Lucid Lucy

Part of my "Findom Camgirls" series. Tags: findom, femdom, F/m

I first learned about lucid dreaming last year, while reading the physicist Richard Feynman's autobiography. He has a whole chapter describing his experiments in it, and how he learned do it. He made it seem a skill simple to acquire, and a harmless and fun experience, like taking a mild mind-altering drug from which you could "come down" whenever you wished. I decided I had to try it for myself.

At first it seemed like I would never be able to do it; but after a few nights of practice, I started to make progress, having discovered that having any alcohol or caffeine in my system when I went to bed made it impossible: By the fifth night, as I drifted off to sleep, my thoughts would sort of "channel-hop" quickly and erratically, while part of me remained conscious enough to observe all this. And then the hopping would slow down, and after a few minutes, there I was, my conscious mind observing myself dreaming, and able (or feeling as though it was able) to direct the action in the dream. I had achieved the lucid dreaming state.

The first thing I decided to do in my dream was to confirm one of Feynman's observations, that I could dream in colour. In my dream I saw my red bath-towel laying on my duvet, and beheld that it was indeed bright red. I grabbed the towel and threw it onto the floor by the bed, and then looked down at my hands: My palms were now stained red too! I said to myself, "That's okay, it's not from the towel, it's because I was peeling some beetroot earlier, and forgot to wash my hands afterwards. Maybe I should wake up and wash them now. So I will now please wake up!"

For a terrifying minute nothing happened; there was utter blackness and silence, and my body felt paralysed, or rather, swaddled. But then with a stomach-churning rush I awoke, like a diver resurfacing. My heart beat quickly. I turned on the bedside lamp and checked my palms -- which were their natural pink, without a trace of beetroot.

Excited by the success of my first ever lucid dream, I got up, and went to the bathroom to pee. I noticed that my red bath towel was still in its usual place on the towel rack, and chuckled with relief: So I definitely had been dreaming, in bed the whole time, and not been, as I had dimly suspected, sleepwalking.

I suddenly felt exhausted: It was evidently a drain on my mind to lucid dream. I crawled back to bed and slept soundly for the rest of the night. When I woke next morning, I did not recall any more dreams, lucid or otherwise.

I was looking forward to the following night. Throughout that day I thought about my previous night's experience, and considered what my next experiment should be. I recalled one of Feynman's experiments, which was to experience sexual pleasure while lucid dreaming. Now that sounded fun.

At that time, I was single, having recently ended a long, and during its death throes, bitter and stressful relationship, so I wasn't in any mood for dating; but my libido had begun to return, and to satisfy my urges I'd frequent online cam girl sites and spend a lot of time, not to mention money, mostly just chatting with, and staring at these gorgeous girls. I guess I was as much lonely as horny.

I had a crush on one model in particular: She called herself "Goddess Azure". She had a coolness about her which made me feel calm and at peace. Her face was almost unbearably beautiful, with such depth and sadness in her pale grey eyes, and a gentle, almost mocking trace of a smile on her full lips. I demanded very little of her: I wanted simply to talk, and to admire her quietly, in an almost religious way. Just watching her, for minutes, sometimes as long as an hour, was incredibly erotic. It occurred to me that she may have found this rather tedious, but we both knew I was paying by the minute, so I didn't feel badly about it. She may have been lying, but she told me she enjoyed my visits, mainly because I was respectful and polite to her when we spoke.

Her term for my fetish was "edging", because I would remain for a long time on the edge of orgasm. She never showed me her naked body. After half an hour or so she would decide it was time to draw the session to a close: She would instruct me to start stroking my dick; finally, as I brought myself to an overwhelmingly powerful orgasm, her lips would part in a satisfied grin; a job well done.

I decided that she should be invited to participate my next lucid dream experiment the following night.

I lay in bed and took a few deep breaths before taking myself into the lucid dreaming state, slightly worried that my eager anticipation would jinx it. But it was fine; my technique worked as well as the night before: My thoughts became fragmented, but part of me remained conscious, observing those thoughts as they coalesced into dreams.

And then I heard -- I really heard, a gentle, somehow "sexy" knock at my bedroom door. My cock stiffened.

