Category Archives: Dark Erotica

Woman of His Dreams – Part XX

Welcome to Part 20 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 20
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010


Full, whole, drunken.

Stephen’s cock slid beyond the tight circle of Cynthia’s ass, controlled, careful, stretching her, freeing her, exciting her with the penetration, the invasion challenging her submission, her lust.  The pressure on her knees, on the balls of her palms, the ache of her nipples like a sweet bruise added bright pigment to the canvas of excitement.  She wanted this, needed this even as she understood the book needed this of her.  Did that make it more exciting? Did that make it a sacrament?  Did that heighten the glorious nastiness of Stephen’s cock inside her ass, of her delight in the way her sphincter closed tightly around his cock, greedy, jealous?.  His fingers dug into her hips, neatly trimmed nails biting small half moons over the points of her pelvis.

“You will see, Cynthia, the Old Ones were right.” Stephen grunted as he buried himself in her ass.

She didn’t care about the Old Ones, whoever the fuck they were, in that moment, didn’t even care about the book, though as she sensed it nearby, sentient, watching, battening off her lust and, like a closed circuit, feeding it anew.

Did Stephen feel the leash?  Did he know that this glorious lust was not theirs alone?

His cock slid easily into her. She dripped with the slick by-product of her passion, her pussy vacant, but enjoying the ride.

His hand reached around and began to torture her clit, circling it, teasing it until her vision blurred with want, saliva fell from her lips as she tried to squirm, writhe, bend to the growing unreal ache of need in her ass, in her pussy, in her chest, mind, hands, and soul.

He held her there, on the edge, orgasm hovering just beyond her grasp, like faith.

“Beg.”

Somewhere on the bus, on the stairs, pride had evaporated like cheap incense smoke and she had lost any desire to analyze it.  “Fuck me.  Fuck me!”

His cock slammed hard into her ass, his balls slapping her pussy with the force of the thrust.  Something ripped, something inside her surrendered, and he fucked her with a ferocity that shredded her.  His fingers viciously exploited her clit; his cock tore into her ass and she loved it, wanted more, savored the rending pain, the stark humiliation, the abject degradation.  She came hard, fast, and savage.  She cried out, cried with salt tears and bittersweet lust.  She drooled and sagged even as he continued his assault, the pleasure he’d given her quickly fading in favor of his own targeted need to dominate, to own her, to crush whatever oneness she’d thought was hers alone.

And she let him, ached, cringed as the tearing pain of his invasion blasted open the glass door of those nameless demons that had stalked her ever since Tony had found the book.

Sharp shards of pleasure-pain transported her through an onyx tunnel that constricted her heart, tightened her muscles, stole her breath as dripping, vicious claws reached through the sweating vision of her lust to tear at her sides in long bloody furrows.

She saw her reflection in crystalline walls, the scattered, looming shapes of the wizard’s inhuman slaves lining up to claim her, to take her in the mouth and ass, between her breasts, all at once with cocks and appendages of indefinable shape.

She screamed, her voice soundless as she struggled against him, needing to break free, to run and escape. She knew she needed to get away, damn the book, damn Brigitte, Tony, everything.

She tore at the couch, icy daggers of stark fear panting through her, her fight against Stephen suddenly too real, too impossible, his cock stabbing her over and over again, each invasion suddenly dry, blistering, savage.

Her lungs burned.  She needed air, needed leverage to pull away from the nightmare that tore her inside and out until her sides were slick with blood, her ass dripping red and wet.  She needed strength, to break free, needed help from some place beyond the sphere of his domination.

Her vision found focus on the book.  Atop Stephen’s desk, open, the pages laughed, whispered to her.

Kilinga.  Eliana.

Cynthia.

Cynthia.

Listen…

She sagged, deaf to Stephen’s cries, his driving lust seeped into her marrow, the book’s biting laughter sharp as needles piercing her spirit.

Only one word escaped her throat as Stephen came in her ass, his cock jumping, emptying what felt like gallons inside her, oozing molten out of her, binding them. .

“More.”

He pulled out, leaving her leaking and open to the cool breath of the room’s air.

“You’re joking,” he said breathlessly, slapping her bottom with considerable force. “This thing really has its claws in you, doesn’t it?” Tucking, lifting, buckling, he stepped to where Tales lay and stroked its cover. “All right. There’s no talking to you till we’ve exorcised the lust of the moment, and I need you to focus.”

She squirmed on the couch, seeing beyond the crystal walls into an infinity of consuming, unquenchable desire, a panorama of cocks and mouths, ceremonial shafts, hands, tongues. She wanted all of them in her, on her. Only then would she be whole. Only then would the book be satisfied.

Stephen picked up the phone on his desk and punched a number.

“Derrick? Listen, can you come down to my office. I need your help with something. Good. I promise you won’t be sorry.”

Stephen ran his hand over her butt, fingers slipping through the mess to explore the hole he had just filled.

