Connection to Reality

At that moment, Peter wasn’t really that sexually interested in her. He wanted to understand how the whole thing worked. And above all, he had to make sure that this was the real Lena—and not just a particularly vivid fantasy that his own mind had conjured up from the Instagram photos and stories.

He let the Sybian’s vibrations fade until she was just lying there on the machine, trembling and gasping.

“I want proof,” he said calmly. “In the Reddit post you read, you’re supposed to post a boob pic in the real world. Anonymously. No face. Just the breasts. Only then will I know that this is real and that you’re the real Lena. I’ll reply to it with a specific phrase. When you see that phrase, you’ll know it was me. Then we’ll both know for sure that this isn’t a coincidence or just a dream anymore.”

Lena stared at him in horror. “I… I won’t do that. Never. You can’t force me to do that in the real world…”

Peter sighed softly, as if he’d expected exactly that.

“Yes,” he said. “I can.”

The scene changed abruptly.

The showers in the basement of the old sports club were cramped, the tiles yellowed, the water only lukewarm and hard. Lena stood naked under the stream, her hair already wet, when the two men walked in. Both were well over sixty, with soft, sagging bellies, loose and mottled skin, gray hair on their chests and pubic areas, their cocks already half-hard and unsightly—one thicker and shorter, the other longer and thinner, both with the typical smell of old sweat and cheap aftershave.

Lena turned toward them immediately. No hesitation. She wanted to please them. It was written all over her face, in the way she spread her legs slightly, exposing her wet labia. “Please,” was all she said, already kneeling on the wet tiles.

The thicker of the two stepped forward first. Lena opened her mouth and took in the flaccid cock, which tasted of urine and sweat. She sucked until it grew harder, letting the glans press against her cheek, licking the underside, taking the heavy, sagging balls into her mouth and sucking on them, while saliva ran down her chin and mixed with the shower water. The second man stood beside her. Without being asked, Lena switched, taking the longer cock deep into her throat, deliberately gagging, letting strands of saliva snap, and looking up as if to say thank you.

She sucked them in turn, greedily and loudly. Wet smacking sounds filled the shower. The old men groaned, ran their hands through her wet hair, and thrust deeper. Lena let them. More than that—she pressed herself against them, taking everything they gave her, until tears welled up in her eyes and saliva dripped in thick strands onto her tits.

Then they pulled her up. The fatter one sat down on the old wooden bench under the shower, his belly wrinkling, his cock standing straight up. Lena straddled him without hesitation. Her wet, tight pussy swallowed the thick shaft in one go. She moaned as he stretched her and immediately began to ride him—deeply, firmly, circling her hips so he could feel every inch. At the same time, she leaned forward and took the second cock back into her mouth. Water ran down her face, mixing with saliva and the man’s precum.

She let them both use her. The one beneath her thrust upward, grabbed her wet tits, and roughly kneaded them. The other fucked her mouth, holding her head tight and thrusting deep into her throat. Lena gagged, drooled, swallowed, and still moaned around the shaft because she wanted them to be satisfied. Her own arousal was real—her pussy sloshed wetly around the thick cock, her juices running down it and mixing with the shower water.

They changed positions without Lena protesting. Now she stood bent over, her hands on the tile, her ass sticking out behind her. The taller of the two stepped up behind her and thrust his cock into her pussy in one stroke. At the same time, the heavier one knelt in front of her and shoved his shiny, saliva-soaked cock back into her mouth. Lena took both. She was getting fucked from behind while she sucked the other one, and she gave it her all. Every thrust drove her forward, every deep-throat thrust made her gag, and yet she sucked and thrust back as if it were the only thing she wanted.

The men grew rougher. Hands kneaded her ass; a thick finger sought out her tight asshole and pushed inside without warning. Lena moaned loudly around the cock in her mouth, but she didn’t resist. On the contrary—she pushed her ass back so the finger could go deeper, while her pussy continued to clench around the cock fucking her.

The man behind her came first. He groaned hoarsely, rammed into her hard three more times, and came deep inside her. Hot spurts of cum filled her. Lena felt every pulse, every twitch. When he pulled out, the cum immediately ran out of her open pussy in thick, white strands, mixing with her own juices and dripping onto the tiles. The other man pulled his cock out of her mouth, grabbed her by the hair, and jerked off the last few times right in front of her face. Lena opened her mouth, stuck out her tongue, and caught the second gush of cum—on her tongue, lips, cheeks, and in her wet hair.

