Woman of His Dreams - Part XLVII
Welcome to Part 47 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
Light bled from above and below, casting their four shapes into countless variations of shadow, populating the stairwell with distorted ghosts.
Of course, Anthony thought. Of course Charlie Bankston was the Procurer, the ultimate cosmic smut merchant. All the memories of Charlie – joint adventures among piles of yellowed paper in stores in Baltimore, Boston, and even, god help them, in Waco, Texas – they all seemed thin as onionskin now, stories told and retold until there was nothing left but dust.
Cassia led them up the stairs, like an inverted birth canal, the raw material of life returning upward to the place of conception. He understood the passage now, a transitional line between ending and beginning, narrative rendered into polished wood and concrete steps. They walked in a space outside of anything remotely like materiality, a realm of concepts and sensations, dimensions beyond human sense.
“Come on,” the Goth girl urged them, taking two at a time.
Space – for Anthony the word lacked meaning now – shifted around them and the memories of Charlie spilled and merged into his.
“Try this one,” Murphy, the video store manager, urged young Anthony, pushing a tape at him. “Blow your fucking mind.”
He held the tape box and studied its cover. The Guts of London. He had taken it home, watched it on his little Zenith, and he remembered it as an overwrought, low budget movie about devil worshipers who opened a gate through which awful things entered the world.
But there had been a ceremony involving a demonic goat that had become something else. He remembered the shaggy weight, the slow penetration of his asshole while taloned hands held him. He remembered being hard against the rug in Sir Geoffrey’s study, being lifted atop the living altar, and Brigitte receiving him between her legs, the demon fucking him and, through him, her. She had given birth, to what? Swarming things that grew quickly in the mud of the Thames that came to life in words and pictures scattered across tabloid pages, photogravure horrors blowing in dead wind down body-strewn streets?
He saw the paneled parlor with moving picture machines, nickelodeon peepshows where furtive men turned cranks of bone, unreeling flickering celluloid, women and men mounted by devils, impaled by writhing appendages, filled with the seed of stars beyond the rim of space. He saw the eye of an alien god, vast as the sky.
Watching him.
He had returned the tape to the shelf, under the leering gaze of Murphy, his mind indeed blown, not by the badly acted scenes on the magnetic tape, but by what had happened as he watched it, the edge of the television screen crawling like bright moss, out of the cabinet and across the floor, up his legs, around his cock and into his sphincter, the cock of a monster between his lips, pinned, fucked and fucking.
Cassia had been there, though he had not seen her as a woman then. Only later, in her other shape, as he sat in the bare room, bound to a chair. Long, thin, and white as snow, she had crept toward him, rippled and segmented, shining slick with ghastly lubrication.
She licked his cock with a sticky tongue and wrapped around him, squeezing his erection between her coils. He had gone mad with terror and revulsion but she milked him with slow undulations, her flesh cold and burning in the same moment. He came again and again and she lapped every drop with a long, white tongue before she untied him and, holding him as a python holds its prey, burrowed into him to eat his heart.
Or had he escaped? He remembered it both ways and knew that he had forgotten a dozen other endings, some of them far more awful than mere dismemberment.
What has been unleashed in London? From the bowels of the video store? What has been set free to roam the earth in ravening packs, eager for flesh, for fucking, for experience…?
All the stories were one story, and they all ended the same way, in an orgasm of violence, blood and jizz, unspeakable pleasures at the edge of experience, fatal and final as heat death.
Such simple beginnings. Had the first time he remembered fucking Cynthia really been the first? How long had he been part of the show?
He fell to his knees in the stairway, the dirty concrete suddenly solid and entirely real.
Sir Geoffrey, Murphy, they had both been faces of the Procurer. He saw that now. How many others had been his faces in Anthony’s life? All his lives…
Cassia helped him rise, her touch almost tender, her eyes shining with promise.
“It’s the end of the story, Tony,” she said. “That doesn’t happen very often, but the Procurer has something really good in mind.” She looked past him, to Cynthia and Brigitte a few steps below. “When we get to the top, we’re going to put on a special show for him, all four of us…and maybe some others too. You never know who has already arrived.”
“I can’t …” he started to say, but she stopped him with a kiss, her lips as sensuous and demanding as any he had ever tasted, even in dreams. Her tongue pushed past his lips, drawing sensation he felt all the way to his cock. The flickering tip traced his teeth, teased his tongue into a dance, and she put her hand down his pants, found his growing erection.
“Come on, girls,” she said to Cynthia and Brigitte. “Let’s give him a taste.” The other two held back at first, but Anthony saw they were incapable of resistance, caught in the spell of horniness Cassia wove so effortlessly.
Cassia pushed him down on the steps, peeling his trousers down his legs to reveal the rigid shaft of his prick and she opened the first buttons of his shirt, bit and sucked at his nipples while Cynthia and Brigitte took turns blowing him, their mouths as magical and hot as Cassia’s had been.
“Get your skirt up,” Cassia commanded Brigitte while Cynthia worked on him. “He’s going to come in your ass.
Brigitte obeyed, stepping past him to kneel on the next stair landing. She hiked her skirt – no panties to get in the way – and offered the round, ivory portal. Cassia leaned and licked Brigitte’s asshole to lubricate it, fingered her cunt until Brigitte began to moan.
Then Cynthia, still working between his legs, let him go, his cock bobbing and red, ready for penetration.
“Uh uh,” Cassia said as he prepared to mount Brigitte. “Not like that.”
She reached around him and tore his shirt entirely open to reveal what had emerged from the wound in his side, an appendage that rippled and throbbed, longer than his cock and much more flexible, its tip glistening and pulsing with arousal.
“New kicks,” Cassia promised. “It’s going to be like her first time.
“Yours too.”