“You’ll like Derrick,” he told her, though she hardly heard him. “I’m told he’s tireless. While he helps you with your little problem, there’s something I need to fetch from the museum.”

She rolled over, shedding the last of her clothing, hips rising to meet things he could not see.

Things that even Professor Wentworth could not begin to imagine.


Continued in Part 21.

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 XIX

Welcome to Part 19 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 19
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010

Anthony’s heart beat in urgent double-time at the sound of the hidden, dragging bulk behind the shelves. He had a sense of deja-vu, as though this room, this moment were reflected in the fractured glass of memory. This had happened, late one night in Videotopia.

Or he had seen it in a movie.

One shelf shook with a peristaltic wave, rippling from bottom to top, tapes, no, books falling out in a flutter of leaves. Dust rose up like smoke.

He saw his pants and his shirt lying near the end of the range of shelves and he stood up, wavering between the door (But the Goth girl had taken the fucking keys.) and his clothes. He’d run bare ass out into the street if he had to, much less in come-stained boxers, but having the pants at least would be nice and might keep him from being arrested. He had no idea what time it might be but the world looked dark through the shuttered windows of the old store.

The shuffling, dragging noise grew louder and he took a step toward the discarded garments. Torn between practicality and choking fear, he hesitated and then retched as something the size of a human head, but sickly white and glistening, a wet pulsing cone, appeared around the end of the shelf, snuffling close to the floor.

Anthony wished for better light but he also knew what a terrible idea that might be.

It’s the chick, he thought. The Goth girl, Cassie, trying to scare him.

“Okay,” he yelled. “Whatever you want. Anything.”

The white thing made a noise like a woman laughing, the cone opening into a full-lipped mouth. It rose on a shimmering trunk as it cleared the aisle and emerged into the room with Anthony. Behind the rising stalk, more length crept in coruscating ripples.

Only a dream, he said, but he felt the edges of his reason fraying, his heart slamming his ribs now, breath and mind gone to some other world where such things did not crawl. He saw it bend its unspeakable head and sniff at his clothes on the floor.

“Mmmm,” it said, in a voice that mimicked someone Anthony had once known, someone he could not name, but the voice touched something inside him and, amidst the gathering colors of insanity, he felt himself growing hard.

Now, he guessed that most of the monster must have emerged from behind the shelves, fifteen feet or more in boneless, pallid undulation. The head changed, like putty in an animated film. The cone grew eyes and the elongated outline of a face emerged from the waxy slime.

His side stung with sudden pain and he clapped his hand to the bandage on his bare ribs, backing toward the door, praying he had left it unlocked. He couldn’t remember what he had done when he came in. Even if he had left it open, the Goth bitch might’ve locked it.

Even if she was still here. The last traces of reason in his head strained to knit themselves together, trying to see how she might play this trick, make this monster crawl and flow. It’s a movie, he thought. I’m in a movie.
As it wriggled nearer to him, the creature stank, not emitting an overpowering reek but a faint, awful smell, like sickly sweet mildew and soured milk.

Fucking smell-o-vision, he thought, mad laughter erupting from his mouth, threatening to steal his last breath.

The bandage on his side pulsed under his hand and the wound throbbed, a sharp pain, as though it had opened anew.

He remembered more of the past, or the dream that had been like this, remembered being tied to a chair, the worms circling him, three or four of them, like this one but smaller. He had seen this happen. He had lived it. Someone had fucking video-taped it.

That’s impossible, he thought. How did I survive? How am I not insane?

The worm made its laughing noise again and oozed toward him.

He tore at the door and it opened. Something cold looped his ankle and he tripped, sprawling in the open portal, the street ten feet away, dusk at the edge of night, people, the city, safety. He clawed at the hardwood floor as the cold tourniquet about his bare leg tightened, creeping up his calf, caressing his knee.

Anthony forced himself to look and saw the worm had extruded a thin tentacle the color and texture of seared veal to encircle his leg and hold fast. Thin fluid, perhaps blood, began to seep from the wound in his side beneath the bandage, and he fought with all his strength against the creature’s pull, like struggling in a quicksand fantasy. The tentacle entangled his boxers and tore. He felt its tip probing between his butt cheeks, and suddenly escape seemed as necessary as breath to a drowning man.

He pulled himself through the doorway, the tentacle slowly easing its grip as though the outside air repelled it.  He kicked once at the white face that breathed upon his feet, and he was out, standing, running down 57th Street naked, not looking back until he had run a block, past people who pointed and laughed.

At the corner, he stopped, breathless, his mind tattering as he tried to push away the reality of what he had just seen, what he had felt against his skin.

Blood had welled beneath the bandage and he looked down at it, wanting to remove it but not daring to.

He was standing there, holding onto the edge of sanity, when the ambulance arrived.

And the police.


Continued in Part 20.

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