Category Archives: Angela Caperton

Coming Soon: Standing Stone

A few weeks ago, I blogged about my erotic horror novella Springs finding a new home with Renaissance E-Books.  Now, another of my earlier stories is being reprinted in a new, standalone edition by eXstasy.

Coming April 15 (bumped up from May 1), eXtasy will publish Standing Stone, a novelette I originally sold to a now out-of-print anthology.  I appreciate  the original publisher returning all rights to the authors as quickly as they did, and since then, Standing Stone has been looking…

I think, for any writer, returning to a work from the early seasons is always a nervous business. It was with some hesitation that I opened the file to see about edits.  Modesty aside, I was very happy with how much I still liked Standing Stone, and at how little touch-up I needed to do!

This short book is comprised of three stories, all set in a valley in Northern Europe, but spanning thousands of years. All three parts revolve around the titular stone, an ancient altar to the gods and goddesses of prehistoric Europe. Part one is set in the Bronze Age, where a mushroom-crazed shaman meets a tribal witch under the powerful influence of a new moon.  Part two takes place in the early days of the Holy Roman Empire, with a full moon in the sky, and part three is set in the third decade of the 21st Century, where a crone moon lies nearly hidden behind world-blanketing smoke arising from the pyre of civilization. Standing Stone is a very romantic story and an optimistic one, but like all of life, there are shadows too.  Ultimately, life is about the journeys we take, through darkness and light, and for some, the discovery of a love that binds paired souls to one divine place…

Here’s an excerpt from the second chapter:

She took Olavus’ hand and led him into the forest. It grew wild, untouched by any axe, the trees like towers, the tangle of their branches defying the light of the rising sun. It seemed they walked for a long time in a golden haze and soon the clanking of his armor’s scales sounded like so much rage and fire.  He tried to tread with a softer foot.

“If you are not Roman,” she asked him. “Who are you?”

“I told you. I serve Kang Karl and he is the vassal of God through the glory of Christ.”

“Yes,” she said, and they walked in silence for a while.

The trees thinned and bright cries of a hunting hawk echoed distantly.

“What happened to the boy’s father?” Olavus asked her.

She shrugged. “He sickened when the moon was dark and died when it was full.”

“I am sorry, Vreni.” He wanted to put his arm around her but, in truth, he feared her.
 
“What happened to your son?” she asked.

His heart bled pain. How did she know?

“I was sent east, against…pagans, and I left him in Westphalia with his mother, where they should’ve been safe. The Saxons came. My wife and son were gone when I returned, without even graves to mark where they had died.”

 They emerged from the forest and into the bright morning. Beyond a little field of tall grass, he saw a standing stone, the gray of noonday shadows, in a cluster of young oak trees. Before the monolith, a rough stone altar glinted with offerings and Olavus knew it to be an abomination to God. His heart began to pound like a fist in a cage of bone.

She led him through the grass. Soft summer heat teased a trickle of sweat from under his helmet. The altar before the pagan shrine lay cluttered with offerings, and he wondered what lives might have been sacrificed here. Behind the stone, a shallow pit had been dug and filled with dry branches and boughs of pine, where fire would burn to the glory of the witch’s god, like the rites of Moloch and Ba’al, Odin and Mahomet the god of the Moors.

“This is a holy place,” Vreni said to him. “We pray and Moan protects us.”

“Do you know why I have come here?” he asked.

She said nothing, but knelt before the altar, her thin shift brushing the backs of her calves. The curve of her butt was round and full. He felt his cock stirring and, in spite of the grimness of his errand, he had to hide a grin of wonder.

He had not wanted any woman since Westphalia, since Calia died, and now, may God preserve his soul, he wanted this one.

His words emerged in a whisper, harsher than he meant it, the exact sentence the priest had given him.

“I am here by command of the Church of St. Peter, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, to bring the word of truth to your valley, and if you will not hear it, to temper your people until you embrace the true faith and renounce your false gods.”

She looked at him over her shoulder and he saw fear in her eyes and sorrow.

“I will not harm you,” he told her. “Nor will my men, but we must return from this valley with word that you have converted.”

She settled and stretched her bare legs before the altar, resting on one hand, looking up at him with eyes that had turned to azure. Her shift rode low on her breasts and he saw their soft brown swell, the line of a stiffened nipple beneath the linen. “If you harm even one person here, you will have to kill me,” she said quietly.

“Yes,” he said. “I know.”

Copyright 2012 Angela
Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in
whole or part without written permission from the author.

Too Much Sex?

Here’s a question I’ve been pondering. Can there be too much sex in an erotic story? I almost feel silly talking about gratuitous content in a work of erotica, but there it is.

Woman of the Mountain, was criticized by one reviewer as having too much sex. I saw the reviewer’s point. Since the novel takes place in a world where sex is literally a connection to divinity, the rampant coupling potentially cheapened the sacrament. Woman went on to win an Eppie for best erotica in 2008, but if I were to rewrite it today, I might well remove a steamy page or two.

The easy answer to my question is “an erotic story should have at least as much sex as the story requires.” Many of my tales are, one way or another, about sex. The erotic scenes are central to the story so it’s easy enough to tie the heat and the plot together. In a short story, it’s easier to find the right level of sex, but novels are harder. I’m in the process right now of weaving the 52+ chapters of my blog serial, Woman of His Dreams, into a  novel, so the question has been circling around my brain as I restructure the story. On the blog, I felt like there should be at least a little sex in each chapter, but in a 57,000 word novel, the frequent fucking becomes choppy. Of course. I’m also finding other challenges turning a serial into a novel—pacing, balancing two viewpoints, and such. The process has been educational, though it’s taking longer than I had intended. I’m hoping to have it to a publisher this summer. If you want to read the raw material, with sex in every sequence, it’s all still here.

