A janitor and a student tell lies about a blonde

Peter was at the university the next day.

He had missed a lecture and took the shortcut through the connecting tunnel between the old and new buildings. The hallway was dimly lit, and the concrete floor echoed with his footsteps. Usually, hardly anyone was around here.

Then he heard voices.

Two men. Janitorial uniforms—he could tell just by the sound of their voices. They were standing a little further ahead in an alcove, arguing without trying to keep their voices down.

“…just look at my phone if you don’t believe me,” said one of them, the older one, sounding a bit out of breath. “A female student was naked in the lecture hall yesterday. On all fours. And after that, I licked her and she gave me a blowjob. Really nice. Look at the photo if you think I’m crazy.”

Peter stopped in his tracks without meaning to. The second man’s voice was sharper, incredulous.

“Stop lying, you old fart. Or cut back on the drugs. That could never have happened. And besides, there’s no photo. There’s nothing there at all. You’re imagining it.”

“Yes, it was there! I saw it, I smelled it, I tasted it…”

“Nonsense. You’ve been drinking too much again.”

Peter kept walking, but much more slowly. The snippets of conversation lingered in his mind.

A female student. Naked in the lecture hall. A photo the other guy couldn’t see.

Somehow, the story seemed strangely familiar to him.

Hadn’t Daniel told something similar yesterday at the bar?

They’d both been drunk. That was why Peter had been late today. Daniel had sworn, with gleaming eyes and a voice that was way too loud, that yesterday in a lecture hall a female student had stripped completely naked and danced on a pole. Naked. Legs spread. Showing everything off. He’d even taken a photo. When he’d held his phone right under Peter’s nose, only the camera app had been open. No picture. Nothing. At some point, Daniel had gotten angry because no one believed him, left his beer behind, and stormed off home.

Peter had dismissed it as typical drunken nonsense.

But now…

Two stories that were so very similar. The same inability to show the photo. The same absolute conviction that it had happened.

He waited until the second janitor had walked away, cursing. Then he stepped out of the shadows and stopped in front of the older man.

“I overheard that,” Peter said calmly. “Tell me again. What exactly happened?”

The janitor eyed him suspiciously, then it all came pouring out. He repeated the story in full detail: the puddle, the wet thong, the girl on all fours, the licking, the blowjob, the photo. His voice trembled, torn between defiance and despair.

Peter nodded the whole time, as if he believed every word. No smirk, no doubt in his eyes.

When the man was finished, he simply asked:

“Can you show me the student?”

Lena wasn’t at the university that day.

She couldn’t go back. Not to the same lecture hall, not to the same place where, in her dream, she’d appeared naked and later spread her legs for the janitor. Just the thought of it made her stomach churn.

She was lying on the sofa in her apartment, staring at the ceiling. What the hell was wrong with her?

She had sex. Every now and then. With guys she picked out herself, who turned her on, who fit into her life. She wasn’t starved for sex. So why these dreams? Why these men of all people—the chubby follower, Mia, the old janitor? And why always these scenarios where she had no control, where her body went along with it while she felt disgusted and ashamed inside?

It almost seemed as if strange men were simply acting out their sexual fantasies on her.

But these things weren’t really happening. She was just dreaming them. She’d fall asleep and end up in these hyper-realistic sex dreams—yesterday during the lecture, last night with the janitor. And in the morning, the traces remained. The taste. The wetness. The memory that felt like a real memory. Had she been drugged? No, that couldn’t be.

She tried to distract herself. To find reassurance. Something normal.

She opened Instagram and scrolled through the comments under her photos. The usual fire emojis, the “you’re so hot” messages, the secret desires lurking behind the profiles. That usually boosted her confidence. Reminded her that she was desired, that she was in control of her image.

Then came the post about the fortune-teller.

A few likes. A few laughing emojis. And one comment that stuck with her:

“You don’t joke about fortune-tellers.”

Lena stared at the sentence.

The appointment. The old woman. The gift certificate. Her own words.

She felt alternately hot and cold.

What exactly had she wished for?

And could that—somehow, in some impossible way—be connected to these dreams?