Too Much Attention

Peter lay in the dark and tried again.

He breathed steadily, let his body grow heavy, and sought the familiar connection to Lena. Usually, a clear intention and a mental image of her were enough. This time, he encountered resistance. It was as if he were struggling against a thick, warm fog. He sensed that she was there somewhere—a faint, familiar presence—but he couldn’t get through. Every time he tried to reach out to her or open the dreamspace, she slipped away from him. Frustrated, he remained stuck in this limbo—awake enough to feel the failure, yet too deep to simply wake up. He had the feeling that someone else was there with her.

Lena was waiting for him.

She lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling. Ever since the picture of her breasts and his reply, she knew that the man who had controlled her in her dream was real. She didn’t know his name, but she knew his voice, his way of asking questions, and the feeling of his control. Part of her dreaded the next encounter. Another part was already looking forward to it. The night, however, remained silent. No one called out to her.

On the other side of town, the janitor lay in his small apartment, holding Lena’s thong against his face.

He had never thrown it away. Often he would take the fabric, press it to his nose and mouth, and breathe deeply. The scent had grown fainter, but it was still there—sweet, feminine, with the dark undertone of dried arousal. Scents are powerful anchors. They bypass consciousness and work directly on the brain, even during sleep. As he inhaled the thong, he imagined what he would do to that slut if he had her in front of him again. Not tenderly. Not gratefully. He wanted to humiliate her. For his colleagues’ disbelief, for the years of insignificance, for the moment when she’d shown him her pussy and then run away.

The scent pulled him down.

And Lena with him.

Lena suddenly found herself standing in his room.

The caretaker was sitting at his desk, his back partly turned towards her, leafing through some form. The thong lay crumpled next to the old computer. He only noticed her when he looked up and saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

He flinched. The chair squeaked.

“What… you?” His voice was hoarse with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Lena felt her body already assuming the posture – shoulders slightly forward, eyes downcast, hands clasped in front of her. Submissive. Active.

“I… wanted to apologise,” she heard herself say. The words came out softly and humbly. “For the last time. And because I… want more of you. Of your cock. Nobody’s ever licked me like you do. I’ve never come like that before.”

He stared at her, the ballpoint pen still in his hand. In disbelief. Then a slow, dark grin spread across his face.

“You just walk in here like that and say that?”

She nodded. Lena heard herself reply. The words weren’t coming from her own will.

“Yes. I’m sorry. And… no one’s ever licked me like you did. I’ve never come like that before, not with anyone else.”

Her stomach churned. Her body smiled at him.

He remained serious. “I’m still angry, though. Get undressed first. Nice and slowly.”

She obeyed and began to undress, slowly, because the dream demanded it of her. First, the blouse. Her fingers undid one button after another, from top to bottom. With every button undone, more skin was revealed. When the last one was undone, she let the blouse slide over her shoulders. It didn’t fall straight away, but hung on her elbows for a moment before slipping to the floor. Beneath it, only her bra. Simple, dark fabric that pushed her breasts upwards. She reached behind her back, unhooked the clasp and held the cups in place for a breath before letting the bra fall too.

Her breasts were set free. Not abruptly, but gently. She moved her shoulders back slightly so that he could see them properly – the weight, the shape, the nipples, which were already contracting and hardening in the cool cellar air. She lifted a breast slightly, let it spring back, and slowly turned her upper body from left to right so that the light from the bare bulb could trace her curves.

Then the skirt.

She hooked her fingers into the waistband on the left and right and slid it down over her hips centimetre by centimetre. The fabric brushed against her skin, paused briefly at the widest part, and then slid down. As it slid over her bum, she deliberately leaned forward slightly, so that her buttocks tensed and parted slightly. He could see the deep crease, the start of the smooth, shaved cleft between them. The skirt fell to the floor. She stepped out of it, one foot after the other, and stood still.

Naked.

She didn’t hold her hands protectively in front of her. Instead, she slowly ran both palms over her own hips, backwards, cupped her buttocks and pulled them apart briefly so that he could get a clear view of the tight, rosy hole and the moist labia beneath. Then she let go, turned completely round and presented her back and rounded arse to him. A slight arch in her lower back, her pelvis pushed backwards. She glanced over her shoulder, straight in his direction, and stood there like that, longer than necessary.

When she turned round again, she went one step further. She placed one foot on the chair, her knee turned outwards, and ran two fingers through her own slit – not for pleasure, but so that he could see how wet she already was, how her lips glistened and parted slightly. Her fingers emerged glistening. She held them up for a moment before letting her hand drop.

Every movement was slow, exaggeratedly deliberate, almost textbook-perfect. She wanted him to see everything. Every crease, every swelling, every wet trace. Her body played the part of the willing slut, deliberately putting herself on display, whilst behind her own eyes Lena felt nothing but revulsion and helplessness. Hardly any stripper in the club would show so much. But she wanted to show it to him.

He scrutinised her at length, without saying a word.

Then she heard herself say: “May I suck your delicious cock?”