One unique facet of my chosen genre makes my question even harder to answer. Many readers of erotica read for at least two purposes. Some erotica readers read more for the stories than for prurient interest, but some readers are primarily looking for the kicks that hot, explicit scenes provide. Too little sex in a story definitely risks turning off the reader seeking wank material, while too much may annoy one who reads more for story. Of course, most readers appreciate both elements so, as long as the story justifies the sex, the balance is not too difficult to maintain. For me the ideal approach is to make the sex fit the tale but don’t hold back.

Finally, in erotica, much like horror fiction, I think the best effects are those that are created in a reader’s mind by leaving things unsaid in the prose, which makes the balance between explicitness and ellipsis even more important. Over the five years I’ve been writing, I’ve tried to strike a balance between too much and too little, but I’m sure I sometimes still get the mix wrong. I suppose if I had to condense my experience down into simple advice for a beginning erotica author, I would say, “write just as much sex into the story as you need and then add just a little more.”  

A Tale of a Modern Succubus

I just got word that my short story “The Sorcerer’s Catch” will be published by Cleis in the anthology Seductress: Tales of Immortal Desire, edited by the delightful D.L. King. It’s always gratifying to have a story selected for a book from Cleis, but I am especially happy to see this story going to print.

“The Sorcerer’s Catch” is one of a series of stories that I’ve written over the years that tell the adventures of a succubus named Anastasia. Ana’s tale didn’t start out as a series, but I find myself returning to the character every so often. The very first tale I sold to a print anthology – “Understudy” in Lust at First Bite (recently reprinted in Germany!) – was an Ana tale. Others include “Last Kiss” in Slip of the Lip, a lovely free e-book edited by Remittance Girl and still available here, and “The Blood of Dreams,” which is included in my collection from Renaissance eBooks, Darkness and Delight.

In most of Ana’s stories, she is more of a muse or a catalyst — the inspiration for dark, vampiric dreams in “Understudy” and “The Blood of Dreams,” and a messenger of peaceful transition in “Last Kiss”. This latest story however features her as a main character and is the first time I have really touched on her past and her nature, a background I hope will feed many tales in the future.

Ana is not your typical succubus; she’s a modern girl who came into her full power right around 1900. Apart from the usual succubus mischief, arousing and gratifying sleepers, she also lives in a world of externalized dreams, the theater, movies, radio, all the visions and nightmares that defined   the 20th Century and that continue to haunt us today. Someday I would love to compile her history as an episodic novel, and who knows, maybe I will…

Here’s a short excerpt from “The Sorcerer’s Catch.”  Look for the complete anthology in October 2012!

Excerpt “The Sorcerer’s Catch”
Copyright 2012 Angela Caperton
All right reserved.


Now I have you,” the young man in the black robe said.

He spoke the truth. Anastasia was pinned within the magic circle drawn in red paint around the man’s bed, trapped as securely as the least devil in the hands of Faust himself.

The magician – the first conjurer she had met in the 21st Century — had drawn his circle tightly enough that Ana could not move off the bed even a single step, so she knelt there on red silk sheets, trying to look demure. She had approached his bed gowned in smoke and when he had sprung his trap, bringing her out of dreams and into his world, the smoke solidified into black lace, draping her ivory skin like alluring spider webs that left her all but naked before his direct gaze.  

She covered her breasts, gratified by the disappointment in his eyes. He was very young, no more than twenty-five years old. Was he powerful in his magic or just lucky?

“What shall I call you?” she asked him, trying not sound surly.

“Adam.” She had hoped he would be stupid enough to tell her his real name, but she knew at once that he had given a false one.

“What do you want of me, Adam?”  The name would suffice for now.  It said something about him that he chose that name.  “What must I do to be free again?”

“First, Anastasia, you will teach me,” he said. From within his robe, he produced four golden chains, delicate things, like jewelry, but she sensed the inscriptions on the links, binding runes that would cage her.

He looped her wrists and ankles, pulled tight and spread her face-up on the crimson sheets.  He touched her with strong firm hands, spoke words of protection as he worked, careful, as though he might be fearful of releasing some demon inside her.

No, she conceded as he finished forcing her legs well apart, he was not stupid.

When Adam finished his work, he had bound her to the four posts of the bed and she lay helpless before him. The situation was not unpleasant, even though she faced the direst sort of danger.

“Teach you what?” she asked, tugging the unyielding chains, testing them.

He watched for a moment then reached down to part her robe of webs, baring her breasts and belly and the little wisp of lacy shadow that covered her pussy.

“Carnal knowledge,” he replied formally. “Teach me all things, both lawful and forbidden.”

#

He had called her by her favorite name, Anastasia, a name she had taken from the dream of a Bolshevik soldier long ago. The man had guarded the Romanoff family in Ipatiev’s house and, days later, after the soldier had helped to kill the girl, he dreamed about her. His guilt and obsession had drawn the attention of a bored succubus. It had heralded a new beginning for Ana, awakened her to the dawning century and the grand dreams of men and women with plans to remake the world.

When the whims of dreamers demanded another name, she would take one, to seduce and entice, but Anastasia had become the name she called herself for almost a hundred years.

