tagMind ControlDreams Ch. 01

Dreams Ch. 01


Chapter 1 -- Melanie's Dream

"We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams." -- Arthur O'Shaughnessy


His weight on my body was a long-awaited welcome, our bare flesh igniting as our skin touched. His chest pressed against my breasts as I felt his hips start to move, his hard member sliding across the lips of my increasingly wet slit.

"Fuck me," I whispered.

Smiling, he raised himself on his arms as hips moved with more force. Our skin flickering in the light of the candles, his body silhouetted above me.

I felt the pressure of his stiff flesh first against, and then as if in slow motion, separating my lips and sliding into my canal. He pulled back slightly, our fluids mixing together as he bit my nipple lightly, once again thrusting his pelvis, forcing the walls of my vagina apart with an incredible pressure, tingling sensations moving through my body.

I wrapped my legs around him, spreading myself open to him as my high heels pressed into his ass, pushing his hard cock further into me. His body started moving faster, his cock gliding in and out of my vagina as my breasts rocked back and forth in response to his thrusts, both of us moaning in pleasure.


I opened my eyes, staring at the ceiling.

"What the hell?" I thought, gasping, trying to catch my breath.

I looked down seeing the familiar hair on my chest—my FLAT chest—as welcomed relief. My cock was rock hard as I lay in bed gasping from panic, trying to gather my thoughts.

"Yes, I have a cock, not a vagina; male, not female," my thoughts raced through my head, the litany being repeated over and over.

I slid off the sheets, feeling a sharp coldness slide against my thigh knowing from previous dreams it was precum or worse on the sheet as I sat up, looking at the clock. Three fifteen AM. The dreams were getting more frequent and worse, their intensity made them seemingly more and more real. I had actually FELT as if I were a woman, some guy thrusting into me. What the hell was going on?

Obviously the dreams were a figment of an oddly overactive imagination. In most circumstances, a beautiful woman being fucked by a guy wouldn't bother me, even turn me on; however, in the dreams *I* was the woman getting fucked, not the guy doing the fucking.

Why was I dreaming about men fucking me? I wasn't gay—far from it, having an active libido and been with quite a few women both in and after college. Sure I was on a dry spell, but that was more from being busy than lack of interest, I surfed porn, watched an occasional Skinomax flick, all normal MALE interest in FEMALES. I was solely interested in woman. I loved the feel of their skin, the softness of their bodies, the rasp of their nipples on my tongue, the taste of their pussy. Why the hell was I dreaming I was one?

It was not fixation on any one person, as I was never the same woman twice, nor was I ever with the same man. Sometimes I was a blonde, sometimes a brunette, tonight I was an auburn haired girl. I remembered my—no, HER I corrected to myself—hair across my face as I--no, as SHE—gasped with pleasure.

I had a sudden image of my next door neighbor Suzanne with similar hair. In fact, her body type is similar to the one I had in my dream. Although I had never seen her naked, I had admired her many a time, even seeing her in a bikini once—which was spectacular—so maybe that was where my imagination was drawing its images.

Looking out the window, I saw her boyfriend's car in her driveway. Yup, there was the reason I had not tried to hit on her.

Thinking back to the dream I recalled candles flickering across our—no, THEIR—skin.

On an odd whim, I looked back out my window, glancing over to Suzanne's bedroom window seeing the unmistakable wavering glare of candles against the curtains.

What the...? Coincidence, purely coincidence.

If it were a single occurrence dream I would have shrugged it off as lustful longing, having helped carry Suzanne's groceries into her house in the afternoon. I am definitely not a boy scout, offering not out of kindness but as an opportunity to appreciate at her tight body up close. I had let her lead, again not out of any thought of being gentlemanly, but to admire her firm ass as I followed her into her house with the bags. My thoughts had been solely focused on wondering what it would be like to fuck her, an image of her legs wrapped around me with her high heels digging into my ass—very similar to the dream I now realized!

