A Dreamless Night

I know you’re all expecting the next sex scene or sex dream right now.

I’m afraid I have to disappoint you.

Two instances of rough, forced sex in her dreams in a single night, and then the real-life encounter with Matthew in the break room—her body felt drained, her mind shattered. That morning, she dragged herself to the doctor. She didn’t even lie very convincingly: insomnia, nightmares, extreme exhaustion. The doctor prescribed a medication that suppressed REM sleep. No dreams. That was exactly what she wanted.

For the rest of the day, she distracted herself as best she could. Messages were piling up on her cell phone. Rumors were already circulating at the university. Someone had seen or heard that she’d had sex with the gym employee. The stories varied—some said she’d been drunk, others that she’d made a pass at him. Lena didn’t know who’d spoken up. Mia? Matthew himself? She answered the first curious Instagram messages curtly and dismissively. Then she deactivated her account entirely.

She took the first pill that evening and fell asleep immediately. A long, dark, dreamless slumber. When she woke up the next morning, her body felt heavy and yet surprisingly refreshed. No taste of semen, no dampness between her legs, no phantom pains. Just a deep, leaden calm. She decided not to go to college. Instead, she went shopping.

Even as she was getting dressed, she noticed that something wasn’t right. The urge not to wear underwear was still there—quieter than before, but persistent. She reached for her panties twice and put them back. Finally, she just put on a tight, light-colored mini-dress. The fabric was thin and lay directly against her skin. Without a bra, her nipples showed through clearly. Without panties, she felt the breeze on her shaved slit with every movement.

She drove into downtown.

Lena stood on the moving walkway heading upward, a bag in her hand, looking at her cell phone. The skirt of the dress was extremely short. As the step beneath her dropped and the next one rose, her weight shifted. The fabric slid back and up. Her bare ass was completely exposed for the entire ride. The smooth, firm cheeks, the deep crease between them, and even a clear view of her shaved, slightly parted slit.

Right behind her stood a man in his late thirties with his wife. He was staring. His gaze lingered on her bare skin, slid lower, and fixed on the delicate line of her labia. His wife noticed his fixed expression and turned around as well. Her face fell. A young guy two steps below audibly sucked in a breath and grinned widely.

Lena didn’t feel the stares until she had already reached the top. She grabbed the hem and yanked the fabric down. When she turned halfway around, she saw their faces—the man’s lecherous gaze, his wife’s horrified expression, the younger man’s smirk. Heat rushed to her face. She walked on into a slightly more expensive boutique selling tight dresses and bodysuits, her cheeks burning, and hated herself for the fact that her arousal was stronger than her shame.

Lena took three very skimpy items into the dressing room. The curtain was old and didn’t close properly. There was a narrow, vertical gap running from top to bottom. She noticed it but thought it was too narrow to actually see anything. She took off the dress. Naked. Her nipples were already hard from the cool air and the constant friction of the fabric. She turned in front of the mirror, checking the angle of her breasts, the line of her stomach, the smooth area between her legs. For some reason, she felt the urge to pose in front of the mirror.

Someone stopped outside. A man in his mid-twenties had spotted the gap. He paused, pretending to examine a jacket, and peered sideways through the narrow slit. He saw Lena’s bare back, the curve of her butt, and when she turned sideways, the full side of her breast and her hard nipple. When she put on the first tight dress and bent over to adjust the hem, the curtain opened another centimeter. For a split second, he saw from behind and from below between her legs—her closed labia, her smooth skin, the base of her moist slit.

Lena didn’t notice the movement outside until she straightened up and saw the shadow in the mirror.

A man was standing behind the narrow slit in the curtain. The impulse to yank the curtain shut was there—brief, intense. Then she resisted it. Instead, she reached for the fabric and pushed it open a little further. The slit widened. She stood naked in the cramped fitting room, her nipples hard from the cool air, her shaved slit already glistening slightly. Slowly, she spread her legs. Not far. Just enough so that her labia parted and he could make out the darker, moist slit between them. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she feared he might hear it. At the same time, she felt the arousal between her legs intensify. The stranger’s gaze lay on her skin like a physical touch.

She took the first dress off the hanger. A tiny, black piece with deep necklines. She put it on slowly, letting the fabric brush over her breasts, deliberately rubbing her nipples against the fabric once more before letting it slide down. Then she turned to face the slit, raised one arm, and let the hem slide up. The man outside didn’t move. He was watching.