The caretaker – fat, unwashed, with the typical smell of stale sweat, cheap deodorant and machine oil – was leaning against the rusty shelf and grinned at her as if he’d already known she was coming.

Her fingers trembled as she grasped the zip of his work trousers. The metal tooth creaked as she pulled it down. The fabric was greasy and warm from his body. Behind it lay the hard, misshapen bulge in his dark grey underpants. She hooked her thumbs into the elastic and pulled them down. The cock sprang out – thick, uncircumcised, with a broad, dark glans that was already glistening. The skin was blotchy, slightly reddened, and beneath the shaft hung the heavy, hairy balls in a flaccid scrotum. The smell hit her immediately: pungent, salty, unclean, like old skin and dried semen that hadn’t been washed off for days.

The revulsion was so strong that her stomach churned. A bitter taste rose in her throat. She felt her throat constrict, as if she were about to gag. At the same time, she was already sinking to her knees. The cold tiles dug into her kneecaps. Her skirt rode up, and the bare skin of her thighs stuck to the dirty floor. She opened her mouth before her brain could protest again.

The smell filled her nostrils – metallic, sour, masculine and filthy. She leaned forward and took the glans between her lips. Immediately, her mouth filled with the salty, bitter taste of foreskin and dried semen. The skin was warm and slippery. She closed her lips tightly around the shaft and sucked. Her tongue slowly traced the underside, where the thick vein pulsed. Saliva immediately ran from the corners of her mouth and dripped down the thick shaft, mixing with the thin film of his own fluid.

He placed a heavy, calloused hand on her head. His fingers dug into her hair and pushed her deeper. “Suck it, you little slut,” he muttered in a hoarse voice. “You’re the one who wanted this.”

Lena sucked. She moved her head back and forth, taking more of the thick cock into her mouth until the glans bumped against her palate and she had to gag. Saliva ran down her chin in thick strands. Her breasts beneath were already damp with her own sweat. She could feel her nipples rubbing against the fabric, hard and sensitive, whilst the revulsion in her stomach continued to simmer. Every thrust of his cock against her tongue sent a wave of disgust through her – and yet she carried on. Her lips closed tighter, her tongue worked more diligently, circling over the sensitive underside, licking into the narrow slit beneath the foreskin, sucking out the salty taste.

He groaned above her and held her head firmly. His hand felt as heavy as a lid. She couldn’t pull away. The cock slid deeper, jabbing against her throat, and she gagged audibly. Saliva and mucus ran from her nose. Tears welled up in her eyes, not from emotion, but from sheer physical revulsion and the pressure. She heard herself gurgling and swallowing as he thrust slowly and with relish into her mouth. The smell grew more intense the more saliva flowed – warm, damp, animalistic.

He made her work at it for a long time. For minutes on end. Her jaw began to ache. Her lips were numb and swollen from the constant sucking. Saliva dripped in a thick, glistening trail from his cock onto her blouse, making the fabric transparent over her breasts. She felt her own thighs getting wet, even though she hated herself for it. The revulsion and the arousal mingled into something repulsive that she couldn’t control. Every time the thick glans slid over her tongue, she wanted to vomit – and yet she sucked harder, licked more greedily, as if to prove she could take it.

Suddenly, he pulled out. The cock glistened wet with her saliva, the glans dark red and swollen. He took it in his hand and jerked off twice, hard and fast, his fist clenched tightly around the shaft. Lena remained on her knees, her mouth still open, her gaze fixed upwards, because his hand was still in her hair, holding her fast.

Then he came.

Thick and warm, the first jet shot across her face. It hit her cheek, ran over the corner of her mouth and dripped onto her lower lip. The second jet hit her directly on the tongue and nose, warm and sticky, with the intense smell of fresh semen. The third and fourth spurted over her breasts and ran down her curves in thick, white strands. She felt the heat on her skin as the sticky strands slowly ran down – over her chin, down her neck, between her breasts, until they caught on the fabric and dripped.

He jerked off the rest, squeezed the last few drops directly onto her lips and rubbed the wet glans over her mouth, as if he wanted to smear it all over her. Lena was breathing shallowly. The taste lay heavy on her tongue – salty, bitter, viscous. The smell filled the whole room. Semen dripped from her chin onto the floor, forming small puddles between her knees. Her blouse clung to her breasts, transparent and wet, her nipples clearly visible beneath the white veil of fabric and semen.

She remained seated. The revulsion was so intense that she felt sick again. At the same time, she felt her body trembling – not from the cold, but from the sheer, filthy humiliation she had chosen for herself. The caretaker grinned down at her, shoved his still semi-erect cock back into his trousers and zipped them up.

“Good work, girl.”

Lena thought – unconsciously, with relief – that it was over now. Usually, the dreamers woke up after the climax. Then she’d be free.

Not this time.

Perhaps it was the smell of the thong that still lingered in his head. Perhaps he’d been drinking. He remained in the dream. His eyes were still glazed over with lust and anger.

