Category Archives: Woman of His Dreams

Woman of His Dreams – Part XXII

Welcome to Part 22 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…


“Woman of His Dreams”
Part 22
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010

Cynthia didn’t care anymore.  The thick cock that slid effortlessly in and out of her pussy had begun to quench the supernatural lust that racked her.  She fingered her clit as Derrick fucked her, graceless, hard, just as she begged him to.

“Fuck,” he growled as he slapped her thigh and pounded into her.  He bellowed, the sound rasping out in challenged gasps.  “Stephen, you’d better hurry!  Don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”

Wicked need seeped into her as another weak orgasm quivered her flayed nerves.  She reached down between her thighs and firmly stroked Derrick’s taint.  He howled like a wolf and came hard, shuddering, then collapsing on top of her.

She wanted fresh air, the sun on her breasts, a new cock.  They all wanted that.

She shoved at the dead weight atop her, the thick muscles of Derrick’s chest proving more intractable than she would have imagined – or maybe she was truly that weak.  How many orgasms had she had in one day?

Was it even the same day?

“Derrick?” The name echoed from the hall, the caramel tenor of Stephen’s voice brushing against Cynthia’s mind like mink.

She stared at the threshold, waiting for him. Her pussy tingled with a raw, stinging, empty awareness, sharpening her focus on the doorway.

Derrick moaned, then rolled off her and onto the floor.  She barely noticed his wet withdrawal.  She sat up and waited for Stephen, her blood thin and pulsing, readying her muscles to spring.

Stephen’s shadow lead the way, and when he came through the doorway the only things Cynthia saw were the white cotton gloves he wore and the small stone cross he carried between his palms. Not a cross, she saw when he came closer. An ankh.

Bring to me the river of your desire.

She knew the words on it, could feel the tale the stone screamed.  She pressed her feet against the floor, her knees shaking as she swayed against gravity, against the crippling weight of the call of the stone in Stephen’s hands.  Clicking, chitin snaps of slicked skeleton reached her ears from the dark reaches under the coach.  She took a tentative step toward Stephen, but barely saw him beyond his gloved hands.  The clicking became steady, a beat, her blood pulsing as the poles drew together.

A crash from the shadows tapped her consciousness, but barely touched her soul.
The tight keening whine slid annoyingly through the cotton of her brain as she reached out for the talisman in Stephen’s hands.

“What the fuck?”

The words sounded foreign, her brain registering the noise but refusing the meaning.  She almost touched the ankh, but Stephen dropped his hand to his side as he pushed Cynthia aside and dodged to the couch.

Acid burned Cynthia’s heart as she rocked to right herself.  When she finally faced Stephen and the couch, she saw Stephen on his knees at Derrick’s head, the ankh on the couch, bare and free, hers to take.  She stepped forward, fingers hovering over the ancient stone, fearful and greedy at once.  The thick pulse that thumped her eardrums and swelled painfully in her fingertips and toes sickened her, thrilled her, and scared her more than anything she’d experienced in the mad hours since Tony found the book.

The book.  Her gaze lasered to the spot, saw the tome settled in the center of Stephen’s desk like some ancient, true bible.

An echoing beat reached her, mixed with the quickening staccato of heat rising from the ankh, a warring crescendo of purpose that froze and burned her, held her trapped between waves of arcane need that tugged her, tempted her and, she knew, damned her to be its sacrifice.

“What did you do to him?” Stephen growled at her, frantically maneuvering Derrick on the floor.

Clarity flipped on like a switch, along with anger, an unnatural shock of rage that burned her scalp and curled her fingers into claws.  “Me?  You had him fuck me, Stephen.  You told him to fuck me!  I didn’t do anything to him other than let his cock slide in and out of me, and let me tell you something you pompous pimp, he’s fucking better than…”  The words died as Stephen lifted Derrick to sitting, his face ghostly pale and a bleeding. An open wound seeped blood from above his left collar bone.  Ugly black ooze flowed down his neck, a rotting vine that ran further, onto his chest and arm.

“The ankh!  Give me the ankh, Cynthia.”

Her bowels tightened, her mouth watering at the sight of the unnatural blood even as her knees threatened to dissolve.  She looked at the ankh, then back at the book, torn.

“Now, Cynthia!  Hand it to me now, or I swear, I will send you to a hell your twisted mind can’t even conceive.   Know this too, I know that as you are right now, you can imagine something far, far worse than Dante or Milton could ever have dreamt of.”  He struggled with the flopping weight of Derrick in his arms, but pointed to the couch.  “Worse, Cynthia.  I fucking promise you!”

She remembered last spring, the poison she’d put out to kill mice that had found a way into Tony’s house.  Warfarin.  She now understood the need to gorge, the undying thirst and the inability to drink enough water to counter the oozing seepage of blood from every pour in the body.

She reached for the ankh, even as the book reached out and scratched her veins with shards of broken glass.

Her fingers curled around the base, burning her palm, and as she looked up to Stephen her vision blasted blinding white.

Stephen laid Derrick aside, where he continued to thrash weakly, bloody, infected, convulsing.

