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Author: Tullius &lt;tullius@cantshootfs.cjb.net&gt;
Title: In Your Dreams
Summary: A stalker has a talent, which he uses on his favourite glamour
model.
Keywords: MF Msolo Mdom nc mc


                                 In Your Dreams

   Tullius
   &lt;tullius@cantshootfs.cjb.net&gt;

   Copyright
   Copyright in this work lies with the author, who can be contacted at
   the email address above. This story is licensed under a [2]Creative
   Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

   *

   The mailman always came before the predator's alarm went off. On the
   first Tuesday of every month, the sound of the package hitting the
   floor would infallibly cause his eyes to fly open, his body to jerk
   with the adrenaline rush of getting to see her again. He would get out
   of bed, put on his robe and go downstairs, his heart pounding in case
   the thud that had awoken him was that of something other than what he
   was expecting. He would allow himself half a smile at the familiar
   sight of the large brown envelope, then pick it up and put it on the
   coffee table in the living room. Invariably, his alarm clock would then
   go off, making him jump, and he would have to go back upstairs to
   silence it.

   He flattered himself that he ruled himself with a rod of iron. As such
   he would not go back downstairs after silencing the alarm, but would
   get dressed, start up his computer and begin the day's work. When he'd
   left the north-east, he'd struck an agreement with his employer: the
   day's work would be emailed to him in the morning, he would finish it
   before noon, and as long as it checked out, he would keep his job and
   the paychecks would be forwarded to his new address. He had moved to
   Texas because of her.

   Lunch, as always, was a hot dog from a street vendor, a different one
   every day, lest they should recognise him and attempt to strike up
   conversation. Today's was better than average, worth the five miles
   he'd had to drive. He picked up some groceries, again from a store he'd
   never before visited, and returned home. Passing the door, he felt the
   pull of the package on his coffee table. He'd seen the preview last
   month, she would definitely be in it. He forced himself to wait. He
   would need the talent, either tonight or tomorrow night, and practice
   was in order.

   He changed back into his robe and sat on his dining-room table in the
   lotus position. He reached out, searching for viable targets. The time
   of day meant he would probably have to look fairly far afield.
   Australia was normally a good hunting ground, but today there was one
   closer at hand, a businessman who had just returned to California and
   was therefore suffering quite badly from jet-lag. The man's sleep was
   fitful; he was unaccustomed to sleeping during the day, so whenever he
   was close to progressing beyond REM sleep, either the wind would shift
   the drapes and cast bright sunlight onto his face, or a car would
   backfire, or something else would bring him, kicking and screaming back
   to consciousness. In short, the businessman was a perfect target, so
   much so that the predator nearly passed him over as too unchallenging.
   Nearly.

   The businessman's dreams were by and large uninteresting, a rehash of
   the previous day's negotiations, which had been weighing on his mind
   quite heavily. The predator let his mind finish the business of
   preserving his sanity, then began to exert control. The dream shifted,
   became a dream of lying in bed, fitfully trying to sleep after an
   uncomfortable red-eye flight. Now he awoke (in the dream), and in the
   confusion, his body moved, sleepwalking around the room in the pattern
   the predator was accustomed to impose. Having satisfied himself, as he
   did whenever he practiced, that he had a sufficient level of control
   over the body's voluntary mechanisms, he moved on to the involuntary
   responses. He increased the businessman's tolerance for high
   temperatures, decreased his sensitivity to noise, teased his glands
   into releasing a touch more melatonin, and, most importantly, went
   through the familiar motions of inducing arousal. The businessman would
   wake up with an erection, but not for a few hours yet.

   Time had marched on, and by the time he let the businessman's mind go
   and re-opened his eyes, it was five p.m. He let himself feel
   satisfaction, for his control was developing appropriately, and got
   dinner started. Once it was over, and he had dried and put away the
   last spoon, he allowed his mind to anticipate what he was about to do.
   He was about to open the package.

   Having gently sliced open the brown paper with a scalpel, taking care
   not to damage the contents, he slid the magazine out and contemplated
   it. She was on the cover this time, and quite rightly so in his
   opinion. His eyes drank in every familiar curve, her voluptuous body
   eliciting the learned reaction, thrilling him beyond measure, making
   him feel more in the perhaps three seconds that his eyes spent
   wandering than he had in all the prior hours of that day. She was, to
   him, the epitome of beauty, though he was better placed than most to
   know that the only reason he thought so was the Pavlovian conditioning
   he'd put himself through by masturbating so often to her image. Unable
   to control himself any longer he flipped straight to the page where her
   photoset began, touching himself with abandon as he gloried in her
   image. In the illogical clarity that comes just before orgasm, when a
   man feels as though he can prolong the moment forever, he remembered
   not to soil the pages and aimed away from the magazine, caring neither
   about his furniture nor about the carpet as he shot his load.

