And so it went on and on.

During the day, she functioned normally—college, the library, the walk home—but as soon as her eyes closed, something else took over. The dreams came thick and fast, uninvited—sometimes brief and raw as a flash of lightning, sometimes long and detailed like a movie she couldn’t turn off. They almost always ended with the other person’s orgasm. Then she’d wake up, wet between her legs, her heartbeat still pounding in her throat, the memory of the taste or smell still so vivid it was as if she’d just spat it out.

The most common dream was the blowjob. Sometimes it started at school. She’d kneel behind the teacher’s desk while class continued. The class was taking notes, someone coughed, and she had a classmate’s cock deep in her mouth. She heard her own soft, wet smacking, felt the head of his cock bump against her throat, and saw out of the corner of her eye how the guy clenched his teeth to keep from making a sound. He came quickly, without warning, shooting hot and salty fluid down her throat. She swallowed, coughed quietly, and woke up—her lips still numb, her tongue heavy from the aftertaste.

Another time, it was the library. Between the tall shelves, all the way in the back of the history section, she was kneeling on the cold floor. The guy was leaning against the books, his pants pulled down just enough to expose his cock. Lena took him in slowly, letting her saliva flow, looking up as he brushed her hair out of her face. Someone walked past outside in the hallway. She heard the footsteps, heard him hold his breath, and kept sucking anyway until he came in her mouth. The cum ran over her tongue, dripping from the corner of her mouth onto the floor. Then she woke up, her hand already between her legs.

The club was more cramped and dirtier. The restroom stank of urine and cheap perfume. Lena knelt between the stall walls while bass boomed and voices laughed outside. The cock in front of her face was thick and already glistening. She took it greedily, letting him fuck her mouth, feeling his balls slap against her chin. He held her head tight and thrust until he came—deep, pulsing, so much that she had to gag. Some of it ran out of her nose. She woke up with the feeling that she still needed to swallow something.

It was nighttime in the park. A bench under the trees, dim lamplight. Lena on her knees in the grass, the cock in front of her, the man with his back to the street. She sucked him slowly, relishing it, letting her tongue glide over the underside, taking his balls into her mouth, then returning to the shaft. Cars drove by. Once, one even stopped. She heard the engine, saw a face behind the windshield out of the corner of her eye, and kept sucking anyway until he moaned and came in her mouth. The cum tasted sweeter this time, almost creamy. She swallowed it all, licked the head clean, and woke up, her lips moist.

The longer dreams lingered. In one, she was back at school, but this time she was naked. Completely. She stood in front of the class while the teacher wrote something on the blackboard. No one seemed to find it strange. Her tits were exposed, her nipples hard from the draft. Her smooth pussy was visible to everyone when she moved. At some point, she had to come to the front and read something aloud. As she did, she deliberately turned so that the front row could see everything—her labia, her pink asshole when she bent over to pick something up. A boy in the front row had his hand down his pants. She watched him jerk off while she kept talking. In the end, he came on his hand. Lena woke up before anything else happened, but the image of her own nakedness in front of the class remained.

Another long dream involved posing. She was in an empty classroom, naked, and someone was sitting on a chair, telling her what to do. “Spread your legs wider. Spread your labia. Show your asshole.” Lena obeyed. She knelt on the teacher’s desk, her back arched, and held her butt cheeks apart with both hands. The other person’s gaze rested heavily on her exposed asshole and the dripping pussy beneath it. Then she was told to lie on her back, bend her legs, and push her knees outward. She did it. Her labia opened on their own. The dream ended when the other person stood up, pulled out his cock, and jerked off onto her spread legs. The cum landed warm on her stomach and her pussy. Then she woke up.

Another dream was shorter and more intense. Lena was lying naked on the teacher’s desk, her legs spread. Someone had put thin, flesh-colored pantyhose on her, which were already damp and see-through between her labia. She didn’t have to take the pantyhose off. Instead, the other person—this time a woman—licked through the fabric, sucked the moisture out of the nylon, and bit gently on her swollen clitoris. Lena moaned as the tongue pushed the wet fabric inside her. The woman came by sitting on Lena’s face and squirting through her own pantyhose. The warm gush seeped through the fabric onto Lena’s tongue.

The dreams didn’t let up. At least one every night, often two or three. Sometimes she’d wake up in the middle of the night, jerk off to climax while half-asleep, and fall back asleep, only to slip right into the next blowjob—this time in the school restroom, the stall door not quite closed, while someone peed outside and listened.

Lena began to avoid the places that appeared in her dreams during the day. The back shelves of the library. The club restroom. The park after dark. It didn’t help. The images came anyway. The taste of cum on her tongue, the feel of a wet pussy on her mouth, the cold of the tiles beneath her knees as she took someone’s cock all the way down her throat.

And every time the other person came—whether in her mouth, on her face, or down her throat—the dream ended.

She woke up.

Wet.

Hungry.

And she knew it would just keep happening the next night.

By now, she was sure it was the fortune-teller. But she just couldn’t get in touch with her. So she googled it. “Hyper-realistic sex dreams,” “dreams that leave a mark,” “shared dreams.” Eventually, she ended up on a local university subreddit. A throwaway thread immediately caught her eye:

“Has anyone seen a very attractive blonde student in one of the big lecture halls in the last few days who was… acting strangely?”

The original post was from a user named Seeker. Peter, as she would later find out. Below it were a few funny, disparaging comments. “Dude, what are you smoking?”, “Sounds like wishful thinking”, “Post nudes if you find her.”

Then a new post appeared. Longer. More detailed.

The author first described a scene in the basement: a blonde student, naked, who had been waiting for him, gave him a blowjob, and let him fuck her. Then the story with the janitor—the puddle in the lecture hall, the wet thong, the licking, the blowjob, the photo that only he could see. And finally, the drive-in: the same blonde as a willing “girlfriend,” naked under her short skirt and boots, paraded in front of everyone at the snack stand, then ridden in the car.

Lena read the lines, her breath catching. Every single description was spot-on. The situation, the positions, the words she’d said, the residual photos that only the respective dreamer could see. It was as if someone had taken minutes of her nights.

The comments section below was unambiguous: Most people considered the post a particularly well-crafted fantasy. “That really triggered me—now I’m definitely going to dream about her too,” “Good story, man,” “Whoever that blonde is—thanks for the wank material.” Some claimed, half-jokingly, that they’d actually dreamed about her the very next night. No one took it seriously. No one except Lena.

She scrolled back and reread the parts about the photos. “Only I could see the picture. For my buddy, the folder was empty.” “The photo was there, clear and sharp—and at the same time, it didn’t exist for anyone else.”

Lena stared at the screen until the letters began to blur.

Maybe they were just dreams.

But she seemed to be sharing them with other men. Strangers. Random guys.

And the photos… the residual imprints that only the person involved could see… those were on her own phone, too. Indelible.

The panic didn’t hit her all at once. It rose slowly, cold and nauseating, from her stomach to her chest and into her head. She wasn’t crazy. Something else was going on. Something that linked her dreams to other people’s dreams. Something that left traces real enough to be tasted, smelled, and photographed—and at the same time so unreal that no one else could prove they existed.

She closed her laptop, pulled her knees up to her chest, and sat in the dark for a long time.

For the first time since her visit to the fortune-teller, she realized:

The dreams were real.