tagSci-Fi & FantasyDream Raider, Episode 01

Dream Raider, Episode 01

byChristian Black©

I saw her for the first time doing laps in the Y swimming pool. She was a good swimmer, that's what first caught my attention. A sleek woman in a lemon-colored one-piece swimsuit, cutting through the water like an arrow. Strong, efficient strokes. Powerful scissoring kicks which seemed not to splash. Rapid flipping turns at the end of each lap, without a motion wasted or her rhythm disturbed.

I did not immediately think of her body sexually, as I was prone to do. Instead I saw it as an impeccably efficient machine, designed for the purpose of moving through the alien element water. The design took aesthetics into account, but not as a primary concern. My first emotional response was envy. I wished I could swim with her speed and her grace. (I had been on the school swim team for three years but had not distinguished myself there.) I wished I looked as good as she did while doing it.

I watched her for a long time from my deck chair. She had stamina on top of everything else, maintaining her vigorous pace for twenty minutes or half an hour, until I grew tired just watching her.

It wasn't until she got out of the water, until I saw her face, that I wondered what it would be like to go to bed with her. She was tall and slender, a bit too severe to be called pretty. What I think they call a handsome woman. Older than me, yet younger than my mother. She looked like a teacher, to whom I would be a most eager student. The water cascaded down her body, molding the yellow suit to her athletic frame. Her breasts were tightly bound, but her pebbly nipples stood out against the material like minute symmetrical flaws in the aerodynamic design. She pulled off her swim cap. Her shoulder-length hair looked black wet under the high fluorescents and the shimmering blue reflection of the pool water, but I hypothesized it to be a medium brown.

She looked up in my direction and I shriveled in my chair. As if she could somehow be aware of the intensity with which I had watched her swim. As if she could know how I longed to drink the bleach-scented water which dripped from her legs. As if she would show me any interest at all.

Me: eighteen years old but I look like I'm twelve. And a boy. Flat as a surfboard and like some kind of a freak since I shaved my head. I did that to piss off my Mom. She said that I should make an effort to act more "like a girl," to save her the mortification of having to defend my sexuality to her church committee friends. She wouldn't allow me to get pierced or tattooed (though legally adult I haven't worked up the courage to make such drastic moves without her consent) but she couldn't stop me from hauling the clippers from under the sink and buzzing my head. Ten minutes later I was Sinead O'Connor, only not as beautiful. Furthering my insult to her sense of femininity, I stopped shaving my legs or my pits. My puss is bald, though. That was kind of an impulse thing. I haven't decided if I like it or not. (Not that it matters- nobody sees it but me.) So in terms of hair, I'm like a negative image. Hair where there should be none and vice versa. I almost shaved my eyebrows to complete the effect but I was afraid they wouldn't grow back.

So even if she noticed me, it wasn't in a good way. She just headed off to the locker room. After a few seconds, I got up and followed.

I'm not totally lesbian. I would say bi because I get hot like this for guys sometimes too. It's all academic at this point anyway because I haven't ACTUALLY fucked anybody, guy or girl, yet. I say ACTUALLY like that because in a way I've had lots of sex. In a way I'm a real slut princess.

I'll explain that in a bit.

One advantage to the les side, though, is the whole locker room thing. I know guys who would give a million bucks to see what I see every time I go in there. They would covet the foxy lady in the lemon swimsuit and then have to go home and imagine what she looks like naked. Me, I just follow her inside and wait. Though getting a glimpse was only half my mission.

I found her at a locker and thankfully I was not too late. I hovered for a second behind her and looked at the dial on the padlock as she turned it. 42-28-10. Saying these numbers in my head to commit them to memory, I turned and pretended to dig around in one of the empty lockers on the opposite wall.

I stole another glance in time to watch her peel the suit off. Her ass was a perfect inverted heart the exact right size to fit in my cupped palms. When she bent over to pick the wet suit up off the floor, I got just a flash of slitted peach and dark curly fuzz. My knees went weak. She grabbed a towel and as she wrapped it about herself I saw the side of one perfect breast. And I mean perfect. I'm no fan of floppy D-cup silicone fakery. I like natural, not too big but soft and round. Swollen nipple the color of cotton candy, which is how my spit tasted when I swallowed.