And now this young wizard, this barely grown man, had summoned her by her name, in the voice of rituals unspoken in three generations, drawn her with the rich lure of her own curiosity. She had descended into his dream and his magic circle had closed like a foothold trap. Now she lay bound to his bed.

“Wait,” she breathed as he reached for the wisp of her panties.

Copyright 2012 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Woman of His Dreams – Part XXIX

Welcome to Part 29 of “Woman of His Dreams”.  If you’re new to my dark little erotic tale, you can find the start here.

Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own…

~AC

“Woman of His Dreams”
Part 29
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010


“Here,” Cassie said, indicating a glass door between two weathered metal panels that had once been deco ornamentation. She swiped a pass card through a reader and opened the heavy door. Anthony followed her in, looking around.

The building looked like any of the anonymous buildings from the city’s past, either built during the boom years of the 20s or refurbished then, plaster used to streamline the character-rich Victorian brick. The door opened into an elevator lobby with a dubious caged lift from another era. The shingle on the wall showed the names of various dentists and businesses, but none of them appeared to be remotely current.

He had the sense of disorientation again, as though the world might be shifting around him, and touched the chipped tile wall to assure himself that he was truly awake. Dreams had become dangerous, he knew, a goat potentially still lurking out there somewhere with lust in its eyes.

Cassie summoned the creaky old elevator and they boarded it together, riding it up past deserted floors. He smelled the faint odor of disinfectant and something too sweet, like rotten fruit. She hardly looked at Anthony but when she did, her face was a mask of bored contempt. She wore a black t-shirt with silver snake embroidery, her breasts full and unconfined under the thin cotton, and tight lycra pants painted her from hips to ankles. When she moved right, he could see her clit jewelry and the outline of her pussy lips against the fabric.  His cock jumped and twitched as he grew hard again.

Cassie was like a living aphrodisiac, he decided. He believed he had made her come at least twice, but a sense of failure still gnawed at him that he had not yet satisfied her in any but the most physical sense. As tireless as his cock had become, he could not please her, he thought sadly.

As though she read his mind, she favored him with a flash of dark eyes and a casual stroke down the growing, jeans-covered length between his legs. “Hang on,” she said. “Just two more floors.”

They had ridden forever, he thought, the floors they passed too dark to see within and too numerous to count. No panel in the lift marked their ascent and he knew, his breath quickening, that they had risen above any hope that the building was natural and not another current in the maelstrom of dream and delusion that surged around this woman.

He remembered being here before but the building had been different, the passage upward powered by an enormous eunuch turning a winch. The tower had been crystal then, impossibly tall, and something unspeakable awaited him at the top.

The lift stopped and Cassie opened the door. Anthony found himself grounded again, the floor solid beneath his feet, the sense of dislocation replaced by the reality of musty, still air, and an ornate, paneled door lit by a pallid bulb. “My place,” she said and used her card to open the door.

He was not surprised at the décor — Victorian funeral parlor furniture, exquisite tapestries with graphic sex acts woven into fabric, a live raven perched on the headboard of a low, wide bed– but the view out the window that covered an entire wall sent him reeling to the edge of madness again.

The night sky glittered with thousands of stars, smears of light bright as the Milky Way, the spiraling arms of something like a luminous starfish, and the biggest moon Anthony had ever seen, bone-pale and smooth, not the cratered face he knew. For only a moment he tried to rationalize what he saw, a projection, a trick, but he knew better now. Wherever he was, he was no longer on the Earth, or at least on the Earth he knew.

He trembled, his legs giving out. He sank onto bed, onto a black spread that seemed to be made of thin leather. Cassie was his only hope of getting out of here and he was ready to do anything, promise anything to win her favor.

“Top floor,” she said. “A fucking penthouse. There are buildings all over the world that share this view,” she told him, “and not many people visit them and live. I want you to know just how special you are.”

He tried to speak but his lips shook too badly. Where his hand touched the bedspread, the black hide began to sweat. Cassie pushed him back, her hands busy with his jeans, skinning them off his legs so he felt the pliant, living leather under him, pulsing as she took his cock in her mouth and pulled him fully erect with her lips, her tongue wrapping him expertly. Something shapeless probed his ass, massaged his balls while she sucked and teased the glans expertly. The orgasm rose in him.  He closed his eyes, terror evaporating into the imminence of pleasure.

“Don’t come,” she commanded him. “You’d better not fucking come until I tell you to.”

Breathless, crazy with frustrated desire, he fought against his own body, hardly daring to think what might happen if he disobeyed her, imagining himself out the window and in the void, at the mercy of whatever lived out there, lost forever, body and soul.

Cassie slithered out of the lycra, shed her shirt, and straddled him, letting his rigid cock ride along the cleft of her cunt, not penetrating her, rubbing her clit against the slippery head in long, slow undulations until he bit his lip hard enough to bleed to stop himself from coming. She laughed and leaned to drink the flow from his lips, smearing the blood over his face and hers as she ground and rubbed. Beneath him, the living mantle of the black spread flowed up and over him, wrapping his thighs and ribs, immobilizing him beneath her, positioning him.

He understood that the thing – whatever it was – was an extension of her will, a toy, perhaps a living, boneless creature. Revulsion mingled with desire.  He wanted to fuck the monster or to have it fuck him. His mind frayed, his cock beyond any hope of control, when Cassie stopped fooling around and impaled herself on his shaft, taking him deep, gripping him with hard thrusts of her hips.

“Now,” she screamed. “Come now.”

Something more than semen and seed emptied into her, his mind, his soul, the outer realms of sensation beyond pleasure or pain, something that had no name. He screamed. Her cry joined his as the black skin beneath him and around him shuddered and bucked, and the lights in the alien sky exploded against the revealed space inside his skull, filling him with wonder and with dread.