The second dress was even skimpier. Red, stretchy fabric. As she put it on, it got caught over her butt. She leaned forward, her butt right up against the slit, and adjusted the hem with both hands. As she did so, she spread her legs a little wider. She knew exactly what he was seeing now: her entire, smooth backside, her labia opening slightly with the movement, the glisten of moisture. A soft, stifled sound reached her from outside. She ignored it and held the position for another second before straightening up.

With the third dress—white, almost see-through, even shorter—she took it a step further. She pushed the curtain all the way to the side and stepped out into the narrow hallway in front of the changing rooms. The man recoiled slightly, his eyes wide. Lena smiled uncertainly, as if nothing were amiss.

“Excuse me… could you tell me quickly if this is too short?”

She turned slowly in front of him. The hem ended just below her butt. When she bent forward, supposedly to smooth out the fabric, the dress rode up. Her breasts hung heavily in the deep necklines; her nipples were clearly visible. From behind, her bare butt was completely exposed. The man stared. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“And if I bend over like this…,” Lena bent even lower, her legs slightly apart, “can you see… my breasts?”

You could see everything. The insides of her breasts, her hard nipples, and from behind, the entire cleft that opened as she spread her thighs. A thin, glistening thread of moisture was already connecting her labia. The man just nodded silently, his gaze fixed firmly on her bare skin. To him, it must have looked as if she were deliberately putting herself on display. As if she knew exactly what she was doing.

Lena felt her face grow hot. At the same time, a throbbing sensation pulsed urgently between her legs. She straightened up, her dress still much too high, and bit her lower lip.

“I actually wanted to see what I look like. From behind. But my phone’s in the fitting room…” She pointed to the device in his hand. He’d been filming the gap the whole time—she realized that now. “Could you… take a few photos? With yours?”

The man swallowed and nodded again. Lena turned her back to him, leaned forward, rested her hands on her knees, and spread her legs. The dress slid completely down over her butt. She knew what the lens was seeing now: her bare ass, her parted labia, the moist, rosy opening, the small, contracted star above it. She held the position until she heard the camera click. Then one more. And another.

She changed her pose. This time from the side, one leg bent, holding up the hem herself so that one breast was completely exposed and, at the same time, the view between her legs was clear. The man took the photo, his hand trembling slightly. Lena heard his heavy breathing.

Finally, she crouched down again, her knees wide apart, the dress gathered at her waist, and looked over her shoulder at the camera. The expression on her face was a mixture of shame and something darker. He took three or four more shots in quick succession.

Lena straightened up, let the fabric fall back into place, and smiled forcedly. She didn’t even look at the photos.

“As a thank-you… you can keep the photos.”

Then she turned around, went back into the fitting room, put her own dress back on, and left the changing area. At the cash register, she paid cash for the two skimpy dresses, her hands trembling slightly. She was soaking wet between her legs. The draft under her short skirt reminded her with every step of what she’d just done—and that the photos were now on a stranger’s cell phone.

She fled to the nearest women’s restroom, locked herself in a stall, and sat down on the toilet seat. The insides of her thighs were damp. Not just from sweat. Her labia were throbbing, her clitoris swollen. She had inadvertently exposed herself on the escalator, in a changing room, and in the hallway—and each time her body had reacted with arousal.

Why was she doing this? Why did she leave the curtain like that? Why wasn’t she wearing anything underneath again? This wasn’t a coincidence anymore. It was the echo of the dreams. The humiliations that the Dreamer and the others had planted in her were now continuing during the day. She wasn’t wearing underwear because a part of her wanted it that way. She chose dresses that were too revealing because a part of her wanted to be seen. And she didn’t notice the stares until it was too late—because that was precisely the thrill the dreams had intensified within her.

She washed her hands, avoided the mirror, and left the mall with her bags. On the way home, she felt the warm breeze between her legs with every step and hated the moisture gathering in her new, much-too-short skirt.

At home, she tossed the bags into a corner and stepped into the shower. The water was hot. She washed herself thoroughly, this time without touching herself. Afterward, she lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

The sleeping pills were on the nightstand.

She could handle one more night. Maybe two. But eventually, she’d dream again. And eventually, he’d come back.