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.

Forgotten Fear in Four Colors

Four Color Fear: Forgotten Horror Comics of the 1950s , edited by Greg Sadowski
Fantagraphics Books
320 pages. softcover
$29.99

Drake here again. First up in the horror review queue is this wonderful collection of vintage horror comics, an unrefined ore of grisly graphics presented in glorious, restored color, looking better than they did almost 60 years ago. Beautifully designed, the book is a bloody treasure.

Four Color Fear reprints 40 entire stories from the goriest of the forbidden comics of the late 1940s and early 1950s, as well as a selection of mind-blowing covers from legendary titles like Mister Mystery, Web of Evil, and Weird Thrillers. The choice and presentation of covers and stories is superb, a real aficionado’s smorgasbord of utterly depraved entertainment.

By design, this is not a comprehensive collection. There are literally thousands of horror stories from the era and Four Color Fear avoids the comics published by EC, Marvel, DC, and other well-known houses in favor of obscure imprints that are not likely ever to be reprinted in any other format. The original material is extensively annotated with regard to artist, writer (where the writer is known – writing credits were evasive in this era), and publisher. The historical material will be of interest to hardcore fans of these comics but may not catch the attention of a casual reader. Little attempt is made to frame these stories in the social or larger historical context of their times, or to analyze them beyond the mechanical details of art and production. They stand garishly on their own.

I was certainly struck by how really awful much of the writing in these old comics is, by any objective modern standard, but I was also impressed by how effective some of the stories are in their imagery and imaginative, nightmarish power, in spite of the quality of the prose. The plotting often feels like a child’s narration of a more complex story, one perhaps not clearly understood by the narrator. Character motivations are bizarre and frequently silly, and the effect is almost expressionistic, as though the characters are there to act as emblems of sensations and demonstrate the outcome of morality plays rather than as portrayals of real people in horrendous situations.

But one doesn’t read these comics for their stories, really, but rather for an insight into what entertained the youth of the time, while outraging authority. They are, in every sense of the word, dark and subversive of conventional values, something that must have been intolerable to the enforcers of crushing conformity in postwar America.

And then there is the art, crazy exercises in style and mastery by artists like Basil Wolverton, Jack Cole, and Howard Nostrand, comic art from a time when styles were far more varied than in today’s comics, with traditions of illustration and Sunday comics that brought diversity and vitality to the form. The art will probably strike readers who only know modern comics as grotesque and cartoonish, but there is no denying its power.

Roots of later horrors are evident all through these comics, a topic I will get into more in the review of another book, but the conventions of modern spook stories like True Blood and The Walking Dead crawl through these old tales like veins in the arm of a resurrected corpse.

For someone newly interested in pre-Comics Code horror, I would recommend one of the EC volumes over this book – the writing is much more accessible and the art overall better – but, as an introduction to the genre, and as a glimpse into a lost world of terrors, Four Color Fear is a superb second step and, for a fan, the collection is like a breath of ghastly air issuing from the recesses of a time-rotted tomb.

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.

Forbidden Comic Books

Drake here. In retro publishing, this fall has turned out to be the season of the horror comic, with a veritable dark and stormy flood of books reprinting classics from the great era of horror comics in the early 1950s. Since I have a deep affection for this material, and since Angela is wonderfully indulgent of my vices, she is allowing me to occupy a few inches of her blog to review some of these books. This topic is timely too, because a modern horror comic has just become the basis for  hit TV series The Walking Dead.

Arguably the most important book ever written about comic books was the one that almost put an end to them. In 1954, psychiatrist Fredric Wertham published Seduction of the Innocent: the Influence of Comic Books on Today’s Youth. The book was the culmination of years of effort by the well-meaning doctor, who had spent years counseling severely troubled inner city youngsters and who had been, perhaps, driven into a kind of narrowly focused fanaticism by his work. Dr. Wertham blamed horror and crime comics for everything from juvenile crime to sexual fetishes.