And he knew that Cassie still would not be satisfied.

Continued in Part 30.

Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved.  Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

An Open Letter to Nathaniel Hawthorne

Dear Mr. Hawthorne,

First, I must tell you, I loved The Scarlet Letter. As a study of real, ordinary people rising above an intolerant society and as a love story, your book is deservedly a classic.

I know you wrote The Maypole of Merry Mount , which I defaced horribly a few days ago as The Looped Cross of Elyssium, about a real incident in American history. You based your story on an early colonist named Thomas Morton who took religious freedom too far.  His colony, Mount Mare or Merrymount, flourished in the 1620s until a company of puritan soldiers from Plymouth sacked his town, harassed his followers, and banished him. Morton’s crimes included admiring the Native Americans, mocking his Puritan neighbors, and, most unforgivably, practicing neo-paganism that, at least in the lurid tales of his accusers, included sexual debaucheries.

Mr. Hawthorne — Nate if I may — I hope you don’t mind that I had some fun with your story, mashing it into mine within the dream of one of my characters. It was meant to be silly and a little sexy. Worse crimes have been committed on other writers. I believe poor Jane Austen has spun herself to dust by now.

There was one passage in your terribly sad (yet morally uplifting) tale that I could not include in my little parody that I especially loved:

In due time, a feud arose, stern and bitter on one side, and as serious on the other as anything could be among such light spirits as had sworn allegiance to the Maypole. The future complexion of New England was involved in this important quarrel. Should the grizzly saints establish their jurisdiction over the gay sinners, then would their spirits darken all the clime, and make it a land of clouded visages, of hard toil, of sermon and psalm forever. But should the banner staff of Merry Mount be fortunate, sunshine would break upon the hills, and flowers would beautify the forest, and late posterity do homage to the Maypole.


Beautifully put, Nate. I fear we know how that one ended.

Someday I intend to read The Marble Faun. I’m told it’s your most sensual novel. Sometimes I wish you and your peers, Edgar and Herman, had lived 100 years later or more. I would love to read the stories you would have told in a more permissive age.

And I could apologize in person.

Yours sincerely,

Angela Caperton   

Woman of His Dreams – Part XXVIII

Welcome to Part 28 of “Woman of His Dreams”!  If you’re new to my dark little erotic tale, you can find the start here!

Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own…

~A.C.

“Woman of His Dreams”
Part 28
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010



The Looped Cross of Elyssium
By Angela Caperton and Nathanial Hawthorne

Bright were the days at Elyssium, when the looped cross was the banner staff of that gay colony! They who reared it, should their banner be triumphant, were to pour sunshine over New England’s rugged hills, and scatter their seed throughout the soil. Jollity and gloom were contending for an empire.

Never had the looped cross been so worshipped as at sunset on midsummer eve. But what was the wild throng that stood hand in hand about the upright scepter? It could not be that the fauns and nymphs, when driven from their classic groves and homes of ancient fable, had sought refuge, as all the persecuted did, in the fresh woods of the West. These were ancient monsters, though perhaps of antediluvian ancestry. From the brow of a comely youth arose the moist tendrils of an enormous snail; a second, human in all other points, had the ivory visage of a skinned wolf; a third, still with the trunk and limbs of a mortal man, showed the tentacles and beak of a squid. There was the likeness of a white ape erect, a brute in all but his hind legs, which were adorned with black silk stockings. And here again, almost as wondrous, stood a real ape of the dark forest, lending each of his gnarled paws to the grasp of a human hand, and as ready for the dance as any in that circle. His inferior nature rose half way, to meet his companions as they stooped.

Other faces wore the similitude of man or woman, but distorted with lustful excess, lascivious tongues and rolling eyes. Here might be seen the Savage Man, well known in heraldry, hairy as a baboon, and girdled with green leaves. Some youths and maidens wore nothing at all, but appeared in the same garb that delighted the serpent of Eden before the discovery of shame. Such were the colonists of Elyssium, as they stood in the broad smile of sunset round their venerated looped cross.

Had a wanderer, bewildered in the melancholy forest, heard their mirth, and stolen a half-affrighted glance, he might have fancied them midway between man and beast. But a band of men in somber garb, who watched the scene, invisible themselves, regarded the sportive throng with cold eyes and quiet rage.

“Votaries of the looped cross,” cried the flower-decked priest, “merrily, all day long, have the woods echoed with your cries. But be this your most fervid hour, my hearts! Lo, here stand I, a clerk of Oxford, and high priest of Elyssium, to consecrate the union we will all enjoy this hour.” Beside him stood the presiding priestess of the village, Juliette St. Clair, holding tightly in her graceful hand to a little semblance of the great looped cross about which they all had gathered.

Immediately a prelude of pipe, cithern, and viol, touched with practiced minstrelsy, began to play from a neighboring thicket, in such wild cadence that the great looped cross vibrated with the sound.

Unfortunately, there were men in the new world of a harder faith than those worshippers of bright Eros. Not far from Elyssium was a settlement of seeming Puritans, most dismal wretches, who said their prayers before daylight, and then wrought the darkest delights in the forest or the cornfield till evening made it prayer time again. Their weapons were always at hand to shoot down the straggling savage or unwary traveler.

Juliette and the priest, who was her mate Octavian, knew the darkest secrets of that grim band – that all their pretense to purity was naught but a mask for the worship of gods far more depraved and dangerous than the nature deities of Elyssium, but they believed with all their hearts that the village of pious monsters had been left far behind them.