Suzanne had been wearing a tight dark blue lace tank top with a black ballerina-like tulle skirt flaring around her shapely thighs. When she walked up the steps the skirt ruffled out enough for me to catch brief glimpses of her upper thighs and tight panty-covered ass from under the dress—just enough to tease without exposing herself. Adding to the erotic package she had been wearing a pair of black stiletto heels—exactly the same heels wrapped around the man in my dream I realized with growing horror.

The trend of my carnal thoughts about her would have been an obvious trigger for an erotic dream for any man; however, why the hell was I dreaming of being HER and getting fucked, not ME doing the fucking?

Again, if this were a single occurrence I could shrug it off as a lustful fantasy; however, dreams like this had been haunting my sleep for the past couple months. Although all different dreams—never the same scene twice—they all had similarities. The dreams were always sexual, with me being the woman getting serviced by men. And they felt real, both within the dream and after waking up, where I could recall every feeling I—I mean the woman—felt.

I laughed, thinking of the movies where somebody's mind was swapped with somebody else's body. Having read a few "Mind Control" erotica stories with various interesting twists, I could not recall reading a story or watching a movie where a guy kept becoming a girl being nailed. I chuckled, thinking it would make an odd sex story or porn movie.

Some of the women—like Suzanne—seemed familiar, others strangers, but why the hell was I dreaming of being a woman? I loved sex; I loved women. Seeing a naked man did absolutely nothing for me, although I did enjoy women getting fucked, that was not the same.

I recalled some comic once saying he could prove his straight-as-an-arrow buddy was "gay," the conversation going something like this:

Man 1: Do you watch porn movies?

Man 2: Hell yeah I watch porn movies!

Man 1: Do you like ones with just women, or with women getting laid?

Man 2: Oh yeah, I love watching women getting laid!

Man 1: And do you like ones where the guys have a small dick giving it to the girl?

Man 2: No, I like them big and hard...wait a minute!

That was sort of how it was in my dreams, like watching a porn movie. That alone would not have bothered me, but the main difference was me being the woman, being an active participant. Unlike "normal" dreams, these were so lifelike, not waking and having the vague wispy nocturnal images of the past you could barely remember. In these dreams I felt everything, even things I had never felt before like a guy fucking me. I felt the woman's hair on my shoulders, the relaxing freedom as a tight bra was removed from my breasts. Hell, I even remembered how it felt HAVING breasts, getting them licked and sucked. Sights, smells, feelings were all so vivid.

What the hell was happening to me?

I looked at the clock, seeing the red glow of 4:45 am staring at me. Shit, have I really been sitting here for over an hour? I considered going back to sleep, but I would be getting up for work in another hour anyways so figured I would get up now, deciding a cold shower would be the perfect thing to wipe the dream from my memory—as well as the aftereffects of my still engorged dick.

As if the dreams were not bad enough, I always woke up aroused. The first few times I rationalized it as being turned on by the overall scene, the same response as if watching some porno movie. Yet the longer the dreams continued, I noticed my level of arousal paralleled that of the women. It did not matter how sexual the scene, but more how the woman felt. If she had only been teased, I woke up extremely hard, needing to jack off. Other times when the woman had been thoroughly fucked, I woke up to the cold dampness of a wet dream, having come in my sleep.

"I need to get laid," I thought to myself, the cold water of the shower hitting me like a shock as I got ready for work.


Later the same day some of my work buddies asked me to go out to lunch with them; however, my mind was still off-kilter from the dream earlier, as well as lack of sleep. Declining, I elected instead to head to the cafeteria downstairs. Bringing my Kindle, I got a sub combo and was just getting enfolded in a good thriller when I heard giggling to my left. Looking over, I saw some of the female office staff sitting at the table next to mine. Smiling in a brief greeting, they did likewise and continued chatting.

As I looked the crowd of women over, my gaze focused on one of them in particular. Melanie was one of those girls you could never get a handle on. She did not talk much, meek even during the few office parties we had, very introverted. In contrast to her spinster-like attitude, she was incredibly hot, having a nice tight body with firm C-cup breasts. She also knew how to dress; in contrast to her timid personality she always wore sexy but classy clothes, her prominent cleavage and runner's legs always in view to every man's delight.

