wondered. Could she be getting horny again?Tony’s satchel, with Tales tucked safely inside, sat on the floor of the cab, Tony's calf trapping the straps to the hump he straddled, her ankle pressing against the bag itself. Cynthia, without telling him or Brigitte, still carried the ankh in her purse, though she could not clearly remember how the artifact had come into her possession. She reached into her bag and touched the cool stone, the comfort that flowed from the looped cross more real than even the flesh that pressed on each of her thighs. Disturbing memories hovered nearby, born of the ankh, of the book, but still she found comfort in the texture under her fingers. She imagined the book, hidden away in Tony’s valise, changed again while hidden by the canvas into something organic, ancient, a living coral, eager to cut away her jeans and into her leg, tiny polyps hungry for skin, blood.
Bone.
“Tony, I don’t know if this is such a good idea. Charlie’s never been so rude, has he?”
Tony stretched his arms along the cab’s wide back seat and squeezed her to him. He brushed his lips over her forehead, a silent warm pause on her head, while he chose his words. “I don’t think I ever told you about the time he had a lead on a tiny, private-press edition of a story by William Lumley – one of Lovecraft’s peers. Lovecraft was a rationalist, but this Lumley fellow was a believer in all manner of occult things. This particular little booklet contained a story that – legend says – was dictated to him by a demon. There was a bookseller in Boston who turned up a copy and offered it to Charlie, but things didn’t work out…”
Tony closed his fingers around Brigitte’s shoulder, drawing her to him too.
“What happened?” Brigitte whispered, a sound that barely reached beyond the spin of the wheels.
“Charlie lost his temper when the guy balked. I remember his exact words. ‘If you don’t sell me that book, the crabs won’t even be able to tell what they’re eating.”
Brigitte sucked in a startled breath. “He wasn’t serious, was he? Was he drunk?”
Tony nodded, his grip on Cynthia’s shoulder almost painful.
Was Tony’s cock hard? She glanced down, but couldn’t tell under the loose pants.
“Drunk? Probably. What I do know is this. The dealer showed up three days later looking like he’d just washed up on the beach – pale as a ghost, wet, eyes so bloodshot they looked like pools of blood with pupils. He handed over a velvet bag and walked out of Charlie’s office without so much as a penny for payment. He gave that book to Charlie.”
Cynthia instinctively touched the ankh. “We don’t have to give him Tales.” She couldn’t bring herself to verbalize her most dire fear – that the book might not even be in the bag when they met Charlie. She tried with mixed success to banish thoughts of the book turning gelid and seeping out of the valise.
She put her hand on Tony’s thigh, a mass of hard muscle, and allowed her fingers to trail to where his cock must be. Jesus. He was hard again. She wanted him to fuck her, needed him to fuck her. Would the cabby mind? He was a good-looking island guy, judging by his dreads and his accent. She could fuck him too. Brigitte could suck his balls. Yes. It could be just the four of them.
Too late. The cab pulled to the curb and Tony paid the Rasta a twenty – a generous tip for Tony. As the cab zoomed away to whatever future, Brigitte, Cynthia, and Tony stood on the sidewalk, frozen only a moment as they looked down the street.
“This way,” Tony instructed, but before they had traveled more than a few feet, he slowed, his steps awkward, as if he wasn’t sure of what direction he wanted to take. Half way down Jenkin Street, he stopped dead, forcing grim pedestrians to flow around them, the grumbles audible over scuffing footfalls. Cynthia stood before a squat building, older than the taller structures on both sides of it, a revenant from the turn of the 19th Century, its upper floors adorned with geometric gargoyles, doorway arched and ornamented with copper.
He pulled Cynthia and Brigitte to his sides, so the women faced each other. “He’s in there, but before we go in, I…I want to say this now,” Tony nuzzled them both, “because I don’t know if I’ll get to say it later. This – whatever this is, what we’ve shared, I want to keep, I want to hold onto, and if giving Charlie that damn book is how we can stay together, than I will. You two mean more to me than…than…”
She understood what he was trying to say. The bond that tied the three of them together in some semblance of a true knot radiated in her too. It was something born of unspeakable experience and manifested into trailing ends of a tie so complex and precise it would take sailor magicians centuries to unravel it.
She thought of Stephen and remembered something had happened to him, but she could not recall the circumstances. Rascal too, though Brigitte seemed foggy on the question of whether she really had a brother. And someone else, a pale, young woman in black who had transformed horribly into a hungry nightmare.
“Cassia,” Tony said, his tone dead even as he gripped Cynthia and Brigitte. His focus directed their gazes to the doorway of the brownstone. And, sure enough, there she was, the Goth chick, wearing a dress of tattered black lace that clung to her small, shapely breasts, pink nipples poking through with crass impudence, ivory skin beckoning through ragged mesh.
“They mean more than what, bookworm?” Cassia asked, not without warmth. “More than me?”
Cynthia put her arm around Tony, her hand finding the wound in his side, feeling serpentine movement as though a tongue or a tentacle protruded from the gash, licking, questing.
Wanting her.
Men and women on the street passed by without a glance like extras in a film unaware of the godlike actors and wicked acts all around them.
With her other hand, Cynthia reached for the ankh, but Cassia’s laugh stopped her.
“You won’t need that, honey, but pull it out if it makes you feel better. Take this too.” She held the ceremonial dagger by its blade and offered the phallic hilt to Tony. “You’re going to use this on me before the day’s over, bookworm. Up to you which end.”
She turned away, confident, and walked up the three steps to the door. They followed her into the old building with no hesitation.
“I’ve been here before,” Tony barely breathed. “There’s… from the top floor, you can see…”
“Forever,” Cassia finished, looking over her shoulder, her smile bordering smug and adventurous. “I’m afraid the elevator’s out. Up the stairs we go.” She started up with wide steps, taking them two at a time. “You know who’s waiting for us up there, right?”
Cynthia started up after her, matching her pace.
“Charlie,” Anthony said, behind Cynthia, still holding Brigitte’s hand and leading her up the spiral.
“Nah. Well, yeah, but not just Charlie. The fucking Procurer is waiting up there. He’s my sweetie.”
“Match made in heaven,” Cynthia said as she adjusted her breath for the climb.
They ascended in silence, the wide spiral narrowing, sometimes opening out onto the landings of shadowy floors that whispered and groaned, other times winding upward through walled spaces where the only light was cast from above and below.
After ten flights, Cynthia’s stomach began to churn and her breath came harder, but Cassia seemed unfazed by the exertion. “Hurry up,” she urged, her voice cold with awful promise. “The Procurer is going to tell you how it ends.”
“What?” Cynthia asked, trying not to wheeze. “The story?”
“No, lazybones.” Cassia smiled down at her. “Everything.”
Continued in Part 47
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 4/23/2011 6:18 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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