Continued in Part 48
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 47
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Part 47
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Light bled from above and below, casting their four shapes into countless variations of shadow, populating the stairwell with distorted ghosts.Of course, Anthony thought. Of course Charlie Bankston was the Procurer, the ultimate cosmic smut merchant. All the memories of Charlie – joint adventures among piles of yellowed paper in stores in Baltimore, Boston, and even, god help them, in Waco, Texas – they all seemed thin as onionskin now, stories told and retold until there was nothing left but dust.
Cassia led them up the stairs, like an inverted birth canal, the raw material of life returning upward to the place of conception. He understood the passage now, a transitional line between ending and beginning, narrative rendered into polished wood and concrete steps. They walked in a space outside of anything remotely like materiality, a realm of concepts and sensations, dimensions beyond human sense.
“Come on,” the Goth girl urged them, taking two at a time.
Space – for Anthony the word lacked meaning now – shifted around them and the memories of Charlie spilled and merged into his.
“Try this one,” Murphy, the video store manager, urged young Anthony, pushing a tape at him. “Blow your fucking mind.”
He held the tape box and studied its cover. The Guts of London. He had taken it home, watched it on his little Zenith, and he remembered it as an overwrought, low budget movie about devil worshipers who opened a gate through which awful things entered the world.
But there had been a ceremony involving a demonic goat that had become something else. He remembered the shaggy weight, the slow penetration of his asshole while taloned hands held him. He remembered being hard against the rug in Sir Geoffrey’s study, being lifted atop the living altar, and Brigitte receiving him between her legs, the demon fucking him and, through him, her. She had given birth, to what? Swarming things that grew quickly in the mud of the Thames that came to life in words and pictures scattered across tabloid pages, photogravure horrors blowing in dead wind down body-strewn streets?
He saw the paneled parlor with moving picture machines, nickelodeon peepshows where furtive men turned cranks of bone, unreeling flickering celluloid, women and men mounted by devils, impaled by writhing appendages, filled with the seed of stars beyond the rim of space. He saw the eye of an alien god, vast as the sky.
Watching him.
He had returned the tape to the shelf, under the leering gaze of Murphy, his mind indeed blown, not by the badly acted scenes on the magnetic tape, but by what had happened as he watched it, the edge of the television screen crawling like bright moss, out of the cabinet and across the floor, up his legs, around his cock and into his sphincter, the cock of a monster between his lips, pinned, fucked and fucking.
Cassia had been there, though he had not seen her as a woman then. Only later, in her other shape, as he sat in the bare room, bound to a chair. Long, thin, and white as snow, she had crept toward him, rippled and segmented, shining slick with ghastly lubrication.
She licked his cock with a sticky tongue and wrapped around him, squeezing his erection between her coils. He had gone mad with terror and revulsion but she milked him with slow undulations, her flesh cold and burning in the same moment. He came again and again and she lapped every drop with a long, white tongue before she untied him and, holding him as a python holds its prey, burrowed into him to eat his heart.
Or had he escaped? He remembered it both ways and knew that he had forgotten a dozen other endings, some of them far more awful than mere dismemberment.
What has been unleashed in London? From the bowels of the video store? What has been set free to roam the earth in ravening packs, eager for flesh, for fucking, for experience…?
All the stories were one story, and they all ended the same way, in an orgasm of violence, blood and jizz, unspeakable pleasures at the edge of experience, fatal and final as heat death.
Such simple beginnings. Had the first time he remembered fucking Cynthia really been the first? How long had he been part of the show?
He fell to his knees in the stairway, the dirty concrete suddenly solid and entirely real.
Sir Geoffrey, Murphy, they had both been faces of the Procurer. He saw that now. How many others had been his faces in Anthony’s life? All his lives…
Cassia helped him rise, her touch almost tender, her eyes shining with promise.
“It’s the end of the story, Tony,” she said. “That doesn’t happen very often, but the Procurer has something really good in mind.” She looked past him, to Cynthia and Brigitte a few steps below. “When we get to the top, we’re going to put on a special show for him, all four of us…and maybe some others too. You never know who has already arrived.”
“I can’t …” he started to say, but she stopped him with a kiss, her lips as sensuous and demanding as any he had ever tasted, even in dreams. Her tongue pushed past his lips, drawing sensation he felt all the way to his cock. The flickering tip traced his teeth, teased his tongue into a dance, and she put her hand down his pants, found his growing erection.
“Come on, girls,” she said to Cynthia and Brigitte. “Let’s give him a taste.” The other two held back at first, but Anthony saw they were incapable of resistance, caught in the spell of horniness Cassia wove so effortlessly.
Cassia pushed him down on the steps, peeling his trousers down his legs to reveal the rigid shaft of his prick and she opened the first buttons of his shirt, bit and sucked at his nipples while Cynthia and Brigitte took turns blowing him, their mouths as magical and hot as Cassia’s had been.
“Get your skirt up,” Cassia commanded Brigitte while Cynthia worked on him. “He’s going to come in your ass.
Brigitte obeyed, stepping past him to kneel on the next stair landing. She hiked her skirt – no panties to get in the way – and offered the round, ivory portal. Cassia leaned and licked Brigitte’s asshole to lubricate it, fingered her cunt until Brigitte began to moan.
Then Cynthia, still working between his legs, let him go, his cock bobbing and red, ready for penetration.
“Uh uh,” Cassia said as he prepared to mount Brigitte. “Not like that.”
She reached around him and tore his shirt entirely open to reveal what had emerged from the wound in his side, an appendage that rippled and throbbed, longer than his cock and much more flexible, its tip glistening and pulsing with arousal.
“New kicks,” Cassia promised. “It’s going to be like her first time.
“Yours too.”
Continued in Part 48
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 4/30/2011 7:03 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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