Now, with the setting sun, the last day of mirth had passed from Elyssium. The ring of celebrants was disordered and broken; the snail lowered his tendrils in dismay; the wolf grew weaker than a lamb; the bells of the morris-dancers tinkled with tremulous affright. True Puritans had played a characteristic part in the looped cross mummeries. Their darksome figures were intermixed with the wild shapes of their foes, and made the scene a picture of the moment, when waking thoughts start up amid the scattered fantasies of a dream. The leader of the hostile party stood now in the centre of the circle, while the route of monsters cowered around him, like evil spirits in the presence of a dread magician. No fantastic foolery could look him in the face. So stern was the energy of his aspect, that the whole man, visage, frame, and soul, seemed wrought of iron, gifted with life and thought, yet all of one substance with his headpiece and breastplate. It was the devil of devils, the avatar of the Procurer; it was Wentworth himself!

“Stand off, priest of faithless pleasure!” said he, with a grim frown. “I know thee, St. Clair! Thou art the man who couldst not abide the rule even of thine own corrupted church, and hast come hither to preach the shadow of our ecstasy, and to give example of it in thy life. But now shall it be seen that the Dreamer in the Sea hath sanctified this wilderness for his peculiar people. Woe unto them that would defile it! And first, for this looped abomination, the altar of thy worship!”

And men with hammers and axes assaulted the hallowed, looped cross. Nor long did it resist , but groaned with a dismal sound, and down fell the banner of Elyssium. As it sank, tradition says, the evening sky grew darker, and the woods threw forth a more sombre shadow

“There,” cried Wentworth, looking triumphantly on his work, “there lies the only looped cross in New England! The thought is strong within me that, by its fall, is shadowed forth the fate of those who would seek to dilute the pleasures that bring joy to our master. Ia, O’hali.

O’hali!” echoed his followers.

“Valiant captain,” quoth Fredrick Schuts, the Ancient of the band, “what order shall be taken with the prisoners?”

“I thought not to repent me of breaking their cross,” replied Wentworth, “yet now I could find in my heart to erect it again, and give each of these timid pagans one other dance round their idol, to fuck them each in turn against it and consecrate it with our seed and their blood.”

“The ground is good enough for such as these,” suggested Ancient Schuts.

“True, good Ancient,” said the leader. “Wherefore, bind them all, and one by one we will show them the extremities of worship, teach them with whip and hook the savor of our lord’s gifts. Spare no one, man or woman, but fuck them well, and leave them with marks to ever recall this day and the blessings we bestow on them, if you leave them alive at all.”

“Who shall have the priestess?” inquired Schuts.

“I will have her,” Wentworth announced and had her brought before him, her robe rent from neck to hem so that she spilled out naked on the earth before him. Schuts brought forth the book and read aloud from it while Wentworth spent himself thrice within her, marking her with lash and teeth, reveling in the pain and in her cries of pleasure unbidden as the Dreamer’s gifts enriched her.

And at the height of the frenzy, when most of the fallen souls of Elyssium had been brought to fullness, humiliated, penetrated, and raised up in sacrifice, the lord himself appeared and…

“This isn’t right,” Cynthia thought, closing her textbook, The American Treasury of Short Stories, to look at its cover. But instead of the familiar gathering of Transcendentalists that had always adorned the binding, she saw another picture, obscene and shocking in its scope and intensity, so awful she had to look away, across the Commons to the Main Library and the Physics Building.

The title on the book troubled her as much as the picture, though it could hardly have been simpler.

Tales.

She tried to remember how she had returned here, to college, to this moment, but the picture on the cover drew her gaze and, breathless, she looked back.

“Cynthia! Please, goddamn it, please.” Steven’s voice. Wentworth’s voice. She remembered what he had said about neither of them touching the book. He would be furious.

He wouldn’t go away though. She knew that. No matter how much she wanted to hide.

“For fuck’s sake, Cynthia,” he yelled again, beginning to shake her, “Wake up!”

Continued in Part 29

Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved.  Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Woman of His Dreams – Part XXVII

Welcome to Part 27 of “Woman of His Dreams”!  If you’re new to my dark little erotic tale, you can find the start here!

Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own…

~A.C.~

“Woman of His Dreams”
Part 27
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010


The rough hands of big men pulled at Anthony’s clothing – no, George’s clothing — making short work of his garments and tossing them aside. As he was being stripped, he looked wildly around the room, realizing that some of the robed and hooded people were women and that some of them were already being groped and fucked in anticipation of what lay ahead.

He watched Sir Geoffrey and the enormous goat with sidelong glances, afraid to look too closely at the animal. Did they really mean for it to bugger him?

Cassie’s hands worked inside Anthony’s scrubs, pulling him hard.  He smelled skunky weed and spilled beer as he rode the rising scream of the synthesized Strad, the jerks and spasms binding them all, entwined with the crowd, all lost in the crazy music.

“L’ias!” Sir Geoffrey intoned, as George’s last garment was removed. “Ez’kule, l’ias elihu.” He held aloft a phallic wand, the bulbous head glistening wetly in the candlelight. “Join in the ecstasy,” he commanded the little crowd, and they obeyed with gleeful madness, robes lifted to bare erect cocks and waiting orifices, no desk or chair safe from the sudden orgy.

On the floor, Brigitte looked back over her shoulder, at George, at Anthony, her eyes wide and warm, her butt and quim elevated to receive him, but the time-slip of consciousness and the acute angst over the role of the goat, rendered George limp.