I wanted to lick every inch of her.

She went off to the showers. I could have followed. There were separate shower stalls but I maybe could have got another eyeful. But I didn't want her to catch on that I was stalking her. Even though I was. So I went home.

That night in my narrow virgin's bed, panties in a tangled wad somewhere in the bed-sheets, legs spread like I was about to give birth. I wasn't ready to perform my greatest trick yet, so I would have to settle for this one. Both hands at work on my naked hairless puss. Slick and hot and smelly and ripe. Imagining her down there. My clit was like an angry bee trapped under the skin. I gouged the bee with my thumb to piss it off more. Four finger penetration, stretching myself out. Left-hand index finger slick with pussy slime snuck into my asshole. This is something I have only dared to try recently. But yes. It was good. Nothing down there has been touched with anyone's physical hands but my own, but I fucked myself at least once nightly and I knew all the magic buttons. In my head it was her, all her.

I brought my sex-soaked hand to my face and spread the juicy musk all over my lips and nose and chin and then licked my fingers clean. My vaginal scent and taste was savory and familiar. I've read that every woman tastes different, and I imagined her sweet and fruity and clean. I wanted her on my face instead of myself. I would not wash after, so I could go to sleep tasting her and smelling her. Beside her in her arms, head against her soft breasts.

I rolled over on my side and closed my legs so my hand had to force its way in between and in this way I violated myself. I raped myself and it was this thought which gave me a shuddering clenching orgasm which was over just as it began and was a disappointment considering.

In the other world, my orgasms can last for days.


She was not at the Y the next day but I was not overly disappointed. I'm a patient girl. On the third day, my patience was rewarded. From my deck chair perch I watched her just long enough to be reminded of why I wanted this. Her graceful athleticism. Her sleek body. I imagined her swimming inside me, like a sperm cell seeking the light. The image was vivid and tantalizing and I further imagined the shock waves I would create if I just slid my hand inside my suit and stroked myself off right there in front of everybody. The idea sprouted like a mutated seed in my mind and I had to get up and go commit my petty crime before I could commit the worse sin of public masturbation.

Ideas like that are dangerous for me. It's like Tourette's or something. I have zero impulse control. It's got me in trouble more than once.

Anyway, I went into the locker room. Almost empty, thankfully. To her locker, same one she used before, as if it was my own and I had every right. 42-28-10. It seemed too easy to be theft. Anyway, it really wasn't. I wasn't going to rob her. In her purse I found her wallet. Driver's license said Nora Merrick, 348 Mariposa St. Good. I knew where that was. I carefully replaced the wallet in the purse, the purse in the locker, and then I guess I did steal something. Peach-colored, lace-fringed, French-cut cotton panties. I got just a whiff of her before I crammed them into my pocket and shut the locker door. As sweet as I had imagined.

Don't think I'm some kind of panty freak, because I'm not really. OK, well maybe a little, but the panties did have a real purpose as you'll soon see.

I went home then, thinking of the look on her face when she found they were missing. Better yet, she would have to get dressed without them. Nora Merrick, object of my desire and target of my nefarious design, walking around all day with no panties on. The thought pleased me and made me want to do this even more. Talk about good vibrations.

So. At night. In bed. Almost the same program. Me naked below the waist. Nora's panties on the pillow beside me. Hands busy polluting myself. Just priming the pump, though. If I brought myself off, this wouldn't work. Tension was essential.

Inside me the wires grew tight but I did not let them snap. I closed my eyes and rolled over on the pillow so my face was mashed up against her scent. I could follow it like a psychic bloodhound. I closed my eyes and drifted. It takes practice, like auto-hypnosis. Not asleep but certainly not awake. In the state between, where magic is possible.

There is the weird buzzing tingle in my head and the whining noise which used to scare me but which I've come to relish. Disengagement. I float above my bed and look down at myself. I look like a little girl when I sleep. It's comforting to see myself this way but I do not tarry. This state is fragile and temporary and I can't afford to waste it.

I slip easily through the ceiling into the starry night sky. Fly up on strong dark wings until the town is spread out before me with strings of yellow light. I find Mariposa Street and descend upon 348. Follow her scent into her bedroom and hope she's sleeping. I find her like a Queen in repose, resplendent in silk nightgown and silk sheets. I imagine electric friction tickling her flesh with every sleeping movement. She is alone, for which I am grateful. Though it does not really matter.