Melanie had been hit upon by every guy in the office—including myself—all of us turned down time and again. Having talked to her and overhearing various discussions with her, her idea of a "wild evening" was renting an action movie and ordering delivery for dinner. She never discussed a husband or boyfriend, having no pictures of any man at her desk or a ring on her finger. I did not even know if she understood how hot she was to other guys, being in her own little world, as she never used her body to any advantage.

Today she was wearing a tight sheath strapless dress, red with white polka dots, her prominent breasts held up in a bandeau styled top. The dress was pleated down the front, hugging her curves wonderfully. It looked spectacular on her, showing off her shoulders and cleavage for all to marvel at. The dress was shorter than mid-thigh length and with her white high-heeled shoes her legs were accentuated perfectly.

Most girls with her body, dressed the way she was, would be strutting around acting like a bitch or slut, yet on Melanie it was just the way she was, neither slutty nor flaunting to be mean. In fact, working in the same office with her for the past year, I seriously doubted she gave any thought to her clothes, probably grabbing the first thing in her closet blindly. Nor was she bitchy in any way. In fact, when you talked to her—she was so quiet she would even never start a conversation, you always had to approach her—she was a sweet girl, without a mean bone in her body.

Unsurprisingly, she sat quietly at the table with the other girls, eating her salad while the others carried the conversation, only smiling or offering brief comments when prompted.

Yup, definitely not my type, I thought. I was not only interested in the hot package, but a woman who was willing to use said package. Melanie was like a spinster trapped in a porn star's body I thought with a chuckle, turning my attention back to my e-book.

The cacophony of mixed conversations within the cafeteria was good background while I read; however, my attention kept getting drawn to the table of women next to me from time to time. From the occasional bursts of chatter, they were apparently going on about some new dance club downtown. From what I gathered most of the girls—except Melanie of course—had visited the club a few times over the last couple of weeks. Based on scattered bits of conversation taking more of my attention, it seemingly was a great spot for the occasional one-night stand. A slight grin appeared on my face as I focused more on the conversation than my e-book.

"I'm telling you Mel," one of the girls—Justine I recognized from her slightly nasal voice—was saying, "You should go there with us tonight. You need to get over this two-year streak mourning your boyfriend leaving you and get back in the field!"

Another one—Mary—piped in, "To hell with the field, you just need to get laid!" she laughed with the other girls.

Not looking up from my book, I knew from experience Melanie was probably politely smiling at them. The news she had a bad breakup explained her reticence to guys hitting on her. I continued listening abstractedly, partly reading my book, partly listening to the girls next to me.

"Hell this is the club to do it at!" one of the other girls laughed. "Everybody is there for only one thing, a quick fix," she giggled. "You barely even see any couples; it's all groups of guys or girls breaking off looking for a good time. And the club was obviously designed for 'impromptu' sessions with many dark nooks and crannies to get your nooks and crannies filled," she giggled with the other girls.

"Yeah, it's almost like a sex club there's so much fucking going on at times," another one said.

"Oh great, just what I wanted, indiscriminant sex with some diseased crack head," Melanie replied.

"It's not like that at all," I recognized Jennifer, one of my own co-workers. "It is a classy club, not a sex club thank you very much Mary for that."

I knew without glancing over Jennifer was glaring at Mary without even looking up. Jennifer was one of the more dominant women in the office, and could imagine her as the group's spokesperson as I heard her continue.

"It's just nobody wastes time with the whole 'Hi what's you sign?' bullshit you see at most clubs. Some people go just to have fun dancing, others to drink and mingle, and others willing to have a short tryst if the moment arises. But regardless of why you go or what happens, it's a cool dance club. You really need to come with us Mel, you need to get out!" she concluded.

I imagined Melanie at a nightclub. Heck, the dress she was wearing was all-purpose enough it would look spectacular even in a club scene, imagining the flashing lights washing over her dancing body, glistening with sweat.

Influenced by my recent group of dreams, I thought to myself "Heck, if I was her, I would jump at the chance to show off that hot body even more."

