Lucid dreaming

The next morning Lena sat on her bed with her laptop open, searching with a kind of uneasy focus.

Lucid dreaming. Can dreams affect the body? Why do some dreams feel real? Can dreams change physical appearance?

She read article after article, forum posts, scientific summaries. Lucid dreams, she learned, were dreams in which the dreamer became aware they were dreaming and could sometimes influence what happened. The brain was highly active. Sensory experience could feel indistinguishable from waking life. Strong emotional or sexual content in such dreams could trigger real physiological responses — orgasms, elevated heart rate, even ejaculation. Men had known this for generations as wet dreams. The body simply reacted to what the mind was vividly experiencing.

That part almost made sense.

The rest did not.

Nothing she found explained breasts that temporarily changed shape, or a handprint that lingered on her skin after waking, or the thick taste of cum that had been in her mouth the morning before. Those details sat outside every explanation. She closed the laptop feeling no real comfort. She didn’t know whether she should feel reassured or more unsettled than before.

She got dressed slowly.

When she reached for underwear she hesitated, fingers resting on the fabric. The memory of walking completely bare under her skirt the night before flickered through her — the cool air, the exposure, the unwanted heat between her legs. It had been humiliating. It had also been… something else. Something her body had responded to even while her mind recoiled.

She compromised. A thin black thong. Barely there. Under the short skirt it would be easy to flash if the fabric shifted the wrong way, but at least she wasn’t fully exposed. The decision felt strange, like she was already negotiating with whatever was happening to her.

At university she ran into Mia near the stairwell that led up to the main lecture halls. Mia’s eyes flicked over her immediately, bright and a little too interested, as if she were trying to see through the fabric of the skirt. Lena didn’t register the look at first. She only noticed when Mia fell into step behind her on the stairs, staying half a pace back, head angled in a way that made it look almost deliberate — like she was trying to catch a glimpse up the short hem.

A small spike of panic went through Lena.

Why was Mia acting like this today? Had the dream left some residue that the other girl could somehow sense? The thought was ridiculous, but the memory of Mia’s voice describing her bare pussy in clinical, mocking detail was still too fresh.

She kept walking, spine stiff, hyper-aware of every movement of the skirt. After a short stretch of stairs Mia seemed to lose interest. Whether she had seen nothing or had caught the thin line of the thong, Lena couldn’t tell. Either way, the other girl moved up beside her again and started talking about some assignment as if the strange moment had never happened.

The rest of the day passed in a low-grade haze of self-consciousness. Lena found herself checking the mirror in the bathroom between classes, smoothing the skirt, making sure the thong was still in place. Every accidental brush of air against her thighs brought the dream back for a second.

What a day.

The lecture was as dull as always. Professor Hartmann’s voice droned on about media theory while Lena’s attention drifted. Then everything shifted.

The overhead lights flickered once, twice. A low, pulsing bassline suddenly filled the large hall — unmistakable strip-club music, heavy and slow. At the bottom of the tiered seating a chrome dance pole had appeared where the lectern should have been. Is this a flash mob?
I hope you still remember what a flash mob is. A group of people arrange to meet at a specific place and time and suddenly start performing a coordinated choreography.

A single hard spotlight snapped on, cutting through the dimness and pinning Lena in its bright circle. Cheers and whistles erupted around her. She stood up.

Her body moved before her mind could protest. The short skirt swayed as she walked down the steps toward the pole amid growing applause. Somewhere deep inside, panic flared — *this isn’t real, this can’t be happening* — but her legs kept carrying her forward until she stood in the hot white light.

Her hands closed around the cool metal.

She began to dance.

Slow, deliberate circles around the pole at first, hips rolling in time with the beat. The short skirt flared with every turn, giving the entire lecture hall quick flashes of the thin black thong and the undersides of her ass cheeks. She arched her back, let her blonde hair swing, then dropped into a low squat, knees wide, and ran both hands up the insides of her thighs. The fabric of the skirt rode higher. For a clear second the audience could see the narrow strip of the thong disappearing between her smooth, already glistening pussy lips.

