Woman of His Dreams - Part XLVIII
Welcome to Part 48 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
Her lungs burned and her legs shook, but even though sweat stung her eyes, her pussy slicked as she sucked Tony off while he ravaged her breasts. Dizzy with exertion, her brain fogged by the perpetual, rolling lust, she watched the glistening, alien appendage that had emerged from Tony’s side swell and pulse as it lengthened, the tip drooling as it sought Brigitte’s puckered anus.
No.
Over and over, with each rapid pulse, the wrongness of what was about to happen pushed through the musk of passion that drugged her, that drugged all of them.
She reached into her pocket, the ankh a cool sanctuary from the steam and salt of bodies and the hot grind of fucking. She curled her fingers around the base, gripping it, taking it from her pants and thrusting it toward the tentacle, collaring the rigid flesh like one might leash a dog.
Cassia hissed, a sound like locust wings whirring doom. Tony’s scream added to the chaos as Brigitte whimpered and moaned like a tortured soul anticipating reprieve. The oily appendage bucked and jerked, strained against the collar of the ankh, angry and red, chaffing against the ring, swelling with purpose, pressing against the tight loop, unsophisticated, no grace to the rhythm until it began to twitch, to spasm and shining liquid spurted from the tip.
Pale, flaccid, it slid from the gaping hole of the ankh, the sloppy slip to Tony’s side an audible admission of its welcome, eldritch release. Tony’s cock drooped at the same time, leaving Cynthia a little disappointed as she let him slip out from between her lips.
Oh well. She felt certain there would be more blowjob opportunities soon.
Cynthia straightened her shoulders, the dripping ankh in her hands faintly vibrating with triumph. Cassia sneered at her, the black-taloned fingers curling into her own fists until blood ran in red trickles down her palms.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Are you trying to piss them off?” Cassia’s fingers flexed, making a display of the blood tipped nails.
“Just giving them a little variety, honey.” Cynthia drank of the roiling exuberance that coursed through her like lighted jet fuel. Invisible strings lifted her mind beyond the unbelievably sordid stage she found herself on, but she knew she belonged here. This was life – not the searching for a parking spot, sniffing milk cartons in the fridge to check for freshness, vacuuming one more time regardless of the over-stuffed bag sort of life, but the real thing.
Cynthia watched the appendage slither back into Tony.
She saw Cassia struggling for a comeback, trying to make sense of the new resolve that Cynthia radiated, but Cynthia didn’t wait. She took Tony’s hand and Brigitte’s and dragged them up, firm as steel. She pushed past Cassia, taking the lead. Them awaited and regardless of what them wanted, she refused to be led like a lamb to slaughter. She clutched the ankh, the cool stone a comfort against the swirl of visions that flashed on and off the walls when she did not look directly at them.
With every step, her mind and memory fractured into splinters, coalescing around the day when the false puritans came to Elyssium, the day her world had ended.
Pain became a rapture of sorrow and need. Juliette spat, her aim true, the glob of blood and saliva filling the eye socket of the coward who kicked at her ribs, shattering more than one of them. She hardly noticed the new agony compared to the jagged, jolting burn of her legs every time her body was rolled and moved with the momentum of her attackers’ vigorous assault. Tears streaked the bloody mud on her cheeks. She’d never walk this world again, even if she lived.
Against the back of her neck, the ankh gave meager comfort, the talisman tangled in her long hair, hidden from the zealots, safe from their hatred. She looked through one swollen eye at the desecration of her lover, the sight of the red pulp that had once been his genitals more painful than all their punches, kicks, and hammering blows. Octavian’s cock might have given life to generations.
Cynthia’s feet weighed down the muscles of her thighs, but she moved, one step, than another, Cassia mewling behind her, the Goth chick’s pleas not completely lost on her – there was truth in Cassia’s pleas.
“Don’t do it, bitch. They’ll suck on your spleen and spit out your spine. Don’t fucking cross them.”