In 1955, American comic book publishers were pretty much compelled to submit to a production code – similar to the Hay’s Code that cleaned up movies in the 30s. Among other things, the Comics Code Authority forbade the use of words like “horror” and “terror” in comic titles, banned vampires and werewolves, and ensured that good always triumphed over evil. For the next 15 years, comic would be paragons of innocence and goodness until cracks in the structure began to form around 1970. The Code still exists, but I doubt Dr. Wertham would be amused by some of the material published today with its approval.

Before 1955, there were dozens of companies producing horror and crime comics. The best known of the bunch was the Entertaining Comics company (EC), which imploded after the mid-50s to the single, massively popular Mad magazine. EC’s comics have been acclaimed for the literary ambitions of their writers and the quality of their art and are regarded as some of the best comic books anyone ever published. Widely reprinted in a variety of cheap and expensive formats (although the most recent attempt to archive them in classy hardcover editions ran into the churning blades of economic reality and seems to have ended), EC editions are easy to find for anyone willing to spend a little time on eBay.

But ECs were only the tip of a big, bloody iceberg and several book publishers this fall have begun to mine the vast, all but unknown, trove of scary comics produced before the advent of the Code, the very books that drove Dr. W to his crusade. Besides reprinting rare material, these retrospectives raise some interesting points about the nature of horror comics, their place in the times that produced them, and the importance of forbidden texts in an open society.

Next: Four Color Fear

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.

Dear in the Headlights – Passion: Erotic Romance for Women

I am very proud to have my story “Dear in the Headlights” in Passion: Erotic Romance for Women, edited by the incomparable Rachel Kramer Bussel.   When I first saw the call for this collection I suffered several days of performance anxiety – there were so many possibilities for plots.  I can’t tell you how many ideas half formed in my brain before they evaporated under the intense scrutiny of a cliché lens – or the realization that the story I wanted to tell wouldn’t fit within 4.000 words.  I wasn’t quite fretting, but I was preoccupied by the need to find a theme. My partner Drake helped me by reminding me that if I would just stop thinking about it, stop worrying, the story would present itself.

And it did, on a pre-dawn drive to work.  In a slow-motion moment, I experienced awe, amazement, and a slice of fear as two does crossed the road well ahead of me.  I saw them in my headlights and caught the flash of their eyes before they slid gracefully back into the woods.  

Deer in the headlights.

The phrase stuck with me all the way to work, germinated, and, by the time I reached my office, the outline for “Dear in the Headlights” was clear.

Below is an excerpt from my story.  I hope you enjoy it. If you do, trust me, the other stories in Passion will definitely please!

Stay Sexy!

Excerpt from
“Dear in the Headlights”
By Angela Caperton
in
Passion: Erotic Romance for Women
Published by Cleis, 2010


Low beams bathed me, and I felt every lumen glitter on the lacy black bra and garter belt I wore under an open trench coat.  The cool autumn air brushed my cheeks and tickled my bare belly, but it couldn’t cool me. Daniel stood beside his car, illuminated by the dome light inside it, and his expression turned from stunned surprise to primal lust when he saw what I wore.

My hips swayed as I walked toward him. The coattails floated around my long legs, the coat’s wide lapels slapped against the swell of my breasts, and in that moment, I was Aphrodite and Anita Berber, Mae West and Ishtar.

My pussy, shaved and bare between the garter bands, shamelessly drawing his gaze, creamed with desire as I made the little journey, stopping just beyond his reach, spotlighted. I smiled, inviting him to do whatever he wanted with me, and felt the night quicken with blood calling to blood, deferred ecstasy anticipating fulfillment.

In the moment before he touched me, I knew the night would be everything we wanted it to be, when only an hour earlier, Fate seemed determined to keep us apart.

Earlier that evening, as I leaned close to the mirror to paint wine-colored lipstick on my lips, all I could think about was the plan.  The lip color was yummy – and a perfect complement to the black-plum satin of the obscenely short cocktail dress I wore.  I never dreamed I’d spend so much on a piece of clothing that barely qualified as covering, but tonight demanded it – and wearing the tight, sexy dress, the silk stockings and the burgundy-accented black garter and bra hit all the right buttons in me.  Tonight was about seduction and romance, a deliberate exploitation of all the things Daniel enjoyed. I wanted to have him panting before he ever opened a car door for me.

