A beautiful dream?

Peter was in a panic.

He hadn’t been able to reach Lena for two nights. Where her presence had once been clear and tangible, there was now only a thick, impenetrable fog. It felt different than before. In the past, when someone else dreamed of her, he had at least sensed a foreign energy—a second presence he could fight against. He’d even managed to penetrate it, but could only watch. He’d seen what the janitor and a busty young woman had done to her. Now there was simply nothing. Just her—a faint, distant trace—and this gray, lifeless veil.

He’d been pushing against it for hours, mentally shoving, pulling, calling out. Nothing. The frustration gnawed at him. Things didn’t get any better during the day. Her Instagram account had disappeared. She wasn’t showing up at the university anymore. Instead, rumors were circulating: that she’d had sex with the guy from the gym, right in the relaxation room, in front of witnesses. Some versions were even dirtier. Peter wondered if this was indirectly his fault. If the residual traces, the impulses he’d set in motion, had somehow leaked out and were now tearing her real life apart.

Tonight he would try again.

The fog again. That dull nothingness again. He sensed her somewhere behind it, motionless, as if under a thick layer of cotton wool. Peter mustered all his willpower and skill and pushed against it. He braced himself against the barrier, hour after hour, until something gave way. A crack. A narrow passage. He squeezed through.

Then he saw her.

Lena was lying on the floor of an empty, gray room. She was asleep. Truly asleep—in her own dream. Peter stopped and stared. Was that possible? He had never seen anyone simply lose consciousness within a dream. She lay curled up, her arms wrapped around her body, as if trying to hold herself together.

And she looked terrible.

Her hair was dull and unkempt. Dark shadows lay beneath her eyes. Her skin looked sallow, with small blemishes he’d never noticed before. Her shoulders were tense, her mouth tightly clenched, even in her sleep. They say a dream is a mirror. Those with little control appeared just as they felt. Lena clearly felt like she was at the end of her rope.

Peter crouched down next to her and studied her face for a long time. For the first time, he truly tried to understand what all of this must be like for her. The nights when strangers attacked her. The lingering traces she carried with her into the day. The rumors. The fear. The fact that she no longer even knew who she could trust.

He came to the conclusion that he wouldn’t attack her today. No sex. No humiliation. No tests. He wanted to do something nice for her. Or at least something that didn’t feel like yet another act of violation.

He began cautiously.

First, her skin. He smoothed out the small pimples, removed the redness, and made her features appear more relaxed. He softened the dark shadows under her eyes until they looked like nothing more than a hint of tiredness. He reshaped her eyebrows, making them clearer and more symmetrical. Next, he altered her hair—restoring its shine and volume, arranging it so that it fell softly around her face.

Then he couldn’t resist.

His attention drifted to her body. Her breasts. He made them a bit fuller, firmer, and lifted them slightly. He defined her nipples more clearly, making them slightly larger and, at the same time, more sensitive. A soft chuckle rose within him as he made the changes. Even now, when he really just wanted to help, the old reflex kicked in. He continued working on her intimate area. Her labia became fuller and softer. He brought her clitoris out a bit further, made it more sensitive, and on a sudden whim, he pierced it with a small, delicate ring—a simple silver one. In his dream, it had already been healed for weeks—no redness, no pain, just the subtle, gleaming accent.

He examined the result and nodded slowly. Better. Not overdone. But clearly improved.

Then he dressed her. A simple, light blue bikini that flattered her new curves without looking cheap. The fabric hugged her firmer breasts and accentuated the altered area between her legs without revealing everything. Then he changed the surroundings.

The gray room dissolved. In its place was a spacious, serene spa. Warm natural stones, indirect lighting, the scent of eucalyptus and damp wood. In the center, a large, round whirlpool; the water steamed gently. Peter carefully lifted Lena and set her into the warm water. The bubbles immediately washed over her body. He made himself invisible, withdrew to the edge of the dream, and simply watched.

Minutes passed.

Then Lena moved.

First her fingers twitched. Then her eyelids. She drew her legs up, stretched them out again, and slowly opened her eyes. For a moment, she seemed completely disoriented. The steaming whirlpool, the warm water soaking through her bikini, the pleasant heaviness in her limbs. She sat up straighter; the water ran over her shoulders and between her breasts. Her hands involuntarily glided over her own skin—over her fuller, firmer curves, her more sensitive nipples, which immediately hardened beneath the wet fabric. Then deeper, between her legs, where the fabric of the bikini lay tight against her fuller labia and her clitoris—now more prominently visible—with its small piercing.