I tried to speak, but no words came. I sat up and opened my laptop which was lying on my bed. I typed "Come in" on the keyboard. I heard myself saying it then; in my crazy dream logic, typing was the only way I could speak, it seemed. The door opened. She entered. She was wearing a short silk opalescent nightdress. Her figure was perfect; She looked like a fairy tale princess on her wedding night.

But this wasn't a fairy tale: She was here, in my bedroom; she was real. I inhaled through my nostrils, a long breath... I could smell, actually smell her mysterious, tantalising perfume. She slowly walked towards the foot of the bed and sat down, her back to me. I could feel my feet being squashed between the duvet and the mattress by her weight. It was so real. I typed it: "This is so real".

She twisted round and replied, "Why not?" She said, "It's more real than seeing me on cam contacts!"

I typed back: "I feel like you're controlling what happens in this dream, even though I know I'm the one dreaming it."

She climbed right onto the bed and straddled me, with only the duvet between our hips. My arms were gently trapped under the duvet by my sides. She bent and kissed me lightly on the lips. Her hair tickled my cheek. I could feel her warm breath on me. I felt myself nearing orgasm. But she whispered in my ear, "I have to go. You need to wake up now, Abel." Abel. I'd never, in all the time I'd visited her online, told her my real name, but she called me Abel. "What's your name, Goddess? Your real name?"

"Lucy."

At that word, which seemed to come not from her, but from my own throat, I woke up. No Lucy. And no orgasm.

That dream affected me deeply; On awaking, I felt like Lazarus called back from heaven. I was close to tears. I felt then that I could never visit her online again, because it would seem like such an anti-climax after having been with her "for real", so intimately. Of course, I knew, logically, that it had been only a dream, but it felt exactly as though she had been with me for real.

As the day wore on, the sensation faded and I started to realize that, despite the profound effect on me it at the time, it was, just like the prior night, simply a dream, as full of the same illogical logic as any other. Even the lucidity of the experience, I now knew, was merely part of the dream too -- All I'd done to give it lucidity is convince myself in my dream that it was real.

So pleasant and seductive had been that experience, that I decided that I would take a break from lucid dreaming that night. And from visiting the "real" Goddess Azure online, or any other cam models, for that matter; because I knew myself well enough to realise that it could turn bad for me if I didn't stop now, as I was in real danger of getting hooked.

So at least, I reflected, the lucid dream experiment had helped me nip in the bud a growing addiction.

But things didn't work out that way; even though I was exhausted that night and tried to go to sleep in the usual way, without using the trick of maintaining self-awareness which would have led me to the lucid dream state, an even stranger thing happened: I dreamed, lucidly, that I got up in the middle of the night. I stood beside my bed and told myself "I am dreaming." That's a key distinction between lucid and ordinary dreams: In ordinary dreams, it's very hard to say, "I am dreaming" without subsequently waking up.

I told myself "I want to wake up". And then I heard Lucy's soft voice clearly in my ears, but without seeing her. She said to me, "Go back to bed first, and then you can tell yourself to wake up, because if you woke up now, you'd fall over and bump your head."

It made sense at the time: I went back to bed, or rather I dreamed that I went back to bed, and told myself to wake up. The now familiar blackness and silence was followed by the familiar rush into wakefulness. I opened my eyes. Lucy was standing at the foot of the bed, watching me! She was laughing. I'd never heard her laugh. It was very sexy. I began laughing too. I should have been terrified, but I wasn't. "Lucy, what's happening?" I asked.

"You went down two levels. You need to tell yourself to wake up a second time. Goodbye, Abel. I'll see you again. Remember, I now know your address." And when she said that, I did get terrified.

Once more I experienced paralysis, utter blackness and silence, followed by the rush into wakefulness. And then, I opened my eyes, to what I hoped was reality. It took me quite a few minutes to convince myself that I'd really woken up this time, and hadn't "gone down three levels" instead of two.

I got up, agitated, and made myself a rosehip tea to help me sleep. Then I remembered I had some Temazepam in the bathroom, so to be on the safe side, I took one of those, which made me fall into a dreamless sleep within seconds of my head hitting the pillow. The next morning, I felt less as though I had slept than that I'd been unconscious all night. I didn't feel rested, and the fact that earlier I'd experienced more lucid dreams without trying to, disturbed me. Moreover, Lucy, whom I'd resolved to avoid, had visited me uninvited and unwelcome.