She rose again, spun, and hooked one leg high around the pole. The skirt lifted completely. Her bare ass and the soaked crotch of the thong were fully on display as she leaned back, grinding slowly against the metal. One hand slid under the waistband of the thong, pulling it aside just long enough to show the pink, hairless slit beneath before letting it snap back into place.

The first song was building.

Lena reached behind herself, unzipped the skirt, and let it fall. She stepped out of it without missing a beat, now dancing in only the tiny thong and a simple bra. She turned her back to the crowd, bent at the waist, and looked over her shoulder while she shook her ass, the thin string of the thong framing everything. Then she faced them again, dropped to her knees in front of the pole, and crawled forward a little, back arched, before rising into another slow body-roll that made her breasts press against the fabric of the bra.

The track ended.

The hall exploded with noise — clapping, shouting, the single demand rising above the rest: “Encore! Encore!”

A second song started, heavier, dirtier.

Lena didn’t stop.

The chant changed quickly. “Strip! Strip!”

Her hands went to the clasp of the bra. She opened it, let the straps slide down her arms, and tossed the garment aside. Her bare breasts swayed freely under the spotlight as she continued dancing — full, firm, nipples already tight and dark from the cool air and the raw exposure. She cupped them, squeezed, pinched the nipples while she rolled her hips, then leaned back against the pole and slid down it until she was squatting again, thighs spread wide, topless and shameless under hundreds of eyes.

She danced the entire second song like that: spinning, grinding, bouncing her bare tits, occasionally pulling the front of the thong aside to flash the wet, swollen lips of her cunt before covering them again. Every movement was fluid, practiced, as if her body had done this a hundred times.

When the second track faded the roar was even louder.

Third song.

This time the chant was relentless. Lena hooked her thumbs into the sides of the thong, peeled it down her legs, and kicked it away. Completely naked now, she kept moving — skin gleaming under the spotlight, pussy visibly slick between her thighs. She turned, bent over, reached back with both hands and spread her ass cheeks wide so the entire hall could see everything: the tight pink hole, the dripping cunt beneath it. Then she faced them again, dropped to the floor, and opened her legs in a wide, obscene V. One hand held her outer lips open; the other slowly rubbed her clit in circles while she stared out at the faces.

She presented herself without shame — tits pushed forward, legs spread to the limit, wet pink centre fully exposed and glistening under the hard light — while the music pounded and the lecture hall cheered.

Inside, Lena was screaming.

Outside, her body only danced.

Lena began to masturbate.

Her fingers slid between her spread legs, rubbing in circles over her swollen, glistening clitoris, whilst she continued to present to the lecture theatre. The thought that hundreds of eyes were staring intently at her open, dripping pussy drove her arousal higher and higher. Then – a flash of light. Brief, bright, like that of a mobile phone flash. Someone had taken a photo.

The thought alone was enough.

Lena came.

For the first time in her life, she squirted. A powerful, clear jet of fluid shot out of her, arcing high into the air and landing audibly on the floor in front of the pole. Her thighs twitched, a helpless, loud moan escaped her throat as the contractions continued, forcing even more fluid out of her.

And then – bang.

A loud bang echoed through the lecture theatre. A student had fallen off his chair. He’d probably fallen asleep. Everyone burst out laughing as he scrambled to his feet, looking sheepish, holding a bag in front of his crotch and clutching a mobile phone in his other hand. He hurriedly disappeared through the door.

Lena flinched violently.

Had she fallen asleep in class? What on earth had that dream been?

Then she realised.

Her whole chair was wet. Not just damp – soaked through, as if a whole bottle of water had spilled. But it didn’t smell of water. It smelled of sex. Intense, sweet and sharp. The afterglow of her orgasm was still pulsing between her legs; her nipples were hard and sensitive beneath the fabric.

Luckily, Mia had already left. She sat alone in her row. The student who’d fallen over had also distracted everyone else’s attention.

What should she do?

Carefully, she pulled her short skirt up so it wouldn’t get any wetter, and stayed seated until the lecture finally ended. She waited until the last fellow student had left the lecture theatre, and was the last to go out, holding the wet fabric together as best she could.

In the university toilets, she dried herself off hastily. It was only then that she realised she was no longer wearing her thong. When had she lost it? It must still be lying somewhere in the lecture theatre.

Going back was too dangerous. So she crept home.