He reached for his mobile and took a photo of her. The blonde student, naked, with his semen on her face, kneeling in his room. He typed something, intending to send it to his colleagues. The picture was meant to prove to them that he hadn’t lied. It didn’t work. The file couldn’t be sent.

He swore.

“It’s your fault,” he growled. “Come here.”

He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up from her knees. Semen was still stuck to her face, dripping from her chin onto her blouse, which clung to her breasts. The caretaker sat down heavily on the low workbench, legs spread apart, and pulled her roughly across his thighs. Her upper body hung down, her hands searching for support on the dirty floor, her breasts dangling heavily, the wet strands of his cum continuing to run down her skin. Her skirt had been pushed up; he’d already torn her knickers off and thrown them somewhere. Her bare arse lay exposed and white across his thick thighs.

The first slap echoed loudly through the small room. His flat, calloused hand struck her right buttock squarely. The pain shot through her, hot and stinging; her skin burned instantly. Lena gasped, her breath catching in her throat. The second blow followed straight away, this time on the left, even harder. The third struck right in the middle, where the buttocks parted, and the smack was so loud it echoed off the walls.

He wasn’t just striking her as punishment. She could tell by the way his hand lingered for a moment after each blow, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, testing the heat. Something inside him wanted her to feel pleasure in it. And she did feel it. With every slapping impact, the heat in her bottom grew stronger – a dull, throbbing burn that gnawed deep into her muscles. At the same time, it throbbed between her legs. Her labia swelled, becoming heavy and damp. Clear moisture was already seeping out of her and dripping onto the fabric of his trousers.

He kept on spanking her. Rhythmically, hard, without pause. His hand came down again and again, sometimes on her left buttock, sometimes on her right, sometimes right on the sensitive spot where her bottom met her thigh. Lena flinched with every blow; her legs trembled, her toes curled into the air. She tried to press her thighs together, but he thrust a thick knee between them and held them apart. So she lay exposed, the wet slit visible, her labia already glistening.

“Stop flinching, you filthy little slut,” he growled, striking even harder. The next blow landed so hard that she cried out. The pain was searing, blinding, and at the same time a sharp jolt of pleasure shot straight into her clitoris. She felt her inner walls contract. The first orgasm came suddenly, violently, whilst he continued to strike her. Her labia throbbed in time with his blows; clear moisture shot out of her in a thin stream and ran down his thighs, staining the fabric of his trousers dark and wet. She moaned, her face contorted; saliva and traces of his semen dripped from her open mouth onto the floor. The waves swept her away; her arse burned, her pussy twitched uncontrollably, and he didn’t stop.

He kept hitting her whilst she was still coming. Every new slap intensified the contractions. The skin on her arse slowly changed colour from pink to a deep, burning red. The handprints stood out, raised and hot. He paused only to run his fingers over her swollen cheeks, testing the pain, then continued to strike. The wetness between her legs increased, dripping incessantly, mixing with the sweat on his thighs.

The second orgasm built up more slowly, but more intensely. Her arse was already a burning red, the skin hot and sensitive; every new impact of his hand felt like fire. She was crying now, silent tears running down her cheeks, mixing with the dried semen. At the same time, her pelvis lifted involuntarily, seeking the next blow, as if her body craved the pain. Her clitoris was hard and swollen, rubbing against his thigh with every movement. When the next particularly hard blow struck the sensitive underside of her buttocks, something inside her snapped. The second orgasm tore her apart – longer, wetter, more humiliating. Her pussy clenched, expelling a clear, thin fluid in a visible gush that ran down his trousers and dripped onto the floor. She screamed, her body twitching uncontrollably, her arse rising and falling in time with the aftershocks, whilst he continued to strike her.

He only stopped when her legs could no longer stay still and her voice was hoarse from screaming. Her arse was burning. The skin was dark red, hot, swollen, marked with distinct handprints and small white patches where the blows had been particularly hard. Everything between her spread thighs glistened with wetness – her labia, her entrance, the insides of her thighs. Moisture was still dripping down in slow, thick strands.

He ran his hand once over the burning skin, roughly, possessively, and slid his fingers into the wet slit. Lena flinched, too sensitive, too exposed. The caretaker laughed softly, a rough, satisfied sound.

“That’s how I like it. Red arse cheeks and a dripping cunt. Just right for a dirty little caretaker slut like you.”

She was still lying across his knees, breathless, submissive, her burning arse thrust upwards, whilst his cum dried on her face and her own wetness soaked through his trousers.

Lena was lying in her bed.

Her ass was burning like fire.

In the bathroom, she turned on the light and stood in front of the mirror.

Sticky, whitish fluid was still clinging in strands to her face and lips. The skin on both her butt cheeks was bright red, with a few faint fingerprints still visible.

Was that real cum?

With trembling fingers, she took two photos: one of her face with the sticky traces, one of her naked, reddened butt. The pictures were clear and unambiguous.

Dazed, still half caught up in the aftereffects of the dream, she opened the chat with Jennifer and sent both photos.

“Can you see that? What do you think?”

She didn’t think about the consequences.