The synthesized violin multiplied into an orchestra of dysphonic noise. The trio on stage thrashed, frenzied and wild, the drummer transcending the limits of his flesh, his arms moving too fast to see as the music screamed and begged and demanded. The crowd writhed and whipped, all flesh, all one. Outside, sirens devoured the night, and Anthony knew that monsters were loose in the city. He wanted their embrace, the worm and the band, and most of all Cassie, who offered the gash between her legs to his cock, longer and thicker than any man’s had ever been, ready to fuck  the world.

The wound in his side opened and began to leak oily fluid down his side.

“Have you no faith?” Sir Geoffrey asked him. “No desire for the beauty who offers herself to you?”

George looked again at Brigitte, saw the animal hunger in her eyes. Sir Geoffrey took hold of his cock and it jumped in the lord’s hand. “Do you need help?” he asked in a tone of utter contempt.

“No,” George managed and Sir Geoffrey’s expert touch began to ignite his loins, the violin silent now, and the only sound in the chamber the combined breath of the orgy, quickening. A woman screamed in her release and the room pulsed with her orgasm, the walls throbbing, as space itself began to contract in climax.

He positioned himself, the head of his bloated purple cock-head nestled at the bud of Brigitte’s asshole, then lower to slide between the slippery lips of her sex, as wet as any woman he had ever entered. She pushed back against him and he moved with her, the rhythm building between them, matching the unspent lust of the others in the room.

The woman who had screamed out one climax cried again, a desperate, breathless sound and others grunted as they came, but the growing mass of primal force did not diminish.

The sounds of the room called across time and space, the sabbat in its eldest form, the surrender of flesh to desires more brutal and pure than beasts’. George rode her, his cock slipping in and out of the wet sheath of her cunt, gripping her now, grinding against her, heedless of what might be happening behind him.

Almost.

“You must not be weak,” Cassie whispered in his ear, inhuman, metallic. They lay on the floor together, and Anthony recognized the sensation of being inside her, his magical phallus enclosed like a caterpillar within its cocoon, the wand in the chalice. Someone played with his balls and another cock battered at his mouth, pushed past his lips, the hot weight on his tongue feeding his hunger.

“You know the price of weakness.”

He felt the goat, its huge, furry weight on his back, its rank smell cloaking him, and he wavered, missed a stroke as Brigitte pushed back, her cry of pleasure turning to one of disappointment. The goat had grown arms, thin boneless arms, and it held him around his waist, even as it pressed down on him. He looked back over his shoulder, lust running from him like the white of a pierced egg, as he watched what it become – no longer a goat, no longer anything he could name.

He saw too many sides of it at once, as though he looked upon it in a prism mirror, scattered and incomplete, and he realized that if he saw it all together, his mind would snap completely.

“Fuck her, you mouse,” Sir Geoffrey screamed. “Our lord demands it!”

He had no chance. All he wanted was to escape the room, to escape the memory of the thing that held him, the thing that penetrated his flesh and his soul, tearing him apart.

Anthony would not weaken. Empowered, engorged, he fucked Cassie hard, trying to hurt her, the cock in his mouth pulsing, gushing. He swallowed and let it go, his teeth seeking Cassie’s ivory skin, biting her savagely even as he ground into her, the music shattering the walls, the crowd coming together, a paean to the cosmos, a celebration of the darkest mysteries of sex and death.

Even as he came inside her and she clenched around him in frenzied climax, she put her hand on his side, on the wound, and reached inside him, touching his soul.

#

“Not bad, bookworm,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “They really did pick a winner.” Xabaret Xulu had closed for the night, the crowd dressed and emptied into the alley. Cassie had donned her Goth gear, hanging on Anthony’s arm as they strolled down the street, just another pair of early morning lovers. She had found him a pair of jeans and a faded Mötley Crüe t-shirt somewhere.

 “You’re in now. You know that, right? No changing your mind.”

He felt numb but transformed. He had a vague sense of unease and realized he was worried about Cynthia. Maybe Cassie felt his steps falter.

“Uh,” she said. “You’re in, and the next thing you’re going to do is find that cunt of yours. She has something we need.”

The book, he knew.

“And you’re going to get it back, even if you have to kill her.”

Continued in Part 28.

Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved.  Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Best Bondage Erotica 2011



I’ve been fortunate to have many great covers on the anthologies I’ve
contributed to, and I could never pick a favorite, but I have to admit,
the cover of Best Bondage Erotica 2011 definitely ranks as one of the best.  It’s sexy and smart – two of my favorite cover qualities.

My story in this year’s Best Bondage is “The Cartographer”.  It’s
about a woman and a man who embrace a journey of submission, charted in
skin and ink.  Take the trip.  You won’t regret it.

If you like the cover and would like a post card of it (US mailing
addresses only), email my fabulous editor Rachel Kramer Bussel at bestbondage2011 at gmail.com and put “Postcard”
in the subject.

Woman of His Dreams – Part XXVI

Welcome to Part 26 of “Woman of His Dreams”!  If you’re new to my dark little erotic tale, you can find the start here!

Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own…

~A.C.

“Woman of His Dreams”
Part 26
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010


On a couch in the office where Stephen left her, Cynthia slept lightly and she dreamed of a room.

Naked under a black robe, she waited with other robed men and women for something to begin. She had a sense of anticipation and excitement. The robed man behind her pressed against her and the hard line of his cock teased her back, an exquisite promise even through the thin robes they wore. At the center of the chamber, a woman waited on her knees, half-bare, suppliant.