Lena shivered despite the warm water. Not from the cold. From the feeling that something was different. She looked at her hands, her arms, and carefully ran her fingers over her breasts. Everything felt more familiar and yet strange at the same time. More intense.

Lena started to panic.

Her eyes flew open. The steaming water, the unfamiliar room, the bikini clinging wetly to her skin—none of it belonged here. She spun around, searching for a door, for someone, for any clue.

“Who’s there?” she cried hoarsely. “Where am I?”

The voice came out of nowhere. Calm, masculine, without an echo.

“Stay calm. You’re safe tonight. I won’t hurt you. You’re just supposed to relax today.”

Lena pressed her arms against her chest and sank deeper into the water until it reached her chin. Her gaze darted around the room—warm stones, subdued lighting, large windows with fog beyond them. Nothing threatening. No chains, no strange hands, no grinning face.

“Where am I?” she asked again. “How are you doing this?”

The voice answered patiently, as if it had been expecting the question.

“Do you know the TV show Upload? I’m sort of like the angel here. Or an admin. I’m designing this space for you. That’s all.”

Lena fell silent. She didn’t believe him. Of course she didn’t believe him. Too many nights had taught her that calm voices and apparent safety were just the prelude to something worse. Still, nothing stirred. No man appeared. No hand reached for her. The water continued to bubble steadily against the fabric of her bikini bottoms, brushing against her breasts with every slight movement. Her nipples were already hard—more sensitive than usual; she felt it immediately. Every air bubble that rose against them sent a subtle tingle through her body.

It felt good.

That was exactly what made her suspicious.

She jumped again when a particularly strong jet hit her right between her legs. The sensation down there was much more intense than it should have been. Her labia felt fuller, her clitoris was more exposed, and it was already reacting to the light water pressure. Something cold and smooth brushed against the sensitive tip—the piercing she hadn’t consciously noticed yet. Lena gasped in surprise and clenched her thighs together. That only intensified the sensation.

“I… can’t trust you,” she said aloud into the empty room.

No answer. Just the steady gurgling.

After a while, she noticed the small dial that had appeared on the edge of the tub. Dull metal, a simple scale. Puzzled, she stared at it. Then, hesitantly, she reached out and turned it a little to the right.

The jets grew stronger.

A targeted jet hit the spot between her legs precisely. Lena flinched but didn’t let go of the knob. She kept turning it. The pressure increased, becoming rhythmic, massaging directly the protruding, hypersensitive clitoris and the small piece of metal that further stimulated it. At the same time, warmer bubbles brushed the undersides of her breasts and her hard nipples.

She was breathing faster.

Slowly, almost cautiously, she began to vary the pressure. Sometimes she let the jets spray more flatly and widely; other times she focused the stream and aimed it precisely at the swollen tip. The fabric of her bikini bottoms rubbed against her with every movement. There was no coercion. No voice giving her orders. No hands holding her down. Just warm water, controllable pressure, and a body that was now clearly more responsive than it had been just a few nights ago.

The orgasm built up slowly.

Lena felt her thighs tremble, her inner muscles contract, and the wetness between her labia no longer coming solely from the water. She turned the knob up a notch, tilted her head back, and let it happen. The climax rolled warm and deep through her—not a painful, forced spasm, but a long, undulating release that engulfed her entire lower body. She moaned softly, her fingers clawing at the edge of the tub, and for a few seconds nothing existed except the pulsing between her legs and the gurgling of the water.

Peter watched everything from his hidden position.

She seemed to have accepted him—or at least stopped panicking immediately. Maybe it was the hypersensitivity he’d programmed into her. Maybe it was simply exhaustion and the fact that, for the first time, nothing bad followed. He said nothing more. He let her sit in the warm water, the control knob still in her hand, while the jets continued to work on her overstimulated body at a low setting.

Lena slowly turned the knob back, but not quite all the way to zero. A little pressure remained. She closed her eyes and let her head sink back against the edge. She fell asleep again and woke up a little later, relaxed, back in the real world.