Maybe the Temazepam was to blame, but for whatever reason my agitation didn't subside that day; rather it increased. I began to wonder at the name I'd conjured up in my dream for Goddess Azure: "Lucy". From what part of my unconscious had I literally dreamed up that name? I guessed that most likely I'd made a subconscious pun on the word "Lucid".

That evening I was dreading the prospect of going to sleep later. But I decided against more Temazepam: I had to get back to a normal routine, and exorcise Lucy from my dreams.

I thought that maybe if I spoke to her online just one last time, reminding myself all the while that she's not a Goddess but a normal, albeit very beautiful woman, it would help break the spell. And if that failed, I told myself, I could imagine her on the toilet, or vomiting. In fact, it was even simpler: I just needed to reassure myself that her real name wasn't "Lucy"; hopefully I could persuade her to tell me.

I took my laptop to bed with me and logged on to the cam site which she used. She was online. After a few moments' hesitation, I connected to her room. She smiled when she saw me. I opened my camera so she could see me too. I waved.

As soon as I saw her, I forgot the reason I had given myself for visiting her; maybe I'd being simply making up an excuse to see her again.

She said that I looked very tired tonight. I told I was exhausted, and that I'd been dreaming about her the past few nights. I didn't explain about them being lucid dreams; I wasn't in the mood to go into explanations; I just wanted to stop typing and watch her, drink in her beauty and let it quench my burning desire, to let it engulf me.

She said to me, "You should go to sleep, and dream of me more. You should go."

I was relieved that she had decided it was best to end the session. But then I asked her if it was possible to know her real name.

"Tell me your real name first."

I told her my name.

"Nice name. Unusual. And you live in London. I'm visiting there tomorrow. With my boyfriend." She laughed.

"Ok, so now I know you have a boyfriend; but I still don't know your name. In my dreams, you were called 'Lucy'. Please tell me that's not your real name."

"Go to sleep, Abel."

I sighed. "Ok." I shut the laptop, switched off the light and closed my eyes, preparing to sleep. As I drifted off I heard her voice say, clearly:

"Do you have your passport?"

I replied "Yes, it's in my pocket."

And then I was on a plane, flying high above the clouds. I was sitting in the aisle seat. To my left in the middle seat was a lean fifty-year old man with long swept back hair. He had a big, almost dumb grin on his face. He looked familiar. To his left, in the window seat, was Lucy.

The "Fasten Seat Belt" sign came on. The man twisted towards me to untangle his seat belt from mine and then I recognised him. It was Richard Feynman.

"I know you. You're Richard Feynman."

"Yep, and I've been dead for thirty years, which means you're dreaming, buddy. This is my girlfriend, Lucy. You know her, don't you: She's the hooker you've fallen for, and will never fuck. You know why that is, don'cha."

"Because she's a figment of my imagination?"

"Nah, she's real alright, believe me. No, the reason you'll never fuck her is because I'm always going to be sitting between you and her. I'm always going to be in the way."

I woke up, feeling spurned and jealous. I immediately figured out what had caused that dream: I'd obviously been upset earlier when Goddess Azure told me about having a boyfriend, and for some reason had dreamed up Richard Feynman to take on the boyfriend role in my dream. And the passport, and the aeroplane setting? Well, she had said she was flying to London.

In my earlier dream, she'd told me she knew my address; I couldn't recall ever telling her that, but I was now not so sure I hadn't let it slip at some point in our chats. The trouble with those chats was, that I was sort of in a state of semi-trance when they took place, and less aware of what I was saying than I would normally be.

Not that I had any reason to be overly concerned, even if I had divulged my address. I wasn't worried about blackmail, and she knew that; and it would be ridiculously vain of me to suppose that she would want to see me in person. It's just that I was automatically cautious of giving away personal details online, given all those scary tales of identity theft and fraud I'd read about. After all, she was undoubtedly, despite her courteous and dignified manner, not far off from being, as Feynman had said, a "hooker", not the most trustworthy profession.