Cynthia knew her.

“Brigitte,” she whispered, the edge of dream tattering as she struggled with new fears.

A violin screamed, Stradivarius being flayed and a tall figure led a goat into the room. Cynthia knew the man too. Sir Geoffrey was his name and he presided here, at the rite. Sir Geoffrey gestured and the worshippers led a man out of the little crowd and began to undress him. Cynthia looked into his face and sudden dizziness tightened her stomach to the size of a pea.

“Anthony!” she cried, dream turning to darkness and then to light as someone shook her awake.

“Get up,” Stephen said forcefully. He thrust a jacket at her. “Wear this. We have to hurry before the real police arrive.” She resisted his hands, his words, but he pulled her off the sofa and draped the coat around her shoulders. “Come on,” he growled. “Or I’ll drag you out of here naked.”

She started to protest, to ask him what had happened with Derrick, with the EMS, but he stopped her. “No time now. Move it!”

Stephen carried a briefcase and held the stone ankh. His exasperation puffed out of him as he handed the artifact to her. “Take this,” he said. “It will help.”

As soon as her fingers closed around the stone base of the looped cross, a coolness slid over her, the imminent menace of the dream faded, and her purpose came into clearer focus.

She let him lead her out of the room and into the night.

##

“I know it’s not exactly your area,” Stephen said to her, setting a cup of tea on the low table by Cynthia’s chair, “But have you ever heard of Merry Mount?”

She shook her head. The ankh lay on the table, comfortingly near.  They had driven to Stephen’s apartment, miles from the university and, while he drove, he had answered her questions. The EMS guys had taken Derrick away and the campus cops had asked Stephen a lot of questions. They didn’t seem satisfied with his answers but were reluctant to take him in. City police had been called but apparently all officers were busy with some big disturbance downtown, so the campus officers told Stephen that someone would call him. When they let him go, he’d come for her.   In his apartment, he’d sat her down and asked her to tell him everything that had happened.  She didn’t hesitate. Everything that had happened, the book, Anthony, Brigitte, the dreams and visions, all of it spewed out of her, bile to be purged so recovery could begin.

He only stared at her, then shook his head, raw regret circling his eyes. “I’m sorry I left Derrick with you.  I misunderstood the nature of the book,” he said.  Panic rushed back into her.  The book!
 
“Don’t worry, Cynthia.  The book’s in my briefcase, safe for now. Neither of us should touch it unless we absolutely have to.”

She still wore only the coat Stephen had given her back at the university. She considered asking if he had trousers she might borrow, but she could not hide the truth from herself. She was still pleasantly, warmly horny, and knew that soon she and Stephen would fuck again. Pants would only be in the way.

“So, have you?  Heard of Merry Mount?”

“No,” she answered. “I don’t think so.”

“It was an early colony in Massachusetts, in the 1600s” he explained as he sipped his own tea. “Founded by a heretical Puritan named Thomas Morton. Hard to say what really went on there – the orthodox citizens of Plymouth made a lot of allegations…orgies, sexual congress with the local natives, paganism, the usual witchcraft. After one particularly wild May Day revel, old Miles Standish himself led a band of outraged pilgrims into Merry Mount, arrested Morton, and chopped down the Maypole. Hawthorne wrote a story about it. That was pretty much the end of neo-paganism in the colonies.”

She listened to him, but her attention fragmented as the distant scream of sirens triggered a growing wetness in her pussy. She touched the ankh and, when Stephen didn’t stop her, she picked it back up.

“Before the end, some of Morton’s followers left Merry Mount to move further west, out to what was then the frontier. The little we have from Morton’s papers says they were the ‘wyldest’ of his folk and they sought a new paradise farther from the authorities in Plymouth. They were wise enough, I suppose, considering what happened to Merry Mount. They called their settlement Elyssium.”

The ankh warmed in her hand, its shaft almost like flesh. She rested it in her lap, the stone lying between the buttons of her coat, almost searing her. She was having trouble focusing on what Stephen said.

“No one really knows what happened in Elyssium. There were problems with the natives and there is some indication that the Plymouth folks intended to do something about the ‘wyld’ escapees, but there is no record of any arrests, or of any official action. Until ten years ago, no one was even sure of the original site of the colony.”

She touched the warm stone to her clit and bit her lip.

“The man and woman who led Elyssium were named Octavian and Juliette St. Clair.”

She startled a little, surprise chasing away the seductive pulse of the artifact between her legs. “That’s Anthony’s last name!”

“I thought so.” Stephen sat his cup down. “Might just be a coincidence, but then again, it might not. I don’t know what your book is, but I feel sure it’s somehow related to that cross.” He gestured at the ankh, his eyes widening a little as he realized what she was doing with it, but he didn’t stop her. “The book and the cross are both part of something …very old and very powerful.”

She slipped the stone over her clit and between the lips of her pussy, fumbling with the bottom buttons of the coat to improve access.

“Ten years ago,” Stephen said, standing up and unfastening his belt. “I was part of a five person team that located the site of Elyssium and we spent a week there. That week changed my life forever, my view of the universe, everything.”

 A surge of pure lust swamped her when his erect cock jumped at his touch as he removed his pants. She spread her legs and reached for him.

“That’s where I found the ankh,” he said, taking it from her, his cock brushing against her cheek.  He took the matter in hand, stroked it, and offered her seven inches of hard flesh in recompense for the ankh.  Cynthia parted her lips and savored the sliding heat he gave her.  

Stephen let out a shuddered breath.  “Yeah, that’s where I found it.”  His hips began to move as he fucked her face.