Yes, seduction to the point of mutual madness, then crazed, hungry – no, starving – fucking.

Five months.  I’m almost embarrassed to say it.  Five months since Daniel and I had done the dirty.  Sure, we’ve been married for ten years, but that hasn’t diminished our desire for sex.  If anything, we’ve gotten a lot better at finding that magical common ground where pleasure reaches a whole new plateau, mind blowing orgasms that are the end point of delightful little odysseys. Given how good we were at reducing each other to mutually spent, happy goo, it was a tragedy how rarely we had the opportunity.

Daniel was a software engineer with major clients on both coasts and I worked as a consulting nutritionist for a medical firm serving hospitals and businesses across the country. We both traveled constantly, like comets in wide orbit, and on those lucky occasions when our paths intersected, we tried not to kill each other from the sheer frenzy of our need. This was nothing either of us had wanted, but it had happened all the same.

This separation had been uncommonly long and, until tonight, when I was putting myself together, I hadn’t realized how much I missed him and wanted him.

Woman of His Dreams – Part XXIV

Welcome to Part 24 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 24
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010


Surprised by Cynthia’s sudden violence, Stephen barely managed to raise his arm, enough to deflect her blow but not to stop it. The stone loop struck his temple with a sound like a hollow crunch. He dropped moaning.

She considered hitting him again but the ankh warmed her hand and sent a pulse directly to her pussy.  The sensation was much different than the raging lust that had consumed her in recent days, but she understood the feeling sprang from the same dangerous magic.

But the ankh’s heat almost comforted her and she breathed easier as she clutched the stone between her breasts.

In that moment of clarity, she remembered more of what had happened when Stephen left her alone with the human fucking machine that had been Derrick Hung-cock. Her mind tipped back toward the abyss as the memory smothered her.

Insistent clicking and the tap of hard talons, a shape she could not hold in her mind, mandibles and too many eyes. It had penetrated Derrick even as he penetrated her, injecting something that made him cry with joy and ecstasy even as it infected him.

She shot a glance at where Derrick had fallen and watched as shadows coiled around him like smoke, growing out of the dripping black ooze on his head and shoulders. Stephen had wanted to use the ankh to help Derrick somehow. As the big man convulsed and weakly struggled against what she thought must be the suffocation of the shadows, she embraced her instincts, and kneeled beside him.  She laid the stone tentatively against the leaking wounds, fear and exhilaration pounding her pulse through her body.

Derrick shuddered violently, but then breathed more evenly. Cynthia’s lips formed words, nonsense syllables that invoked forces within her self and beyond, whipping power she could not name. From beneath the couch, something began to click and whirr in agitation and she felt the book plucking at her again. She held the ankh high in the air and let its power flow freely through her.

Something long, black, and segmented probed the air, rising from behind the sofa and she chanted harder, feeling the wicked tide crashing against her, like the ocean of destruction on the rocks of life.

“Give us the man.”  She heard the voice, not in her head, but words as real as Tony’s or the bus driver’s as he called out the stops.  It wasn’t even particularly sinister, just a matter-of-fact demand, but the intonation terrified her. She cringed at the jagged sound, like human speech simulated by a power saw. “Give him to us, and we will let you go.”

N’oha fn’isti brk,” she chanted, aware that she had become only a puppet.  She opened to whatever spoke through her, knowing it was her best chance. She saw herself multiplied across time, a naked priestess armed with words of power.

The couch moved, as something behind it began to emerge and she knew if she saw the thing, she might go mad. “N’oha!” she cried. “Begone!”

She sensed the thing cringing. “Give us the book,” it buzzed. “Keep the man. Give us the book.”

She considered that. The book had caused all of this horror. Why not give it to the thing?

Brigitte. The book might be the only way to bring Brigitte back. Sudden regret at hitting Stephen filled her. He might know what to do.