I pounce on her and like a vaporous ghost I am breathed into her open mouth. I am inside her. Inside her dream.

Now you might say I'm just dreaming myself. That this is just some trick of lucidity. Sex fantasy visualization. No. It's real. This is a talent I've had all my life. I used to go into the dreams of my parents and my brother when I was a little girl, until this grew too disturbing. I didn't know it worked on people outside my family until I invaded the dreams of Emma Evans, my first real girl crush. She fell asleep in study hall and I just slipped in and did my thing. Sucked off her dream-pussy. The look she gave me when she woke up removed all doubt that it had been my imagination.

Nora Merrick is dreaming of drifting in a rowboat in a gorgeous rocky Mediterranean bay. She is sunbathing. Nude. Legs open to the warming rays. Sea-spray dappling her bronzed breasts. I drift down like a seabird diving for prey and slide silently beneath the waves. I pull myself onto the side of her little boat, peeking out of the water at her.

I'm not myself in these invasive dreams. My body, that is. I have some control over the form I will take, but most of it depends on the dreamer. What she expects to see. What she desires, or fears. In dreams these emotions are not very different. In Nora's dream I have assumed a monstrous form. Some creature from the depths of her subconscious. I gaze upon her with unblinking squid eyes. She peers over at me, unalarmed. She barely opens her eyes even as I slide a long suckered tentacle on board and wrap it around her leg. I pull her back with me into the primordial sea. Beneath the waters of her own consciousness I have my way with her.

At first she does not resist as I wrap my many tentacles about her. She does not struggle; shows no fear of drowning in these waters. I pull her into my beak-like maw and bite down into the saltwater taffy of her sex. The taste is divine. Intoxicating. She moans in pain or pleasure which emerges from her throat in huge gurgling bubbles. I twist her body around and force my cunt into her mouth. It's changed, too. My pussy is a parasitic thing attached to my body like a miniature version of the beast I have become. It is prehensile and aware. Pulls Nora's jaws open with its own tentacles and insinuates itself into her throat. It feels like it's covered with a hundred clitorises, each one oscillating with its own separate frequency of pleasure as she is forced to swallow. My pussy wants to crawl into her stomach and through her bowels and be shit out the other side. By forcing her to consume me I will have consumed her. Completely.

Nora and I spin in the water in our frenzied cannibalistic sixty-nine. My jellied appendages quiver. My body swells. I'm coming. Even for a dream raider fuck this is intense.

Then something very strange happens.

She changes. Nora's form shifts. Into some huge mermaid-shark. With a hundred serrated teeth she bites down on my throat-fucking pussy-fish and swallows it in one choking gulp. Wounded, I am thrust back into my human form. I am pulled drowning into her depths, bleeding between the legs with what feels more like castration than menstruation. The blood will bring more sharks, I think.

Above me, Nora the mermaid-shark wags a shaming finger at me before her hand is transfigured into a fin and nothing human remains about her. She dives to finish me off and I let out a bubbling scream of the purest terror I have ever known . . .

. . . and then I awoke in my bed, the scream still clawing at my throat, begging to be freed. But I was safe.

Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. My dream lovers had always, always, been compliant to my desires. No matter how perverse. Why was she different? Why should she fight back?

Between my legs the sheets were soaked. At first I thought I had pissed the bed in my helpless infantile terror. But when I felt the stuff it was slimy and viscous between my fingers. Some weird vaginal ejaculation. I'd read about such things but somehow thought them to be a myth, or at least an anomaly which would not apply to me.

I raised my fingers to my nose. They smelled like seawater.


I of course avoided the Y for several days until I could stand it no more. I did not sleep for more than a few hours that whole time, for fear that she would invade my dreams as I had invaded hers. Finally, sleeplessness and a host of other emotions I could not define pulled me back.

She caught me at my locker before I could even get undressed, grabbing my shoulder and turning my muscles to liquid as if in remembrance of the dream.

"Hey, Octopussy, I think you and I have a lot to talk about," she said. "For starters, I'd like to have my panties back."


NEXT TIME: The darkness. An amateur's guide to the stars inside. After the garden is gone.

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