   Once he'd recovered, he took up his kit and set to work. The staples
   were carefully extracted, the front cover sliced away from the back
   with ruler and scalpel, and the pages of her photoset were extracted
   from the rest and placed individually in protective plastic pockets.
   All having been safely filed away, he remembered to clean the carpet.

   It was seven thirty. He knew he wouldn't be sleeping all night, so he
   went to get some rest.

   The special outside stimulus struck his open mind three hours later,
   and his eyes flew open. She was going to bed. Quickly and methodically
   he prepared himself, getting ready for the moment when she would be
   vulnerable to him. He felt the avenue into her mind open up, and
   slipped inside. As always, he waited and watched before acting.

   She was dreaming of childhood, of the loving attentions of kind
   parents, of picnics in the park. It was idyllic, and he almost felt
   remorse in shattering it. He concentrated, and the dream shifted,
   became a dream of lying in bed, glad to have a chance to relax after a
   gruelling afternoon under the photographer's hot lights, holding pose
   after pose and trying to look sexy when she felt anything but. He felt
   all these memories through the dream, and looked forward to seeing the
   photoset. Another burst of concentration, and his avatar in her mind
   distanced itself from her own thoughts, and appeared in the dream of
   her bedroom. He knew that outside the dream she was wearing a very
   sensible nightgown, but here it was too hot for sleepwear, so she was
   naked. Her breasts, big even by the standards of the specialist
   publications in which she appeared, were bared in their all-natural
   glory, outthrust even more than normal by the foetal position in which
   she was lying. He lay down behind her in the spoon position, caressing
   her soft flank. She stirred, both in the dream and in reality, but did
   not wake in either realm. Spurred on by her receptiveness he slipped
   another arm under her, then moved his hands up to stroke her glorious
   boobs, marvelling, as he always did at how little of them he was able
   to conceal. He kissed her softly along the line of her jaw, and out in
   the real world she purred. To her, he was a recurring and welcome
   erotic dream, able to remind her to take pleasure in her nakedness even
   when the job made her feel at her most cheap and used. To him, she was
   a sex object, his treatment of her the arguments of all the strident
   Moms made flesh. He felt her half-conscious realisation that she was
   having her favourite dream, and for once didn't stop himself from
   grinning. He moved his hands away from her breasts and began to
   explore. Her skin was flawless, probably more so here, where everything
   seemed to be in soft focus, than in real life. He continued to kiss at
   random, worshipping his love-doll reverently, ecstatically allowing her
   long black hair to fall caressingly over his face before burying his
   face in her neck, inhaling her scent noisily. This was the point at
   which his self-control could take a hike, this was his special time.
   She pushed back at him, pressing her ass receptively into his erection.
   His fingers stroked her lips, and she took them into her mouth, sucking
   on them greedily, making a point of demonstrating every technique she
   knew. He wished he could see her eyes from where he was, and without
   either of them moving, it was so. In her dark eyes he read desire, and
   the knowledge that he was teasing her and loving it.

   He melted away from behind her and made the scene shift. Now she was on
   her back, her knees bent and flat to the bed in a classic pose.
   Reverently he brought his face down between her thighs, slathered wet
   kisses onto her nether lips and fought down the urge to bury his tongue
   as far inside her as it would go. "Not yet!" his control shrieked, "not
   yet." He felt her arousal grow and used his awareness to modulate his
   technique, teasing her clit for a quick spike in the graph, then
   bringing his tongue into play to bring on the slow, satisfying climb to
   orgasm. He held her on the edge, revelling in the feeling of her soft
   thighs clamped around his head, before finally allowing her release. As
   always, he felt the pull of her mind trying to shape the dream, and as
   always, he allowed it. The scene shifted once more and they were under
   the covers, lying face to face on their sides. He felt the warmth of
   her body, saw the pleasure in her eyes as they embraced and the
   sensation was bittersweet; he knew what was coming. She kissed him,
   willingly engaging in a duel of tongues, and before it was quite over,
   she drifted down into the depths of NREM sleep, and his control was
   lost. As his eyes opened he imagined he could still feel her lips on
   his, but he knew it was a wish, not a sensation.
     __________________________________________________________________

   Last updated 2011-02-22 21:51:30 BST

References

   1. mailto:tullius@cantshootfs.cjb.net
   2. http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/