She remained on her knees, her face splattered with cum, her pussy still open and dripping, and licked up whatever she could reach. The two old men stood over her, panting, their softening cocks dripping, and watched as she licked clean her own face and the load running out of her pussy.

Lena looked up, the cum still on her lips, and whispered hoarsely, “One more time… please. I want to please you again.”

The water kept running. The tiles were covered in white spots and wet footprints. And Lena remained on her knees, ready to take it all again.

Instead of disgust, something else came over her.

A hot, greedy hunger. A craving for cum. For unprotected sex. For the feeling of being covered in cum by strange, older men. The thought wasn’t hers—and yet it felt as if it had been a part of her for a long time. The deeper the cock thrust into her mouth and the harder the other man took her from behind, the stronger the desire grew. She whimpered around the cock, not out of revulsion, but out of need. She wanted to show off her ass, her pussy, and her tits. She wanted to be looked at, touched, used. The thought took root, deep beneath her conscious resistance, like a new instinct.

Peter watched the scene for a moment, then broke it up. Lena lay before him once more, trembling, the new pleasure still clearly palpable between her legs and in her head.

“You’re going to post the picture,” he said simply. His voice was calm, almost friendly. “Not because I’m going to torment you any further now. But because you know I’ll come back if you don’t. You’ll post it. Because otherwise, I’ll use you in increasingly perverse ways every night until you break. Until you no longer know what’s a dream and what isn’t. So you’ll post it.”

Lena nodded.

At that moment, the dream image faded away. The shower, the two old men, the semen on her face and between her legs—everything became blurry and dissolved. When she opened her eyes, she was lying in her own bed. Alone. The sheet was damp between her thighs; her lips still felt slightly numb, as if she’d had something in her mouth for hours.

She got up, went straight to the bathroom, and turned the shower so hot that her skin turned red. Under the stream of water, she washed her breasts, her stomach, between her legs, and her face. Only now did the disgust really set in. How could she have let those two old, disgusting men fuck her? How could she have let them cum on her while she sucked their cocks and let them take her? She didn’t know them. Had never seen them before. And yet she’d given it her all, had wanted them to be satisfied, had swallowed the cum and let it run out of her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

She scrubbed her skin until it stung. It didn’t help. The aftertaste and the feeling of having been used remained.

For the rest of the night, she tried to stay awake. She sat down at her desk, turned on the light, scrolled aimlessly on her phone, and drank cold coffee. Every time her eyelids grew heavy, she flinched and stood up. She was afraid of the next dream.

Around four in the morning, her body overpowered her will. She dozed off at the desk, jolted awake, then finally lay down in bed and stared at the ceiling until the sky outside turned gray.

In the morning, she was so tired that the line between compulsion and exhaustion blurred. She reached for her phone, opened the camera, pulled up her shirt, and took a picture of her breasts. No face. Just her firm, slightly defined breasts, her nipples still sensitive from the dream. A simple picture, nothing extreme.

She opened the subreddit, selected the photo, and pressed Send.

On the other end, Peter stared at the screen, unable to believe it. The photo was real. No fake, no coincidence, no sick déjà vu. There they were—Lena’s breasts. Exactly the ones he’d seen in his dream, photographed, and later found on his own phone.

He zoomed in, his heart pounding erratically. The shape was right. Not too round, not too elongated, but firm and slightly pear-shaped, with that characteristic soft curve that became slightly fuller toward the outside. The skin was pale and smooth; only on the inner sides of the breasts did the delicate, bluish veining stand out, which he had already noticed in the photos from his dream.

Above all, the nipples. He placed the two images side by side—the new one and the one that had appeared on his phone back then as if out of nowhere. The shape of the areolas was identical: medium-sized, slightly oval, a delicate pink that grew paler toward the edges. The nipples themselves were set slightly higher and were naturally a bit prominent—neither tiny nor oversized, but exactly the right size to fit comfortably between two fingers. In the new photo, they were soft and relaxed; in the dream image, they’d still had the hard, contracted shape he recognized when she was aroused. But the basic structure—the tiny irregularity on the left areola, the small, almost invisible pigmentation on the right—everything matched.

It was the same woman.

Peter swallowed hard. His fingers trembled as he touched the keyboard. He stared once more at the pale, soft curves, at the relaxed nipples that still seemed so familiar, and then wrote just a single line:

“Be the woman of my dreams.”