“Goddamit,” Stephen cursed, stood up, and crossed to Cynthia, reaching for the ankh.

She swung the stone talisman right at his head, aiming to kill him.

Continued in Part 23.

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 XXI

Welcome to Part 21 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…


“Woman of His Dreams”
Part 21
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010

The cop who reached Anthony first was a woman, a broad-shouldered, short-haired redhead, who took one look at his shriveled wiener and waved the EMS guys closer.

Anthony felt as though he stood at the center of a play where everyone knew the lines except him.

“What happened?” she asked, taking out a notebook from her pocket. She had a voice like Bruce Willis.  Her professional gaze took in the bloody bandage on his side, his nakedness, and presumably the unfocused haze of his eyes, but no compassion touched her expression.

“Robbed,” he stammered and pointed at the open door of Carcassia’s bookstore, half a block away in the dim space between streetlights. “Took my clothes.”  Thank god, he thought. I’m still sane enough to lie.

The redhead’s partner, a big guy who looked like he might be Samoan, spoke into the microphone mounted on his shoulder, then drew his pistol and started toward the shop. The lady cop handed Anthony over to the ambulance crew and followed her partner. They moved purposefully toward the open door, the Samoan out in front a few steps. The thin gathering that had collected had grown a little, shadowy men and women crowding the sidewalk, spilling into the street. People shifted aside to let the cops pass.

“Can you put these on?” One of the EMS guys handed Anthony a pair of scrub pants while the other one stood back.

Anthony stepped into them, his attention still on the receding backs of the two officers as they approached the black hole of the doorway. He started to head that direction himself, but one of the paramedics stopped him.

“They don’t need your help,” he said. “And we need to take a look at that.” He pointed to the leaking bandage.

Anthony looked down at the mess and nodded, but the idea of anyone lifting that wrapping made his heart race with sick shock. Whatever was going on under there, he knew a trained medical guy would be likely to take a strong interest in the condition and that thought gave him a jolt like a cannibal eel rising from a barrel of brine. Still, there wasn’t much he could do to stop the two guys from taking his arms and leading him toward the ambulance.

When he turned to look back at the cops, he saw they had just reached the steps leading up to the shop but he already knew what they would find inside.

Nothing, no trace of the Goth girl or the monstrous worm, just books and dust and a pile of clothes. He saw his future clearly, hauled off to some public hospital, locked away for observation. Did they still put people in padded cells?

He stood by the open hatch of the meat wagon while one of the men slipped on surgical gloves and took a pair of snips from his kit. The tech approached his task with calm professionalism and removed the fabric adeptly.

Anthony glanced at the wound, obscured by gore. The paramedic washed at it with a moistened cloth.

“The fuck?” he said suddenly, all traces of professionalism gone in a breath. His buddy moved closer to take a look and Anthony looked down too.

The wound in his side, the bite, had changed terribly. It looked like a wet line, like thin lips, a mouth or a cunt.

The tech prodded carefully with his rubberized finger and the wound opened.

Anthony could not see what happened, but he felt the wound pulse and the technician screamed in shock and pain. The man’s finger bloomed bright with his own blood where the tip had been removed as though by a razor.

Then, from the direction of Carcassia’s Books, gunshots blasted a hole in the murmur of the milling sidewalk crowd and Anthony heard screams, cries building on each other, layering like an avalanche of panic.

He pulled away from the uninjured paramedic, and he shuddered as he began to run, no one even trying to stop him. The crowd had begun to run too, in scattered clusters, people stumbling and falling, some of them yelling. The gunshots had stopped but someone — probably the lady cop — was uttering the most awful, endless scream that Anthony had ever heard.

He regretted the loss of his wallet and his clothes, but no way was he going to wait and see what the police brought out.

If they came out at all.

As he ran away from the echoing cacophony, he remembered something like this happening before, that same sense of fragmented déjà vu that he had felt in the shop, as though every running step he took had been described to him in a story or that he had watched them unfold in Technicolor on a screen.

He had a vision of the cops in the store because he had seen them before too, dressed in the uniforms of another place in another time. Roman guards maybe, or something even more ancient and exotic. The redhead had been a man that time, some barbarian soldier with a broken nose and a scar down one cheek.

Instead of Carcassia’s, he remembered a rough-hewed lintel and smelled the burning animal oil from guttering lamps.  The screams didn’t echo off thin walls and flat clear glass, but off thick, cold stone turned black by greasy smoke, and red from countless reluctant offerings.

He remembered the worm threading itself through two figures, penetrating them and stretching their bones as it eased into their bodies, tendrils invading their asses, their eyes, their mouths, like squirming vines taking root.  He felt the writhing, thick lampreys swimming in his bowels, devouring his intestines, chewing his cock, his scrotum.  Gritty sickness roiled through him as he lurched away from the nightmare.

As he ran, he covered the wound on his side with his hand, feeling something like a tongue lick his slippery palm, reassuring him that he would be safe now, that he was wanted, needed even.

And that only wondrous pleasures lay ahead of him.

Continued in Part 22.

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 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…


“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.


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.




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. .


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…


“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.