The next morning, things started to get really weird: I encountered her in Selfridges -- for real. I'd gone in there to pick up an online prescription. I was slightly disappointed to see her there, but not surprised; it was the kind of place Goddess Azure would come to on a visit to London. Selfridges is a magnet for wannabe Kardashians. So that was the reason my disappointment; I'd kind of hoped that she was more classy than that; yet there she was, checking out the jewellery at the Tiffany counter.

At first I hesitated, half concealing myself behind a pillar. I wanted to check if she was alone, or with her boyfriend. She seemed to be alone.

I approached her, and she immediately recognized me. She smiled, displaying not the slightest surprise or consternation, like she'd been expecting me.

She was as beautiful in person as she'd been on camera, and in my dreams. She was taller than I'd imagined, but that may have been because she wore heels. She was dressed completely unlike how she presented herself online, in tight jeans and a short tan leather jacket, with an expensive looking handbag over her shoulder. But her face and hairstyle were the same; She was literally breathtakingly beautiful; I gasped and stopped breathing for a moment when I looked into her eyes, and at her smiling lips.

The first thing I did was ask her where her boyfriend was. I hoped that she'd say that she'd come alone, but she said that he was here on business, but was meeting her soon at the hotel they were staying at on Park Lane. Then she asked if I wanted to walk her back to her hotel, through Hyde Park.

"You can carry my shopping. I bought it with all the money you spent on worshipping me online." She had six or seven bags with her, containing newly purchased designer clothing, jewellery, and at least three pairs of shoes. Then she added, "It's not just your money. I have a lot of worshippers." I'm not sure she added that to humiliate me further or, on the contrary, to make me feel less of a fool by indicating that I wasn't alone in my infatuation.

We walked down from Marble Arch, past Speaker's Corner. I left her at the entrance to Claridges. A doorman collected her bags from me; he was clearly quite used to carrying in piles shopping for the affluent but unsophisticated clientele of that once very exclusive hotel.

Lucy smiled, slightly awkwardly, as though I were a stranger who had gone out of his way to help her, and she was unsure whether she should tip me. "Thank you," she said, politely but with finality, and disappeared inside, while another doorman held the door open for her.

I was left standing, bemused, on Park Lane. I felt a sudden rush of confused panic; the whole episode, it felt, had been utterly weird; it just didn't make any sense at all. Besides the unlikely coincidence of our meeting, there was something unreal, even dreamlike, about the bland acceptance of the situation on both our parts -- no surprise, no real emotion; nothing more than polite conversation, about nothing whatever; certainly, nothing I could recall. Had I imagined the whole thing? I don't know if it was merely embarrassment at being thought insane, but I was too shy at the time to ask the doorman to confirm that Lucy had really been with me. Instead, I wandered on foot through the streets of Mayfair behind the hotel until I came to Farm Street church.

I went in. This is far from my normal behaviour. In the first place, I'm an atheist. And if I were to be part of any church, it would be Anglican, not Catholic, like this one was.

It was quiet there at that time, and cool, and peaceful. My head felt clearer in there. I sat at a pew right at the front, and took in the glorious décor. My eyes fell on the huge stained glass window, high above the altar. The sun illuminated it. And Mary, in the centre of that dazzling scene, looked to me exactly like Lucy; in fact she was Lucy.

I watched her, radiant, with precisely the same sense of hypnotised calm combined with intense sexual arousal, as when I worshipped Her online. The feeling was so identical, that I felt wonder, and also some relief, that my unusual fetish was not so peculiar; it was simply a desire for religious devotion, which lots of people feel. The sexual side of it didn't seem, to me anyway, in the least bit blasphemous: I figured that other guys got as turned on as me as they knelt before the Virgin Mary, but they were just too prudish to admit it.

An overwhelming urge came over me to pull out my dick, there in the church, and stroke myself to orgasm while Lucy/Mary watched me, with Her infinitely sad eyes, Her amused but indulgent smile playing on Her lips. I can thank Richard Feynman for stopping me actually doing that, which would probably have got me arrested, or sectioned. Feynman was sitting right there in the church, next to me on the same pew.

He spoke to me, loudly, in a voice which echoed around the vast space: "Hi! Yes, it's me, and yes, you're dreaming -- or more accurately, you're hallucinating. And before you tell yourself to wake up, I wanna warn ya: This may be the last time you're gonna see me, so I suggest you listen carefully to what I have to tell you."