Cynthia’s knees wobbled through the trial, Tony panting like an asthmatic, Brigitte silent except for wet wheezes. Twice she stopped and vomited onto the stairs. Cynthia saw the landing, saw the door above them, and knew it marked the final passage, a gilded, starlight arch that drew her as strongly as any impulse ever had. The ache of her cunt defined her, the sliding arousal down her thighs as she moved toward the door.
Toward.
Forever.
Juliette despaired at the false puritans’ ignorance even as the butcher’s ax split her, sex to ribs, the cut deep enough to spill her intestines, kill Octavian’s daughter, doom her to truly never walk again, but not then.
No, that would be too kind, a clean death, a merciful end.
Juliette cried out, the hot air that escaped her lungs nearly blackened her vision. Bartholomew Calvert salivated, his eyes as lustful as any lovers’, as he stood on her left ankle and pulled her leg up, up, until her lifted his boot and crashed it down, snapping her lower leg as easily as he might a troublesome fallen tree limb.
She didn’t scream – she had moved beyond pain now and she had no hope that anyone would hear her agony and intervene. Octavian didn’t move, not even as they stretched his neck and crushed it with rocks. The crunch of Octavian’s wind pipe was the final confirmation of his departure, an invitation for her own exit. Why endure? What did she have left?
The ankh.
Somehow it had to survive. The ankh would not last the sunrise in the hands of these men who killed her. No, Octavian’s touch, her spilled babe, everything they endured now was nothing if the gods’ gift was broken, burned, taken from the world forever.
Juliette clawed the ground, the blasting agony of her legs, her arm, her ribs only fueling her need.
Escape was distraction. Flowing tears blessed her meager path, each inch a triumph, a defiance, a begging desire for blows, for pain. She welcomed it, cried for it. It was all she had left – daughter at peace, her consort leading the way, only the prize tangled in her hair remained in questionable hands.
She’d be remembered, revered.
Juliette of Elyssium – mother of dreams.
Mother.
The blow turned the world white, more glorious than the deepest winter storm, a blanket of glistening crystal that dimmed the sun by comparison. Darkness flowed toward her, a cloak of warm fox in its grip. She’d be warm, be whole again.
Rapture, true but valueless, rose from each boot that rolled her toward a rude cut of the earth. A grave of disregard and disrespect. She’d die in the gutter, shit running into her face, the gift of pious men.
Blood flowed freely from her head, from her sides, breath failed to fill her lungs, and the pain braised her purpose, turning golden, sweet, rising in her like the rapture of her lover’s cock deep inside, touching that place that brought both full labor and unspoken pleasure. Octavian had struck her ass, bitten her breasts and she had gasped with joy, begging more as she moved against him, welcomed his flesh inside hers. Yes…such pleasure was hers once.
And would be again in time’s fullness.
Her arm screamed at the demand, her shattered forearm grinding jagged bone against bone as she gripped the ankh in her hair, wrapped the threads of eternity and closed her shaking fingers around the hilt of the looped cross.
She rolled onto her back, her hand pinned beneath her neck. She looked up into the faces of the vile worms who killed her.
She looked into their faces, tightened her grip around the ankh’s thick shaft, the flow of pleasure unbearable, divine, singular in the richness of infinity.
She came, hard, crying out, ecstatic, smiling, her streaming life triumphant against the dark soles of the boots that stole what little breath she had left.
She came, blessed, her rapture her last sacrifice, her last prayer, the flow from between her legs her own to give, not the blood she’d shed unwillingly.
Blackness fell, but did not die. As dirt pushed against her, as rocks thought to remove her from the world, her last spasm of fading delight, Juliette freed the ankh, reaching up.
And gave it to her son.
Tears meshed with sweat, Cynthia couldn’t breathe. She needed more than air, more than sleep or quiet. She needed love. Tony’s love, Brigitte’s. She clutched the ankh, the stone so warm it felt of flesh.
“There.” A gurgled voice rang behind her. “We’re there. Let me up,” Cassia demanded, pushing away Brigitte’s hands as she muscled past her.
Cynthia glared at Cassia, her emotions singing on the edge of violence. “I’m not letting you go anywhere, you bitch. You’ve had your season.
“This one is mine.”
Continued in Part 49.
