Watch Krystal’s Dreams

You’re walking through the halls of the school, unfamiliar corridors for you, familiar ones for Krystal whom you’re following, a disembodied spirit. She doesn’t see you. She’s being dragged along by her fellow teachers. You recognise them, but they’re perfected versions of themselves, grotesque versions of themselves. Their breasts are larger, rounder, faker, realer. Their waists are thinner. Their asses are rounder, fitter, tighter. Each one is a perfect hourglass. Their faces have been smoothed of their lines like no makeup could manage. Their lips are plumper and pursed for kissing. Their eyes are shadowed by natural, inhuman, erotic eyeliner. Their cheeks are redder, flushed and ready. They’re all taller than Krystal. All fitter. All exuding sex, and yet confined in tight clothing, conventional clothing, that screams no.

Anissa is there, ostensibly dressed like a prim and proper maiden, the effect diminished by the disintegration of her clothes; white blouse ripping at each wobble of her breasts to reveal lacey underwear, black skirt shredding to reveal black stockings. Spencer is practically pushing Krystal along, and with each push her clothing snags on nails, and hooks and broken wood, and each snag unravels her cardigan, her jumper, her skirt, her bra. Abigail is to one side goading them on soundlessly, urging them from under a leak that showers water on her. Its flow washes the colour from her clothes, washes the substance from her clothes, until her flesh peers through, all curves, all flesh. And behind them stumbles and struggles Blair, the only one ripping off her clothes, and the only one who ends up more clothed than she started.

“He’s mine, he’s mine, when he sees me naked, he’ll be mine,” she’s babbling as she pulls off a tight top to reveal a baggier one underneath, as she frantically rips off leggings to reveal jeans.

You know where you need to go. You leave this scene and swoop like a ghost through corridors filled with faceless girls, in tight school uniforms, all breasts and legs and asses and youth. You swoop to the staff room where Dr Stricture is talking, and every word she says is meaningless.

And beside her is Layla, who with every word pulls an item of clothing from the air and wraps another faceless girl in it, shapeless smocks, baggy jumpers, hijabs, hoodies, long dresses composed of a thousand pleats, clothes to hide youth, clothes to hide beauty, clothes to smother desire. And every item of clothing Layla dresses the student appears to suck substance from Layla’s clothing. So that the top grows paler and thinner, and the flesh of her breasts peers through, and the length of her skirt rises higher, revealing ankle, revealing knees, revealing thighs. Turning from long skirt, to short skirt, to mini skirt to not a skirt at all.

And there in the staff room you see yourself, tied down, wrapped in bonds of tradition and rules and words, struggling while clothing smothers you, embraces you, hiding your body, your face, your very presence.

You wait an eternity until Krystal finally arrives, trailed by grotesques that take the form of Anissa, of Spencer, of Abigail, of Blair. She’s sweating. She’s screaming. The lecture from Dr Stricture is now clear, a repetition of one mantra, “You’re not good enough for him. You’re not good enough for him.”

But you have control over this dream. You burst out of your clothing, phallus first, erupting naked into the staff room, scattering the clothing that had smothered you, like children scatter gathered piles of leaves in autumn. And all the grotesques stop to watch.

You step forward. You reach and hold Krystal, and her own clothes melt away. You kiss her. And the grotesques scream no. You grope her. And the grotesques scream condemnations. You fuck her. And the grotesques scream their jealousy.

They gather around, their clothes as much an illusion as they are. They gather round and weep at Krystal’s pleasure. They demand restitution. They want the same. But you continue to fuck Krystal. And the school and the world watch on with yearning.

Until a piercing light bursts through the school and you wake up in your bed, sweaty, your morning wood proud, the leather cap on your head hot as if it has been doused by a boiling kettle.