As though her will touched him, Stephen moaned and began to rise. Distracted, she lowered the ankh and turned toward him.

The lights snapped off and in the sudden, complete darkness, she heard a rush of clattering legs, the angry snap of mandibles.

N’oha!” she cried again and the ankh bloomed with a pallid green light. In the eerie illumination, she saw the shape of the thing that had emerged into the room, insectoid and human in a hideous hybrid tangle, a form that could not possibly function in the material world. She closed her eyes, nausea washing through her.

Too weak, she thought, to stand against this. No human could.

Someone caught her and held her, strong hands wresting the ankh from her grip. She recognized Stephen’s touch, his scent, and she let him take the stone implement and she clung to him, waves of lust and fear and madness drowning her as he began to chant.

The words rolled like waves and she heard the insect thing scream in a voice that echoed beyond the room, across dimensions, shredding the walls of her skull into splinters as she fell away from the world.

##


When she opened her eyes, she saw Stephen bending over her, his hand warm on her face, his eyes concerned but calm. He had covered her with a blanket, but it did nothing to warm her.

“Where is it?” she asked him, her voice cracking with panic.

“Gone.”

“Did it get …?”

He shook his head. “It left empty-handed. I’ve called EMS for Derrick. He’ll be fine, I think. We still have the book, may all the gods help us.”

She clutched at him. “Thank you,” she started. “I’m so sorry…”

He touched his head. “Don’t. I know what you were feeling. I underestimated its power, thought, will. I shouldn’t have left Derrick with you. This is much worse than…”

“Than what?”

“Than the other time I saw something like this. That…” He gestured at the book where it still lay on his desk. “I think I know what it is.”

She heard a siren approaching outside.

“Can you get up?” he asked her. She nodded.

“Going to move you to another room while the paramedics work on Derrick. I’m going to have enough questions to answer without them seeing you. There are likely to be cops too. Unless you need…?”

She understood and shook her head. She rose, wrapping the blanket like a robe around her. “I’m all right. I’d rather not talk to anyone now.”

He helped her down the hall to an empty office where she stretched out on the sofa.

“I’ll get you some clothes and be back as soon as I can,” he assured her and then went to meet the emergency crew.

She tried to relax. Lust still buzzed in her blood, but it was different now. As silly as she knew the thought was, she just wanted to lay down with Stephen, fuck slowly, and then cuddle.

Blue and red lights penetrated her closed eyelids.  Her knotted body slowly uncoiled and she felt herself melting into the cushions, one thought following her into troubled sleep.

Maybe later, when the EMTs and cops were long gone, maybe she and Stephen could do exactly that.

Continued in Part 25.

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 XXIII

Welcome to Part 23 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 23
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010


The screams followed Anthony for blocks. He ran along 57th, past honking traffic, to the corner of an unfamiliar cross street where he didn’t stop to read the sign, just ran, heading for the darkest place he saw, the mouth of an alley that seemed to drink the light. He lurched into the blackness, stumbling over things that felt like soft bricks,falling, his hands bruising against wet stone, tearing the knees of his scrubs.  His heart pounded like a timpani.

He had no money, no phone, no ID, and here he was, almost naked, miles from his townhouse. He wanted to hug the blackness and pray for it to take him, but it scared the shit out of him too. He imagined the things that might hide there, sinuous and cold, creatures that had crawled out of nightmares and into the waking world.

As his eyes adjusted to the absence of light, he saw that he was not alone. The faintest frame of illumination showed a doorway a little further down the alleyway and someone stood outside it, a big shape that resolved into a man in tight clothes leaning against the stone wallbeside the door. The weight of the man’s gaze pinned Anthony to the ground.

“Want in, sport?” he asked in a voice like the bass line in slow acid jazz. Anthony heard the rest of the music in the bricks and in the street, a rhythmic, muffled pounding. He stood up slowly and took a step away from the big man. “Nothin’ to be scared of,” the man drawled.“Look like you can use a little di-version. Come on. Lots of pretty girls inside.”