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 48
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Part 48
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2011
Her lungs burned and her legs shook, but even though sweat stung her eyes, her pussy slicked as she sucked Tony off while he ravaged her breasts. Dizzy with exertion, her brain fogged by the perpetual, rolling lust, she watched the glistening, alien appendage that had emerged from Tony’s side swell and pulse as it lengthened, the tip drooling as it sought Brigitte’s puckered anus.No.
Over and over, with each rapid pulse, the wrongness of what was about to happen pushed through the musk of passion that drugged her, that drugged all of them.
She reached into her pocket, the ankh a cool sanctuary from the steam and salt of bodies and the hot grind of fucking. She curled her fingers around the base, gripping it, taking it from her pants and thrusting it toward the tentacle, collaring the rigid flesh like one might leash a dog.
Cassia hissed, a sound like locust wings whirring doom. Tony’s scream added to the chaos as Brigitte whimpered and moaned like a tortured soul anticipating reprieve. The oily appendage bucked and jerked, strained against the collar of the ankh, angry and red, chaffing against the ring, swelling with purpose, pressing against the tight loop, unsophisticated, no grace to the rhythm until it began to twitch, to spasm and shining liquid spurted from the tip.
Pale, flaccid, it slid from the gaping hole of the ankh, the sloppy slip to Tony’s side an audible admission of its welcome, eldritch release. Tony’s cock drooped at the same time, leaving Cynthia a little disappointed as she let him slip out from between her lips.
Oh well. She felt certain there would be more blowjob opportunities soon.
Cynthia straightened her shoulders, the dripping ankh in her hands faintly vibrating with triumph. Cassia sneered at her, the black-taloned fingers curling into her own fists until blood ran in red trickles down her palms.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Are you trying to piss them off?” Cassia’s fingers flexed, making a display of the blood tipped nails.
“Just giving them a little variety, honey.” Cynthia drank of the roiling exuberance that coursed through her like lighted jet fuel. Invisible strings lifted her mind beyond the unbelievably sordid stage she found herself on, but she knew she belonged here. This was life – not the searching for a parking spot, sniffing milk cartons in the fridge to check for freshness, vacuuming one more time regardless of the over-stuffed bag sort of life, but the real thing.
Cynthia watched the appendage slither back into Tony.
She saw Cassia struggling for a comeback, trying to make sense of the new resolve that Cynthia radiated, but Cynthia didn’t wait. She took Tony’s hand and Brigitte’s and dragged them up, firm as steel. She pushed past Cassia, taking the lead. Them awaited and regardless of what them wanted, she refused to be led like a lamb to slaughter. She clutched the ankh, the cool stone a comfort against the swirl of visions that flashed on and off the walls when she did not look directly at them.
With every step, her mind and memory fractured into splinters, coalescing around the day when the false puritans came to Elyssium, the day her world had ended.
Pain became a rapture of sorrow and need. Juliette spat, her aim true, the glob of blood and saliva filling the eye socket of the coward who kicked at her ribs, shattering more than one of them. She hardly noticed the new agony compared to the jagged, jolting burn of her legs every time her body was rolled and moved with the momentum of her attackers’ vigorous assault. Tears streaked the bloody mud on her cheeks. She’d never walk this world again, even if she lived.
Against the back of her neck, the ankh gave meager comfort, the talisman tangled in her long hair, hidden from the zealots, safe from their hatred. She looked through one swollen eye at the desecration of her lover, the sight of the red pulp that had once been his genitals more painful than all their punches, kicks, and hammering blows. Octavian’s cock might have given life to generations.
Cynthia’s feet weighed down the muscles of her thighs, but she moved, one step, than another, Cassia mewling behind her, the Goth chick’s pleas not completely lost on her – there was truth in Cassia’s pleas.
“Don’t do it, bitch. They’ll suck on your spleen and spit out your spine. Don’t fucking cross them.”
Cynthia’s knees wobbled through the trial, Tony panting like an asthmatic, Brigitte silent except for wet wheezes. Twice she stopped and vomited onto the stairs. Cynthia saw the landing, saw the door above them, and knew it marked the final passage, a gilded, starlight arch that drew her as strongly as any impulse ever had. The ache of her cunt defined her, the sliding arousal down her thighs as she moved toward the door.
