Next morning

Lena woke the next morning still half tangled in the memory.

What the hell kind of dream had that been?

She had never experienced anything so sharp, so solid. Every detail sat in her head like it had actually happened: the taste of his thick, slightly unclean cock, the rough carpet biting into her knees, the heavy heat of his cum spreading deep inside her, the way her own body had clenched and moaned through two unwanted orgasms like some cheap, eager whore. She remembered the exact sound of her voice when she told him she had been waiting for him. The helplessness of not being able to move her own limbs the way she wanted. It had felt less like a dream and more like a nightmare she had been forced to perform in.

A cold shiver ran down her back.

Yes, she had looked at his profile for a few seconds the night before. That was all. And somehow her brain had turned that into… this. It was fucked up. She wanted it gone.

She stayed under the shower longer than usual, scrubbing her skin until it felt raw, washing her mouth twice, trying to erase the lingering sense of him. By the time she left for university the physical traces had completely disappeared. Only the memory remained, clear and humiliating.

Campus felt ordinary. Too ordinary.

She ran into Mia near the main building. They weren’t real friends — more like two girls who occupied the same tier of attractiveness in their semester and had therefore ended up in each other’s orbit by default. There was always a thin layer of competition under the smiles.

Lena told her about the fortune-teller visit, carefully leaving out everything that had happened afterwards.

“Total waste of time,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Dusty little shop, weird old woman, complete scam. She didn’t even do a proper reading. Just sat there looking offended that I didn’t believe in her magic. Thanks for the voucher, by the way.”

She laughed lightly, the same slightly superior laugh she used online.

Mia’s smile tightened for a second. Lena noticed the flash of irritation and felt a small, mean satisfaction. She didn’t push it further. The day moved on in the usual blur of lectures, group chats, and half-hearted note-taking. Whenever the memory of the basement tried to surface she pushed it down hard.

By evening she was exhausted in a way that felt more mental than physical. She made herself a cup of calming tea, scrolled mindlessly through her phone for a while without posting anything, and finally went to bed earlier than usual.

She wanted nothing more than a blank, empty sleep.

Lena was climbing the wide stairs toward the main lecture hall when she heard the familiar giggle behind her.

Mia.

“Look,” Mia’s voice carried clearly in the busy corridor, bright and mean. “There’s Lena, our forgetful little supermodel. Seems she forgot her underwear today. I can see your shaved pussy and your naked ass.”

Lena froze mid-step.

A cool draft brushed between her thighs, unmistakable. She was wet — openly, shamefully wet — and completely bare under the short skirt she had put on that morning. No fabric, nothing. The air touched her exposed folds directly.

She tried to spin around, to clamp her legs together, to yank the skirt down. Her body refused. Her feet stayed planted on the step. Her hands hung useless at her sides.

Mia stepped closer, still speaking loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.

“God, look at that. Completely smooth. Not a single hair. The lips are already shiny — she’s dripping. You can see the little clit peeking out between them, all swollen and pink. And when she walks the cheeks of her ass shift and you get a perfect view of everything. Even the tight little hole above it. Our perfect influencer, walking around campus with her cunt on display.”

Heat flooded Lena’s face. Inside she was screaming. Outside her body simply stood there, skirt riding slightly with every tiny shift of weight, giving Mia and anyone who looked exactly the view she was describing.

Mia’s smile sharpened.

“Come on then. Show the rest. Lift your top. Let everyone see those tits too.”

Lena’s hands moved without her permission. She pulled the thin fabric up and over her breasts, holding it there.

Mia laughed, short and delighted.

“Oh wow. They’re smaller than I thought. A bit saggy already. Look at those little nipples — tiny and tight. Not the full, firm ones she always shows online. These look like they belong to someone who doesn’t quite live up to the pictures.”

Lena’s gaze dropped against her will.

The breasts she was holding up were not hers. Smaller, softer, the nipples a shade lighter and noticeably smaller than the ones she saw in the mirror every morning. Panic cut through the dream-haze. *These aren’t mine. Those aren’t my—*

Mia kept going, voice light and cruel, describing the modest curve, the way they sat a little lower, the small, almost delicate nipples that hardened under the open air and the stares.

Then she stepped in close, still smiling.

“You should go without underwear more often,” she said. “Suits you.”

Her open hand came down hard across Lena’s bare right ass cheek. The sharp, stinging slap echoed in the stairwell.

Lena woke with a gasp.

Her right buttock still burned, a clear, hot imprint of the slap. She sat up fast and grabbed her own breasts with both hands, heart hammering. For a split second they felt softer, smaller under her palms — wrong. She squeezed, panicked.

*No. That’s impossible. I’m imagining it.*

She scrambled out of bed and into the bathroom, flicking on the harsh light. In the mirror her breasts looked like they always had — full, firm — but for the briefest moment, just as she stared, she thought she saw them settle back into their familiar shape, as if something had been correcting itself.

She turned, twisted to look over her shoulder at her reflection.

There, on the pale skin of her right ass cheek, was a distinct red handprint, already beginning to fade but still unmistakably there. Exactly where Mia had struck her.