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