Toward.
Forever.
Juliette despaired at the false puritans’ ignorance even as the butcher’s ax split her, sex to ribs, the cut deep enough to spill her intestines, kill Octavian’s daughter, doom her to truly never walk again, but not then.
No, that would be too kind, a clean death, a merciful end.
Juliette cried out, the hot air that escaped her lungs nearly blackened her vision. Bartholomew Calvert salivated, his eyes as lustful as any lovers’, as he stood on her left ankle and pulled her leg up, up, until her lifted his boot and crashed it down, snapping her lower leg as easily as he might a troublesome fallen tree limb.
She didn’t scream – she had moved beyond pain now and she had no hope that anyone would hear her agony and intervene. Octavian didn’t move, not even as they stretched his neck and crushed it with rocks. The crunch of Octavian’s wind pipe was the final confirmation of his departure, an invitation for her own exit. Why endure? What did she have left?
The ankh.
Somehow it had to survive. The ankh would not last the sunrise in the hands of these men who killed her. No, Octavian’s touch, her spilled babe, everything they endured now was nothing if the gods’ gift was broken, burned, taken from the world forever.
Juliette clawed the ground, the blasting agony of her legs, her arm, her ribs only fueling her need.
Escape was distraction. Flowing tears blessed her meager path, each inch a triumph, a defiance, a begging desire for blows, for pain. She welcomed it, cried for it. It was all she had left – daughter at peace, her consort leading the way, only the prize tangled in her hair remained in questionable hands.
She’d be remembered, revered.
Juliette of Elyssium – mother of dreams.
Mother.
The blow turned the world white, more glorious than the deepest winter storm, a blanket of glistening crystal that dimmed the sun by comparison. Darkness flowed toward her, a cloak of warm fox in its grip. She’d be warm, be whole again.
Rapture, true but valueless, rose from each boot that rolled her toward a rude cut of the earth. A grave of disregard and disrespect. She’d die in the gutter, shit running into her face, the gift of pious men.
Blood flowed freely from her head, from her sides, breath failed to fill her lungs, and the pain braised her purpose, turning golden, sweet, rising in her like the rapture of her lover’s cock deep inside, touching that place that brought both full labor and unspoken pleasure. Octavian had struck her ass, bitten her breasts and she had gasped with joy, begging more as she moved against him, welcomed his flesh inside hers. Yes…such pleasure was hers once.
And would be again in time’s fullness.
Her arm screamed at the demand, her shattered forearm grinding jagged bone against bone as she gripped the ankh in her hair, wrapped the threads of eternity and closed her shaking fingers around the hilt of the looped cross.
She rolled onto her back, her hand pinned beneath her neck. She looked up into the faces of the vile worms who killed her.
She looked into their faces, tightened her grip around the ankh’s thick shaft, the flow of pleasure unbearable, divine, singular in the richness of infinity.
She came, hard, crying out, ecstatic, smiling, her streaming life triumphant against the dark soles of the boots that stole what little breath she had left.
She came, blessed, her rapture her last sacrifice, her last prayer, the flow from between her legs her own to give, not the blood she’d shed unwillingly.
Blackness fell, but did not die. As dirt pushed against her, as rocks thought to remove her from the world, her last spasm of fading delight, Juliette freed the ankh, reaching up.
And gave it to her son.
Tears meshed with sweat, Cynthia couldn’t breathe. She needed more than air, more than sleep or quiet. She needed love. Tony’s love, Brigitte’s. She clutched the ankh, the stone so warm it felt of flesh.
“There.” A gurgled voice rang behind her. “We’re there. Let me up,” Cassia demanded, pushing away Brigitte’s hands as she muscled past her.
Cynthia glared at Cassia, her emotions singing on the edge of violence. “I’m not letting you go anywhere, you bitch. You’ve had your season.
“This one is mine.”
Continued in Part 49.
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 5/7/2011 6:47 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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