But was she really tricked?

The first night was strange. Nothing like anything she had ever experienced before.

Back in her flat, still faintly annoyed by the whole fortune-teller farce, Lena took two quick, deliberately sexy photos of herself in the mirror. Soft light, slightly arched back, the kind of shot that always pulled numbers. She posted them without overthinking it and watched the first notifications roll in. Within thirty seconds a like appeared from one of her regular followers — a heavy-set guy with a bland profile picture and an even blander username. She snorted softly at the screen.

Of course it’s him.

He was good for easy engagement. In real life she would never have let him touch her.

She locked her phone, turned off the light, and fell asleep faster than usual.

At some point she became aware that she was standing in a basement room. Low ceiling, cheap furniture, the faint smell of laundry detergent and old carpet. A student’s room, the kind of place a guy still living at his mother’s house would call his own. Everything felt solid — the cool floor under her bare feet, the slightly damp air — and at the same time unreal, as if a thin layer of dream still clung to it.

Then the door at the top of the stairs opened.

A man came down. Heavy steps. She recognised him the moment the weak overhead light hit his face: the same follower who had liked her photo first.

He stopped halfway down the stairs, staring.

“Holy shit… that’s Lena. What the fuck are you doing in my room? And why are you naked?”

Lena’s breath caught. She looked down and only then realised she was completely bare. No clothes, no sheet, nothing. Instinctively she tried to cover her breasts and the space between her legs with her hands, but her arms refused to move the way she wanted. Instead her body did something else entirely.

Her voice came out soft, almost inviting.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she heard herself say. “Come here and take me.”

Panic flared hot in her chest. No. That’s not what I—

But her mouth kept moving. Her hands dropped to her sides, leaving her fully exposed. Her feet carried her two steps closer to the bottom of the stairs.

The man’s shock melted into something hungrier. He came the rest of the way down, eyes locked on her body.

“You’re… serious?”

She nodded. Her body nodded. Inside, Lena was screaming.

He reached her, big hands settling on her waist, then sliding up to cup her breasts. His thumbs brushed over her nipples and they hardened instantly under the touch. She felt the unwanted spark of sensation shoot straight down between her legs. Shame burned through her, sharp and humiliating, while her body leaned into him.

He kissed her — clumsy, eager, tasting of beer and cheap toothpaste. She kissed him back. Her tongue met his even as her mind recoiled. When he pushed her down onto her knees on the thin carpet, she went willingly. When he freed his thick, already half-hard cock and guided it toward her mouth, her lips parted for him without hesitation.

The salty, heavy taste filled her. She sucked. She took him deeper than she wanted, gagging softly when the head pushed against the back of her throat, saliva spilling down her chin. His hands rested on her head, not forcing, just resting, because he didn’t need to force anything. Her body was already giving him everything.

“Fuck… look at you,” he muttered. “Lena from Instagram, on her knees in my basement…”

She hated the sound of her name in his mouth. She hated the wet sounds she was making. She hated how her own cunt was already slick and aching.

He pulled her up after a while, turned her around, and bent her over the edge of his unmade bed. One thick finger slid between her legs, found her wetness, and pushed inside. A helpless sound escaped her. He added a second finger, stretched her open, then replaced them with his cock in one steady thrust.

The stretch was real. Too real. She felt every inch of him spreading her, filling her, the blunt pressure against her cervix when he bottomed out. He fucked her with heavy, greedy strokes, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the small room. Her breasts dragged against the sheets. Her nipples, already sensitive, burned from the friction.

She came the first time with a broken cry, walls clenching hard around him while her mind flooded with pure disgust. He didn’t stop. He kept pounding into her through the orgasm, chasing his own, and when he finally groaned and spilled deep inside her she felt the heat of it, the thick pulses, the way it immediately began to leak out around his cock.

He pulled out, flipped her onto her back, and made her suck him clean. Then he was hard again. He pushed back into her softer, used cunt and fucked her a second time, slower, deeper, one hand between them rubbing her clit until she came again against her will — longer, wetter, her thighs shaking. He followed soon after, flooding her a second time.

Only then did the dream begin to fray at the edges.

Lena woke with a jolt.

Her heart hammered. The sheets stuck to her skin. Her nipples ached, raw and sore, as if they had been pinched and sucked for a long time. Her lips felt swollen. When she carefully touched her mouth, her fingers came away sticky with a thick, viscous fluid. The bitter-salty taste of cum still coated her tongue. She could smell him on her skin — sweat and sex and something cheap and masculine.

She lay very still, breathing shallowly.

That had been her first real sex dream.

But was it only a dream?

The longer she stayed motionless in the dark, the more the physical traces seemed to thin and fade — the stickiness lessening, the smell growing fainter. What remained, sharp and undeniable, was the memory.

Every detail of it.