Like most of my buddies, I had joked around stating if I were ever a woman I would be such a slut. It was odd how society thought a guy who slept around with women a player, yet a woman who did the same was labeled a slut. We had often joked how we would never hesitate at a chance to get laid as a woman after all the frustration of being a man. Everybody knew women had more of an advantage to getting laid than men—they just needed to say yes; it was the guys who had to do all the work to convince a girl to say yes to them.

My thoughts turned back to Melanie, her hot body a burning image in my mind, imagining her "loosening up" at the club. "If I were her..." I again started thinking, until I realized my dreams were having more of an effect on me than just waking up with a boner. What the hell was wrong with me imagining being a girl and going out to get laid?

"Jesus, I really needed to get my shit together," I thought, deciding it was time to get back to work. As I gathered my tray, the girls were still trying to convince Melanie to go out with them to the bar.

Putting my garbage into the trashcan near the tables, I turned away and heard Melanie's voice, "OK, OK, I'll go with you guys tonight...what time?"

I heard them all cheer, saying they were going to dinner after work and then hitting the club afterwards. I overheard Julie—a girl whose cube was next to mine—say it was a good thing Melanie wore a nice dress to work—my imagination again wandering off to what Melanie would look like naked as I went back to my cube.


Later in the afternoon, I was coming out the copy room when I ran into Melanie—literally—doing a full body slam into her, the papers she was carrying scattering to the floor.

"Shit, sorry Melanie," I apologized, bending down to help her with the mess.

"It's alright Tom," she said, crouching down to gather her things.

My gaze drifted to her cleavage, literally 2 feet in front of my face as I again thought of her body gyrating at the club, a strong desire to see those breasts moving with her body "Hell, too bad I didn't catch that club's name or I'd go there myself just to watch her dance," I thought, handing the papers to her.

As I gave her the stack of papers she was carrying, our hands touched, a slight tingle going across my fingers. Obviously static shock from the dry weather...

Saying our goodbye pleasantries I continued back to my desk to finish up the remainder of the day, completely uneventful.


Getting home, it was a typical Monday evening for me. After feeding the cat and cleaning the litter box, I read the mail, and then sat down at the computer. Relieving some frustration due to my dreams, I played some Call of Duty: Black Ops for a few hours, then finally sitting down to watch some television while I ate dinner—Stouffer's chicken Alfredo with broccoli.

"Boy, I lead the exciting life," I thought as I lay back on the couch watching Soprano reruns. The boys were meeting up in their strip club as I started dozing off to sleep. Glancing at the clock and seeing it was only a little after 8:00 pm, I realized the early morning wake-up call I had was catching up to me.

I considered going to bed, but there's something about dozing off on your couch in front of the television that was relaxing as hell as I let my conscious roam. Drifting to sleep, the music from the strip club on television caused my thoughts to wander, thinking about Melanie at the club with the girls...


The music was loud, but the table we were at was far enough from the dance floor we could at least have a conversation without shouting over it. When on the dance floor though, the bass throbbed through your body, the vibrations electrifying as you swayed to the music. I had danced with the girls a few times, drawing the blatant attention of several men. How could we not, as we were all dressed to the nines—and in a club like this, a group of five girls dancing together was bound to draw men like setting lose chickens in a field full of foxes.

The club was exactly as described. On the dance floor people were in various states of undress, and I could see random people pairing off to go to the dark areas of the club. The lighting was such you could only see bodies, not anything definitive, but I knew there was more than kissing occurring in some of the alcoves.

"I'm glad you came out tonight Mel," I heard Mary saying, breaking my reverie as we sipped our margaritas.

"Hunh? What?" I said, my mind flashing oddly to a scene from The Soprano's for some reason.

Mary repeated herself and I answered back, "Well, I'm not sure I'm ready for this..." I started when Jennifer cut in.

"Bullshit Mel, it's been two years since Mark dumped you, get over it. You fell for him bad, we got that, but shit girl, he's now married and expecting a kid, it's time to move on," Jennifer said.

Jennifer could be a real bitch at times. She had no filter between her brain and mouth, particularly when you put a couple margaritas in her. Yet she had a point, two years pining away at home was a bit much.

An odd thought popped into my head, "If I had a body like Melanie's, I'd be such a slut..." Where did that thought come from?

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