“In the buried ruins of the town clutched in the skeletal hand of Juliette St. Clair.”

Continued in Part 27.

Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Woman of His Dreams – Part XXV

Welcome to Part 25 of “Woman of His Dreams”!  If you’re new to my dark little erotic tale, you can find the start here!

Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own…

~AC

“Woman of His Dreams”
Part 25
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010

All around the club, which had shrunken considerably, men and women, still mostly naked, milled about, some looking for their clothes, others off to the bar bobbing, dripping, and jiggling. On stage, the singer languidly butt-fucked the keyboard player, in what Anthony guessed must be some kind of musician’s afterglow, a little between-set sodomy.

He looked back at Cassie, perfect breasts with little nipples adorned with silver pins. A drop of sweat ran down her tight stomach and into her shaved, wet slit. He remembered tasting her.

Cassie’s eyes widened a little when she noticed his growing erection. “Ready again so soon? They picked a real stud this time.”

“Who?” he asked, almost desperate. “Who picked?”

“We’ll get to that.” She took him by his cock and squeezed. “But I don’t want to waste this. Come on, buy me a drink.” She picked up a black lace scarf and tied it around her narrow hips so it made a skirt that danced like thin smoke.

Tony pulled his scrubs on, glad when his hard-on subsided some. He followed her to the bar, a make-shift affair of stools and boards. To his shock, Cassie handed him his own wallet. So the cops hadn’t found it back at the store.  Relief lasted half a breath before he shivered, remembering what had happened there, vivid as a fresh nightmare.

He remembered the worm, how it stretched, with no end to it as it emerged from behind the shelves, rising in a dripping column. His hand returned to the wound in his side, felt the puckered seam closed, healed, not even sore.

He bought Cassie the ale of her choice, Innsmouth Pale, and got a Shiner for himself. They leaned against one of the walls at the back of the stage room and drank without talking. He watched the room, the patrons, all ages and shapes as they slowly collected around the stage again, some of them dressing, others naked and sweaty. The band members had apparently finished fucking and gone elsewhere. The room smelled like jiz and sulfur.

“This isn’t real,” Anthony said to Cassie. “Is it?”

She looked sideways at him. Was that a little smile? She reached over and cupped his cock under the thin scrubs, rubbed one perfect, silver-adorned breast against his arm, the nipple stiffening as she kissed his throat. “You’ll see,” she said.

“What is that book? Tales. What is it?” he asked, his hand under the wisp of silk, cradling the hard curve of her butt. His growing cock and the rough Texas beer emboldened him.

“It’s nothing,” she answered, laughing. “It’s just a way in that you were lucky enough to find.  There are plenty of others. Like the right art or the holy music – anything that opens you up to the Old Ones. This world is full of the pleasures he gives.”

“Who? Who gives?”

She said something that sounded like she was talking with a mouth full of molasses and marbles.

“What?”

“They call him The Procurer.”

“Is he like a gangster?”

“No, silly. He’s like a god.”

His cock shrank a little as he heard and believed her.

“Listen to The Word,” she said, reaching into his trousers to wiggle his shriveled dick back to life.

“What Word?”

“These guys,” she said. “That’s the band’s name.” She nodded at the stage where the trio had re-emerged, wearing leather and latex strap-ons and nothing else. “Listen to them, bookworm, and be enlightened.”

The guy at the synth bank punched keys and digitized violins filled the room as the lights dimmed, a mimicry of the tone and style of old wood, scratching the edges of discord. His head began to swim and he remembered being somewhere a long time ago, in a room of music, his brain seething with pleasant intoxicants.

Long ago.

His name was George, only a cousin away from royalty, and the beastly violin player inspired in him an urgent anxiety. Only the chloral hydrate he had ingested and the duke’s good wine kept him in his seat, along with the promise of a performance to inspire the most intense feelings, the most divine sensations. Sir Geoffrey had promised nothing less.

At the center of his lordship’s dark-paneled study, among shelves that held the finest library ever assembled on the arts of dark sorcery, a girl waited on her knees.

Anthony knew her.

Sir Geoffrey had dressed her in a cotton shift too short to cover her cunny, try as she might. The girl appeared terrified and George grew hard watching her. Sir Geoffrey, robed in black, his garment decorated with gilt signs to summon and bind devils, entered from the hall, leading a big black goat, the biggest animal of its sort that George had ever seen.  A dozen men in similar robes formed a circle around the girl, breaking to admit Geoffrey and his immense caprine companion.

The girl was named Brigitte. George knew her name somehow. Had someone told him?

Sir Geoffrey moved with acrobat’s grace to stand over the girl, over Brigitte. He caught her neck in the merciless ring of his hand. George’s breath quickened as Sir Geoffrey half lifted her, raising her so that her shift fell forward and left her ass and quim bare and exposed.

George realized that Sir Geoffrey intended for the goat to fuck the girl. He was not sure he wanted to watch, but the spell of chloral hydrate held him, and he could not think of a way to gracefully decline the exhibition.

“Pardon, your lordship, but I don’t fancy bestiality,” seemed timid. The others would laugh at him.

Sir Geoffrey looked directly at him, as though sensing his weakness.

“Come on up here, Georgie. It will be good for you.”

He felt two pairs of hands on him, tugging at his coat and breeches, heard the boisterous laughter of the lodge brothers as they began to undress him.

“What?” he managed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Why mount this girl, of course.”

“But, the goat…”

“You goose! The goat’s for you.”

Continued in Part 26

Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.