Anthony’s cock twitched and it almost tugged him toward the man and the mysterious door. When he was close enough to be sure that the guy saw his tattered scrub pants and bare chest, he ventured, “Do I pass the dress code?”

“In there?” The big man laughed, like rocks in a polisher. His skin was the same color as the shadow-painted bricks in the wall, and his face wore a tattooed mask giving him an illusion of inhuman tranquility. “My friend, you may be overdressed for the cabaret.”

“I don’t have any money.” Anthony said, even as he struggled against the encounter.  He knew this was wrong, that somehow the alleyway had opened into some other space and time, but he couldn’t help himself from walking through the portal. His cock ached with new, insistent life,the flesh so hard it pushed his scrubs out and threatened to escape the Velcro fly.  The wound in his side drooled in hot anticipation.

“The only price for your admission is your consent,” the doorman said.“When you go in, you are ours to do with as we please. That all right with you?”

He tried to think, to summon all the reasons that this might be the worst move he had ever made in his life. Where was Cynthia? Maybe back at the townhouse. Maybe still at the college. She had the book and the book held all the answers.  Longing cut deep into his bones with the desire to hold it again.

The big man opened the door and Anthony saw the play of light inside,flashing colors and dancing shadows, the pound of drums and synthetic music, faster than any real musician could play. The big man caught him by the wrist in a hand like a manacle and pulled him closer.

“Time to play,” he said.

“I don’t…I don’t concede anything,” Anthony said. “Leave me alone.” Buthe couldn’t hear the words as he spoke them. They had been swallowed by the banshee, tuneless wail, and the guardian had already pulled him over the threshold and slammed the door behind him.

He saw words in letters the color of dried blood, a sign above a stage, illuminated by the stroboscopic storm.

Xabaret Xulu.

The concrete floor felt cold and sweaty under his bare feet and he tried to gauge the size of the room. Could it be as cavernous as it seemed or was that space a trick of the crazy lights?

Countless people packed the hall, dancing and bouncing before the stage where a trio of naked men played, a drummer, a man with a horn, and a wizard at the center of a stack of sequencers and keyboards. The noise pushed past the walls of pain tolerance, a sound as vast as space,consuming and obliterating.

Anthony realized that a fair number of the people nearest him were entirely nude or dressed only in ornamental garb that had nothing to do with modesty — horned headdresses, tails affixed apparently with butt plugs, chains and leather straps. Sweaty bodies rubbed against him, men and women, fused in an orgiastic dance, catching him up in it. Someone’s hands invaded his pants and groped his rigid cock while someone else put a finger up his ass.

The wound in his side puckered, wet and open and he covered it to protect himself from something he could not name. Again, an organ like a tongue licked the palm of his hand and he gripped tighter, even as more hands caught him, peeling the scrubs down his thighs, tripping him so that he stumbled and fell among the revel, on his back, cock up like a lightning rod, his reason falling away again, eaten by the music and the pounding flesh around him.

Someone began to suck him and he looked down to watch a skinny,androgynous, man working on his shaft while a woman who might have been the scarecrow’s twin bit and chewed his thigh. A woman squatted over Anthony, offering the bare, dripping cleft of her pussy to his lips and he tongued her, catching the rhythm concealed within the thunder,feeling it in his blood and his loins, heartbeat pumping blood and jism.The crowd around him began to scream in mutual climax, the woman atop his face squirting and grinding down on him. The couple working on his cock surrendered to their own pleasure, forgetting him so that his abandoned penis pulsed in the fevered space and then pumped thick white seed in an offering to the gods of the upper air and the demons of true madness.

He lay on the cool concrete, the shapes around him growing still as the music subsided, the synthesized screaming becoming a croon, the drums calming to the beat of an anxious pulse.

Someone helped him up, an unexpected kindness in a moment he half expected to be his last.

She wore a black lace collar, tit and clit piercings, and nothing else, but he recognized her at once.

Cassie. The Goth chick.

“So, bookworm,” she said. “Come here often?”

Continued in Part 24.

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

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